Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

The apartment building was small, two stories, brick, in need of a serious blasting to reveal whatever color was under the dirty earth and etched-in dripping patterns from the building’s old drains. The weight of leaves, brush, twigs, and tree branches gave the illusion of a sagging middle to the roof. A sign, as abused as the building, said that choice studio apartments were available in the Ponce De Leon Arms. The dried-up tiny fountain near the take-it-or-leave-it sign let tenants know they had not come to the right place if they were planning to live forever. What the building and the sign did say, without words, was, “If you’re low on the pole and looking for what you can get by on, this is as good a place as any.”

Victor pulled his car in behind mine and remained behind the wheel, while Ames got out wearing his weathered yellow duster.

“I’ll go in first. You stand outside his door,” I said.

Ames nodded in understanding. We crunched over a layer of dead and dying yellow, orange, and black leaves dropped by two massive native oak trees. The entryway door of the building was open. The small foyer, tiled in cracked, ancient squares, had nothing to offer but a bank of twelve mailboxes, one of which hung open, and a collection of flyers and giveaway newspapers promising two slices of flavorless pizza for the price of one. The apartment marked gerall was number seven.

We went through the inner door, also open, and down the narrow, carpeted corridor to apartment seven. Someone inside was talking. I could have strained to pick up some of the conversation. The voices belonged to a man and a woman.

I knocked.

The people inside the apartment stopped talking and went silent.

“Who is it?” came Ronnie’s voice.

“Police,” Ames said.

The room went silent. The pause was long.

“Police,” Ames repeated. “Open it or step out of the way.”

The lock was unbolted as Ames stepped back against the corridor wall where he couldn’t be seen unless Dwight Torcelli or whoever was inside stepped out to look. The door opened slightly more than a crack.

“Fonesca?”

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice from inside the room asked.

“Not the police,” Torcelli said.

“May I come in, Dwight?” I asked.

“How did you find…?”

He stopped after quickly and silently going through the very short list of those who would know about this second apartment and his real name.

“Sally,” he said.

“May I come in?” I asked again.

He stepped back to let me enter and closed the door behind me. Alana Legerman stood in the center of the room next to the bed on which a large brown cloth suitcase stood open. It looked full and ready to be closed.

“Sally who?” asked Alana.

“My caseworker,” he said.

His denim pants were tan, pressed, creased, and tight fitting. His shirt was a Polo pullover, green and white stripes, and not tight fitting.

“We’re in a hurry here, Mr. Fonesca,” Alana said.

“I’ll bet you are. Bail jumping, especially on a murder charge, can make someone move in a hurry. You’re going to lose a lot of money.”

“I can afford it,” she said. “You plan to tell anyone?”

“Yes, the police.”

She motioned to Torcelli to close the suitcase. He did and pulled the cracked leather straps tight.

“You still work for me, Mr. Fonesca,” she said.

“I resign. Job-related stress.”

“I have a secret you may wish to know before you make a decision,” she said.

“You’re really his mother,” I said, nodding at Torcelli.

“No,” she said, pausing to show that she didn’t appreciate my attempt at humor at her expense. “You stole something from my father.”

“What?” asked Torcelli.

“I don’t know,” she said. “He just told me Fonesca and the old man he hangs around with broke into the house and stole something.”

“The old man is my partner,” I said. “His name is Ames McKinney. And a copy of what we stole is here.”

I took the folded pieces of paper from my pocket and handed them to her.

“We have to go,” Torcelli said while she looked at what I had handed her.

“I find people for a living,” I said. “I’m good at it. It may be the only thing I’m good at. I could find you no matter where you go, and so could the police.”

“Not true,” he said, folding his arms and standing erect with his arms folded. “Alana, those things in your hand are fakes. He’s…”

She held up a hand to indicate that she wanted him quiet while she looked over the papers. After no more than two minutes she handed me the documents and spoke.

“Two questions, and I expect the truth: First, are you really twenty-seven years old? Second, are you married?”

The answer was a long time coming, and he looked at me with something less than friendship before answering.

“Yes, and no,” he said. “I am twenty-seven years old. At least I will be tomorrow.”

“Happy Birthday,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.”

“I can explain why I…”

“Are you married?”

“No,” he said. “I was. She died.”

“You married Philip Horvecki’s daughter,” I said. “Is she dead?”

“No.”

Alana Legerman was freeze-framed in a look of disappointment which turned to anger and then to acceptance with a shake of the head.

“Alana,” he said. “You know I love you.”

“You love me? Who are you?”

“His name is Dwight Torcelli,” I said.

“Mr. Fonesca, do you have any objection to my leaving?” she asked.

“No.”

“I won’t be missing anything else I should know?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t let him get away. Good-bye.”

“If you let me…,” he began, but he didn’t finish because she was out the door and gone.

I wondered what she would make of Ames in the hallway with a shotgun. There was no scream. I heard no voices through the thin door.

“I didn’t kill Horvecki or anyone,” he said. “I swear. Believe me.”

“What I believe doesn’t matter.”

“You’re taking me back to jail.”

“But not to juvenile. You’re an adult. We’ll let the district attorney’s office figure it all out.”

“No,” he said. “When you give them those documents about me, I probably won’t even be able to get a public defender who believes I didn’t kill Horvecki.”

I wanted to ask him about Sally, but I didn’t. He would either lie or tell the truth, and both would hurt.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“No,” he repeated.

“Suit yourself. Run, hide. Maybe Alana Legerman won’t turn you in. Maybe she really won’t care about losing the bond money. Maybe.”

I stepped away from the door. He picked up his suitcase and moved toward me.

“Step away,” he said.

I stepped away, but something I couldn’t control came over me. I moved in and punched him in the nose as hard as I could. I felt bone break and electric frozen pain in my knuckle.

There was no satisfaction in throwing the punch. It just felt like something I had to do.

He let out a groan and dropped the suitcase. Blood gushed from his nose. Rage was in his eyes and his fists were clenched. He was almost twenty years younger than I. I was in good shape from my almost daily workouts at the downtown YMCA, but I was probably not a match for him. The one thing I was sure of was that I could take whatever he threw and keep on coming. I didn’t know how much he was willing to take.

“You lunatic,” he screamed, doing nothing to stop the blood.

He looked like a much different person from the one who had opened the door. This was not a young James Dean sans mustache. This was Mr. Hyde played without his hair draped haphazardly down his forehead. His now inflamed nose suggested drunkenness. His eyes were wide and wild.