Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

I parked the Saturn in the lot off of Fruitville and Tuttle where Children and Families had its office. Then I picked up my ringing phone and opened it. It was Dixie.

“Your Ronnie Gerall problem just got a little more complicated.”

“How?” I asked.

“Ronnie Gerall is dead.”

“When?”

“Six years ago in San Antonio,” Dixie said. “Which means…”

“Ronnie Gerall is not Ronnie Gerall. He stole a dead boy’s identity.”

“Looks that way,” she said. “But there’s more. I tried a search of the back issues of the San Antonio newspaper for a period a year before your Ronnie got here. I tried a match of the photograph of him in the Pine View yearbook.”

“And?”

“Bingo, Bango, Bongo. Newspaper told me his name is Dwight Ronald Torcelli. He fled an indictment for felony assault. Then I did a search for Dwight Ronald Torcelli. He’s twenty-six years old. His birthday’s tomorrow. He’ll be twenty-seven. Maybe you should buy him a cake or give him some Harry amp; David chocolate cherries.”

“Is that a hint?”

“Hell yes. I love those things. Want me to keep looking?”

“Try Rachel Horvecki or Rachel Gerall,” I said.

“They may have a license and a minister’s approval, but they are definitely not married.”

“I wonder if she knows that.”

“Good luck investigating, Columbo.”

We hung up, and I looked at the entrance to Building C of a complex of bored three-story office buildings that couldn’t decide whether to go with the dirt-stained brick on the bottom half or the streaked once-white wooden slats on top. Building C was on the parking lot between A and D. There was a neatly-printed sign plunged into the dirt and grass in front of the space where I parked. The sign said there was an office suite available and that it was ideal for a professional business.

The offices were almost all occupied by dentists, urologists, and investment counselors who promised free lunches at Long-horn for those who wanted to attend an equally free workshop on what to do with their money. A four-man cardiology practice had recently moved out and into a building they had financed on Tuttle, about a mile away.

Cardiologists, cataract surgeons, specialists in all diseases that plagued the old and perplexed the young are abundant in Sarasota, almost as abundant as banks.

John Gutcheon was seated at the downstairs reception desk making a clicking sound with his tongue as he wrote on a yellow pad.

John was in his mid-thirties, blond, thin, and very openly gay. His sharp tongue protected him from those who might dare to attack his life choice, although he had told me once, quite clearly, that it was not a choice and it was not an echo. His homosexuality was a reality he had recognized when he was a child. There were those who accepted him and those who did not. And he had come to terms with that after many a disappointment.

“Still wearing that thing,” he said, looking up at me and shaking his head. “Lewis, when will you learn the difference between an outrageous fashion statement and bad taste.”

“I like the Cubs,” I said.

“And I like sea bass but I don’t wear it on my head. There are other ways of expressing your bad taste,” he said.

“My wife gave me this cap,” I said.

“And my cousin Robert wanted to give me an introduction to a predatory friend at a gay bar,” he said. “I made the mistake of accepting that introduction. You could at least clean that abomination on your head.”

“I’ll do that,” I said.

“Lewis, ’tis better to be cleanly bald than tastelessly chapeaued.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“No, you won’t, but I feel as compelled as a priestly exorcist to remind you.”

“Sally in?” I asked.

“All in,” he said folding his hands on the desk.

“How is your writing coming?”

“You remembered,” he said with mock joy. “Well, thank you for asking. My writing career is at a halt while several online and one honest-to-God publisher decide whether it’s worth continuing.”

“Ronnie Gerall,” I said.

He looked up. I had struck home.

“He… I can’t discuss clients,” he said, measuring his words careful. “Lawsuits. Things like that. You know.”

“You’ve talked to me about lots of clients.”

“Have I? Shouldn’t have. She’s in. I assume you didn’t come to see me.”

“You have a favorite first line of a novel?” I asked.

He pulled open a drawer of his desk and came up with a thin paperback with ragged pages. He opened the book and read: “ ‘Where’s Papa going with that ax? said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.’ ”

“Stephen King?” I guessed.

He held up the book to show me its cover. Charlotte’s Web, by E. B. White. Then he said, “Where’s Lewis going with that ax?”

“No ax,” I said.

“Liar,” said Gutcheon.

“No,” I said.

“Always a pleasure to talk to you,” he said as I headed for the elevator.

The elevator rocked to the hum of a weary motor. I wasn’t fully certain what I was doing here or what I expected when I talked to Sally. I had a lead. I was following it. At least that’s what I told myself.

The elevator door opened slowly to a Wall Street stage, only the people in front of me in two lines of cubicles were dealing in human misery, not stocks and bonds and millions of dollars. It was a busy day for the caseworkers at Children and Families. There was no shortage of abuse, anger, and neglect.

A few of the dozen cubicles were empty, but most were occupied by a caseworker and at least one client. Almost all the clients were black. Sometimes the client was a tired parent or two. Some were sullen or indifferent, others were frightened. Some were children. The mornings were generally for taking in clients at the office. The afternoons and evenings were for home visits throughout the county. Sometimes the day was interrupted by a court appearance. Sometimes it was interrupted by something personal-personal to the life of the harried caseworker, something like Lew Fonesca.

Sally’s back was to me. In the chair next to her desk sat an erect black man in a dark suit and red tie. In the man’s lap was a neatly folded lightweight coat. He was about fifty and lean, with graying temples. He looked at me through rimless glasses. He reminded me of a sociology professor I had at the University of Illinois, a professor who, when he looked at me, seemed to be in wonder that such a mirthless silent specimen should have made it to his small classroom.

I stood silently while Sally went over a form in front of her. When she spoke, she had to raise her voice above the hubbub of voices around her.

“He’s in school now?” she asked.

I stood back, knowing that she would eventually turn and see me, or her client would gaze at me again and catch her eye.

“Yes, he is. At least he is supposed to be.”

His voice was deep, even.

“Thurgood is a good student?” Sally said, looking up from the form.

“When he goes to school, and if you should meet him, he will not answer to the name ‘Thurgood.’ His middle name is Marshall. Thurgood Marshall Montieth.”

“He is,” said Sally, “twelve years old.”

“Soon to be thirteen,” said Montieth. “And, if I may, I will encapsulate the data you have in front of you in the hope of speeding the process so I can get back to work. My name is Marcus Montieth. I’m forty-seven years of age. I am a salesman and floor manager at Joseph Bank clothing store in the Sarasota Mall. My wife is dead. Thurgood is my only child. He is a truant, a problem. He has run away four times. I do not beat him. I do not slap him. I do not deprive him of food. I do not try to instill in him a fear of God because I do not believe in a god or gods. My health is good, though there is a history of heart attack in my family.”