Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

I got out, dried my body quickly, put on my Venice shorts and stepped into the office while drying my hair.

Victor Woo was sitting on his sleeping bag on the floor in the corner. He had placed the blanket so that he could look up at the Stig Dalstrom paintings on the wall. He glanced over at me. He looked exhausted.

“I called my wife,” he said.

I draped the towel over my shoulder.

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t. I couldn’t. But she knew it was me. She said I should come home, that she’s been getting my checks, that the children miss me. She didn’t say that she missed me.”

“Go home Victor,” I said.

“Can’t.”

“I forgive you. Catherine forgives you. I don’t think Cook County forgives you, but that’s between you and the Cook County state attorney’s office, and I don’t plan to give them any information.”

It was pretty much what I had been saying to him for more than two months. I didn’t expect it to work this time.

“Forgive yourself,” I tried. “Hungry?”

“No.”

“You can do me a favor,” I said. “In the morning, go to Starbucks or Borders, plug your computer into the Internet, and find some information for me.”

“Yes.”

“You might have to do some illegal things to get what I want. I want whatever you can find about a Ronald Gerall, probably born somewhere in California.”

It was busywork. Dixie would get me whatever I needed in the morning.

“Yes,” he said.

“You want me to turn the light out?”

“Yes.”

“Good night.”

I went into my room, placed the towel on the back of my chair, put on my extra-large gray T-shirt with the faded full-color image of Ernie Banks on the front.

I turned the night light to its lowest setting and got on the bed. I stayed on top of the covers, lay on my back, and clutched the extra pillow.

The room was bigger than my last one in the office building behind the Dairy Queen. I looked up at the angled ceiling.

I like small spaces when I sleep. This room wasn’t large, but it was bigger than I liked. I would have slept in a closet were there one large enough to sleep in. I cannot sleep outdoors. I can’t look up at the vastness of the sky without beginning to feel lost, like I’m about to be swept into the universe. This room was tolerable, but it would take some getting used to.

I lay without moving, looking upward, growing too tired to move, going over whether Ronnie Gerall had killed his father-in-law and why, and wondering if he had killed his wife and Blue Berrigan.

Thoughts of Sally Porovsky came and went like insistent faces of forgotten movie actors whose names just managed to stay out of reach.

Sometimes when I fall asleep, an idea comes, and I feel energized.

Usually, if I don’t write down the idea, I’ll lose it with the dawn. I did get an idea, then, or rather, a question. Why were all the Corkles paying me to save Ronnie?

His family would be better protected by having Ronnie locked away until he was too old to appreciate a handy dandy Corkle Electrostatic CD, LP, and DVD cleaner. I didn’t write down my idea, but this time I remembered it. When I sat up in the morning, I heard my dark curtains open, saw bright morning light, and looked up at Greg Legerman and Winston Churchill Graeme.

“He’s out,” said Greg, handing me a steaming Starbucks coffee.

“Who?”

“Ronnie. Who did you think I was talking about, Charlie Manson?”

“What time is it?”

“Almost nine,” said Greg.

“I know Ronnie’s out,” I said. “Who let you in?”

“The Chinese guy,” said Greg.

“He’s Japanese,” Winn Graeme said.

“He’s Chinese,” I said.

Greg took the only chair in the room and pulled it over to my bedside.

“You want your money back?” I said. “Fine.”

“No, you need it. You live in near squalor.”

“Greg,” Winn warned.

Greg Legerman’s response to the warning was to reach up and punch the other boy in the arm. Winn took it and looked at me.

“How long have you known old Ronnie?” I asked.

Greg thought about it, but Winn answered.

“He transferred to Pine View after his sophomore year. Came from Texas, San Antonio.”

“He have a girlfriend?”

“Lots. He had a fake ID,” said Greg. “Went out to bars, picked up women. Said he wasn’t into high school girls. Why?”

“He ever mention Rachel Horvecki?”

“Horvecki’s daughter? No,” said Greg. “I don’t remember. Why?”

“Have any idea where he might be now?”

I got up and went to the closet for a clean pair of jeans and a blue short-sleeved Polo pullover.

“No,” said Winn.

“Any idea where your mother is?”

“My mother?”

“Your mother.”

“No. Home. Shopping. Buying. I don’t know. I don’t keep track of her. Why do you want to know where my mother is?”

“Just a few questions I need to ask her.”

“My mother?”

“Your mother.”

“I said no. Have you found out who killed Horvecki yet?”

“No, but I will.”

Greg had clasped his hands together and was tapping his clenched fist against his chin.

“You need more money?”

“More time,” I said. “Now, it would be nice if you left.”

“Sorry,” said Winn.

He adjusted his glasses and reached over to urge his friend out of the chair.

“I’ve got more questions,” said Greg.

“I can’t give you answers now,” I said. “Ronnie’s out on bail.”

Greg reluctantly rose from the chair, nodded a few times as he looked at me, then turned and, after a light punch to Winn’s arm, went through the door. Winn Graeme hesitated, looked at me and whispered, “Nickel Plate Club.”

Then he was gone. I stood listening while they opened the outer door and moved into the day.

I put on my Cubs cap and stepped into my outer room. Victor was sitting on the floor on his sleeping bag, a cardboard cup of coffee in his hand, looking up at one of the Stig Dalstroms on the wall.

A cup of coffee sat on my desk alongside a paper bag which contained a Chick-Fil-A breakfast chicken sandwich. I sat and began working on my breakfast. I put the coffee in my hand next to the one on my desk.

“I looked,” he said.

“At…”

“Internet. Ronald Owen Gerall.”

The door opened, and Ames came in bearing a Styrofoam cup of coffee. He nodded at Victor and handed the coffee to me. I put it alongside the others.

“I just had a visit from Winn and Greg,” I said working on one of the coffees. “They think we haven’t made any progress. Progress is overrated. Victor has some information for us about Ronnie.”

“He is married,” said Victor. “To Rachel Horvecki.”

“That a fact?” Ames said, looking at me for an explanation for why we were listening to something we already knew.

“Ronald Owen Gerall spent a year in a California Youth Facility when he was sixteen. Assault.”

That was new information.

“There’s a little more,” said Victor, showing more signs of life than I had ever seen in him before. “Because he was under-age when he came to Sarasota and he claimed to have no living relatives, he needed someone to vouch for him, help him find a place to live, and accept responsibility.”

“Who?”

“Sally Porovsky.”

While Ames, riding shotgun, went off with Victor to try to find Ronnie Gerall, I went to Sally’s office at Children and Family Services to do the same thing. I could have called to find out if she was in or off to see a client, but I didn’t want to hear her say that she was too busy to see me. Besides, I don’t like telephones. I don’t like the silences when someone expects me to speak and I have nothing to say or nothing I want to say. I use them when I must, which seemed to be a lot more of the time.