Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

“What?” he asked sitting up, blinking, not sure of where he was, and then slowly understanding.

“You had visitors,” I said. “You missed them. Victor and I are going to have Oreo cookies and milk. Want to join us?”

“I guess,” he said, looking at me and then at Victor, who still bore his softball bat.

I was reasonably sure now who was responsible for the death of both Philip Horvecki and Blue Berrigan. When I got up in the morning, I’d share my thoughts with Ames.

I checked the clock when we went back into the room where my desk sat. It was almost three in the morning.

We had cookies and milk.

I was up by six. I showered, shaved, shampooed what little hair I have remaining with a giant container of no-name shampoo-conditioner purchased at a dollar store, and examined the scratches on my face. It didn’t look as bad as I thought it would. I certainly looked better than Jeff Augustine.

I was dressed in my jeans and a fresh green short-sleeve knit shirt with a collar. It didn’t go well with my blue and red Cubs cap, but I had no plans for meeting royalty. If I did run into any, I could tuck my cap away. Lewis Fonesca was prepared for anything except intruders, unbidden emotions, disarming surprises, life’s horrors, and the pain and death of others.

When Ames and Darrell Caton walked in together just before eight, I was eating an Oreo cookie with the full understanding that I would have to brush my teeth again.

“Met him downstairs,” Ames explained.

“Takes me a while to get up the stairs since I got shot with an Uzi,” said Darrell.

“It was a pellet gun,” Ames said.

“Shot is shot,” said Darrell. “I can’t go around telling people I was in the hospital for three days because I was shot in the back with a BB.”

“Guess not,” said Ames.

It was obvious Ames and Darrell liked each other, though I couldn’t quite figure out what the essence of that friendship might be.

“Cookies?” I asked.

Both Darrell and Ames took one.

“He safe?” asked Ames, pointing at the door of the second bedroom.

“Victor’s in there with him,” I said.

“With who?” asked Darrell.

“Visitor,” I said.

“You’re my big brother, big sister, uncle, Santa, whatever,” said Darrell. “You’re supposed to tell me things. Share confidences, you know?”

“You’re getting a bit old to have a big brother,” said Ames. “And what are you doing roaming the streets when you’re supposed to be in bed.”

“Okay,” said Darrell, “we’ll call it even. Then we’re…”

“Friends,” said Ames.

“Friends,” I agreed.

“Sometimes I think my mother would rather have me hang with safer friends, like drug dealers and gangbangers.”

I offered him another cookie. He took it. Ames decided one was enough.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” Ames said. “We can bring something back for Victor and our guest.”

“You two are playing with me,” Darrell said. “That’s it, right?”

“No,” I said. “Let’s go downstairs slowly and walk over to the Waffle Shop and I’ll tell you the story about two night visitors.”

“No,” said Darrell, “I know that one. Amal and camels. I know that shit.”

“This one,” I said, “is about different night visitors. I think you’ll both like it.”

“Okay,” said Darrell. “Let’s get waffles.”

It was Saturday morning, bright, sunny, cloudless, Floridian-winter cool. No one shot at us as we walked down the stairs, Ames in front, Darrell second, me in the rear. Darrell moved slowly, wincing, trying to cover it. We were only two blocks from the Waffle Shop but I suggested we drive. Darrell said no.

When we entered the Waffle Shop it was crowded, but a family of four was just getting up from a table at the front window. We waited, then sat, and I pretended to look at the menu, which both Ames and I had long ago memorized.

Greg Legerman and Winn Graeme came in about two minutes later, looked around, saw us, and headed for our table.

Greg and Winn stood next to our table. Greg’s arms were folded over his chest, his look a demand before he spoke.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“Greg, Winn, this is Darrell Caton,” I said by way of introduction. “He was shot and almost killed on the steps of my office a few days ago.”

For a beat they both looked at Darrell who held out his hand. First Greg, and then Winn, took the extended hand.

“They look kind of shook,” said Darrell first to me and then to Ames. “One of them shoot me?”

“Possible,” said Ames.

“This won’t work,” said Greg. “You are working for everyone in my family and you owe me the information first. We’re worried about Ronnie.”

“We?” I asked.

Greg and Winn had to pull in close to the table as one of Gwen’s daughters came by with an armful of platters, calling, “Out of the way.”

“We,” Greg repeated. “Me, Winn, my mother, my grandfather. We.”

“Find a seat,” the now-platterless waitress said just above the patter of the other customers.

She said it with a smile, a warm voice, and a hand on Winn’s shoulder, but it was a command.

“Sit,” Ames said.

They sat, losing the supposed advantage of our looking up at them.

“I’ll be right back for your order,” the daughter said. “Coffee?”

“Yes,” said Greg.

“Orange juice,” said Winn.

“How’d you know Ames and I were here?” I asked.

“Went to your place,” Greg said. “Your car, the Chinese guy’s car, and the old cowboy’s scooter were there. The Chinese guy wouldn’t let us in, said you were out for breakfast, so we…”

“His name is Victor,” said Ames. “Victor Woo. Mr. Woo till he tells you to call him otherwise.”

Ames was calm, but I knew by the number of words he had used that he was not pleased by our new breakfast companions. The only one who had spoken less was Winn Graeme, who sat reasonably erect and adjusted his glasses.

“We didn’t mean any disrespect,” said Greg. “I’m a flaming all-inclusive open-the-borders liberal. Right, Winn?”

He gave Winn a shoulder pop with his fist. Winn nodded to confirm Greg’s political assessment.

“My mother bailed Ronnie out,” Greg said. “We all hired you. We want to know what’s going on.”

“His name isn’t Ronnie,” I said.

“What?” asked Greg.

“His name is Dwight Torcelli,” I said. “He’s twenty-six years old and he’s married to Philip Horvecki’s daughter.”

Greg looked stunned. Winn sat silently. It was time again to adjust his glasses.

“Your mother wants to know where he is?” asked Ames.

Greg looked at Ames as if Ames had not been paying attention.

“My mother…”

He was interrupted by Gwen’s daughter bringing breakfast for Darrell, Ames, and me, orange juice for Winn and coffee for whoever wanted it. Darrell, Ames, and I were all having the waffle special with eggs and three slices of bacon.

“Go ahead,” said Greg. “We don’t mind if you eat.”

He said the last part of this after the three of us had already begun to eat.

“Okay,” came a shout above the voices and clattering plates and cups. “Listen up.”

Two tables from us, a trucker in a blue baseball cap and a denim vest over his T-shirt was standing and waiting for attention. His beard was just beyond stubble and he looked more than serious.

“My friend here says Elvis never ate here, that Gwen’s mother just put up that poster and the sign.”

“That’s right,” said the friend, now standing.

He was shorter than the other guy but in better shape, biceps like cement.

“February 21, 1956, Elvis played the Florida Theater in Sarasota,” said Winn aloud. “He had breakfast here on the morning of February 22 and headed immediately for an appearance that night in Waycross, Georgia.”