Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

“You have a car?”

“Bought it today.”

“Acquiring property.”

“It can be abandoned or given away,” I said. “It’s not worth much.”

“Or you can drive it into the sunset,” she said.

“Yes.”

Ames had put on his glasses and was reading a small blue book to let me know he was in no hurry for me to end the call.

“Pick me up at six-thirty,” she said.

“Six-thirty,” I repeated.

She hung up.

Ames took off his glasses and put the book back in his pocket. I drove. We were on our way to talk to an odd and possibly demented man with many millions of dollars.

Corkle answered the door. He was wearing a green polo shirt and navy pants with a welcoming smile.

“Can we come in?” I asked.

Corkle stepped back and wrung his hands just the way he did in his infomercials when he was about to offer “a sweet deal.” He may not have needed the money, but he couldn’t resist two customers.

“This is my partner, Ames McKinney.”

It was the first time I had said that. I felt a little like Oliver Hardy introducing himself in one of their movies-“I’m Mr. Hardy and this is my friend Mr. Laurel. Say hello Stanley.”-but Ames was no Stan Laurel.

Corkle stopped wringing his hands and reached out to shake. He looked delighted as Ames took his extended hand.

“Come in,” said Corkle. “The library. You remember the way Mr. Fon

… Fonesca.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Beer? Lemonade?”

“Lemonade?” Ames asked as I started toward the area with the yellow leather furniture.

“Yes, thanks,” I said.

“Three glasses,” said Corkle.

Ames and I sat on the uncomfortable leather sofa and waited. Corkle appeared in a few seconds with a tray on which rested a pitcher of iced lemonade and three glasses.

“Best lemonade in the world. Made with whole lemons from the tree right outside, seed and rind turned to a smooth pulp. More nutritious than the juice alone and it can be made in my D. Elliot Corkle Pulp-O-Matic in five seconds. Of course, you have to add sugar. I’ll give you a Pulp-O-Matic when you leave.”

All three of us drank. He was right. The lemonade was the best I had ever tasted.

“Blue Berrigan. Name mean anything to you?”

“No,” he said. “D. Elliot Corkle has never heard of him.”

“He was an entertainer,” Ames said. “Sang kids’ songs, had his own television show.”

“Didn’t know the man,” Corkle said, holding up his glass of lemonade to the sun to watch the tiny pieces of pulp swirl like the snowy flecks in a Christmas bubble.

“You knew Philip Horvecki,” I said. “You said…”

I paused to pull my index cards out of the day planner I kept in my pocket. I flipped through the cards and found the one I wanted.

“You said, ‘Horvecki is not a nice human being.’ ”

He sat back, folded his hands in his lap and looked up at the ceiling for about ten seconds before saying, “D. Elliot Corkle is considering lying to you. I could do it. I can sell almost anything, especially a lie.”

“But you won’t,” I said.

“I won’t. I knew Philip Horvecki. He had a three-acre lot at the fringe of downtown. He wanted me to buy it from him. I wanted to buy it, but not from him. D. Elliot Corkle did a background check. He was a weasel. I told him so. He didn’t like it.”

“You didn’t happen to kill him?” I asked.

“No.”

We all had more lemonade.

“Did you ever threaten to kill him?” I asked.

“No. Am I a suspect in Horvecki’s murder?”

“Ask the police that one,” I said.

“Then why are you still looking for someone else besides Gerall for the murder? Gerall is a smart-ass and a… a…”

“Weasel?” asked Ames.

“Weasel,” Corkle confirmed. “He bamboozled my grandson and my daughter. Neither has the good judgment of a John Deere tractor, which, by the way, is one of the finest pieces of machinery ever invented.

“You know what happened to Augustine?” he asked. He was looking directly at me, lips tight.

“I think he went back to acting,” I said.

“He’s a terrible actor. I used him on some of my infomercials because he looked tough and had muscles and D. Elliot Corkle wanted someone who could try to open The Mighty Miniature Prisoner of Zenda Safe, which can go with you wherever you go and is housed inside a candy or cigar box you could leave in plain sight.”

“I remember that,” said Ames.

“I’ll give you one when you leave,” said Corkle. “The Mighty Miniature Prisoner of Zenda Safe could not be opened unless you had a blow torch, but it had two defects. Want to guess what they were?”

“You advertised the safe on television,” I said. “People know what the safe looked like.”

“Several million people,” Corkle said, proudly pouring us all more lemonade. “Yes, it was hard for D. Elliot Corkle to come up with someplace the little safe could be hidden in the average house. And then, how was I to let them know where the safe should now be hidden? What’s the other problem with it?”

“The safe might be hard to open, but it can be carried away and opened somewhere else later,” said Ames.

“On the button,” said Corkle, closing one eye and pointing a finger at Ames. “Still sold enough to make a small profit on them.”

“I’ve got some questions,” I said.

“Shoot,” said Corkle.

“Do you know who killed Horvecki?”

“I believe in our justice system, in our police,” he said emphatically. “It’s the sacred duty of any citizen to help the police in any way that citizen can. People should not commit murder. Evidence should never be withheld.”

“Are you withholding evidence?” I asked.

“There are secrets inside the office of D. Elliot Corkle. Next question.”

“Secrets? Evidence?” I asked.

“Next question,” he said.

“No, that’ll do it,” I said. “Sorry about the intrusion. Thanks for your hospitality.”

At the front door, Corkle said, “Wait.”

We stood there until he returned with two boxes for me and two for Ames.

“You each get a Pulp-O-Matic and a Mighty Miniature Prisoner of Zenda Safe.”

“Heavy,” said Ames, holding a gift box in each arm. “You could beat a man’s head in with either one of these.”

“Wait,” Corkle said hurrying off, ducking into the closet and popping right back out with two more packages, both small. “The Perfect Pocket Pager.”

He stuck one in one of my pockets and did the same for Ames. We left the house and started down the path. It wasn’t until we hit the street that we heard the door close.

“Secrets,” Ames said. “Believe him?”

“Strongly suggests that he knows who did it or has a pretty good idea,” I said.

“Think he has something?”

“Maybe we can find out,” I said.

I had some trouble getting the trunk of the Saturn open, but when I did we placed our gifts inside, got in the car, and drove away from the Bay and from Corkle.

“Where to now?” asked Ames.

“Ronnie Gerall.”

Ronnie Gerall agreed to see us when I sent him a message saying that I had something important to tell him. Ames stayed in the waiting area of juvenile detention with his book, and I took off my Cubs cap and followed the guard down a brightly lit corridor that smelled of Lysol and bleach.

Ronnie Gerall was waiting for me when the door to the visitors’ room was opened. Ronnie was getting special treatment because he was accused of murder-and murder of a prominent, if not much loved, citizen.

Ronnie, his hair freshly combed, looked good in orange and a sullen pout. He did not offer to shake my hand, and I wasn’t about to be rejected.