Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

The breakfast crowd applauded.

“The kid don’t know shit,” the muscled trucker said, with a special emphasis on the word “shit.”

The restaurant went silent.

Gwen’s other daughter, the one with two babies and another on the way, was behind the counter where I usually had breakfast.

“You calling my family liars?” she said.

“My grandfather was here when Elvis came in,” said Winn.

“Bullshit,” said the trucker.

“His grandfather’s still alive and almost ninety-five,” added Greg. “Reverend Graeme of the First Episcopalian Church of Christ the Redeemer would, I’m sure, be happy to come by and settle this.”

People began to applaud and laugh. The defeated trucker mumbled a few obscenities and sat down as the first trucker raised a hand in historic triumph.

“Your grandfather really in here when Elvis came in?” asked Darrell.

“Don’t see how he could have been,” said Greg. “He was in Korea.”

“Yes,” said Winn.

“And,” added Greg, favoring his friend with another punch in the arm, “he’s dead and he wasn’t Reverend Graeme. He was Russell Graeme, co-owner of Graeme-Sydney Chrysler Motors in Sydney, Australia.”

Greg was grinning.

Darrell mumbled something to himself and went on eating. I was sitting next to him and heard, though no one else did.

“Rich white kids,” Darrell had said.

“That the truth about Ronnie?” asked Winn.

“Truth,” I said.

“Why do you want to find him?” asked Ames.

“To talk to him about getting a new lawyer,” Greg said leaning forward. “My grandfather said he’ll pay to get the best available defense team in the nation. The plan was for us to set it up with Ronnie and you keep looking for whoever killed Horvecki. But he’s not Ronnie. I don’t understand.”

“What about Berrigan?” asked Ames.

“Berrigan?” asked Greg.

Gwen’s daughter, the one who had waited on us, touched Winn’s shoulder and quietly said, “Your breakfasts are all on the house.”

Then she moved away to the waving hand of a customer who wanted more coffee or his check.

“Blue Berrigan,” I said.

“What kind of name is that?” asked Greg.

“Dead man’s,” said Ames.

Winn Graeme’s eyes were closed for an instant. Then he removed his glasses, opened his eyes and put the glasses back on.

“The singer?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Where? When did he…?” asked Greg.

“Day ago,” said Ames. “Beaten in his car.”

Darrell was giving his full attention to the conversation now.

“Who is Blue Bennignan?” Darrell asked.

“Berrigan,” Winn corrected. “I used to watch his show when I was a kid. My mother took me to see him when he was at the Opera House in Sydney when I was six.”

“You going to cry?” Greg asked his friend in disbelief before looking around the table to see if anyone else found this particularly bizarre. No one seemed to.

“I know a guy in a gang in Palmetto called Black Brain-banger,” said Darrell. “And there’s a whore up on the Trail goes by Red Alice because…”

“Her hair’s red?” said Ames.

“You know her?” asked Darrell.

Ames took it and Darrell laughed.

“Got you, old cowboy,” Darrell said.

Ames gave a small shake of his head. No one joined the laughter.

Darrell looked and me and said, “I’m just breaking it down and bringing it down Fonesca. Lightening it up, you know what I’m saying?”

Unordered breakfasts for both Greg and Winn arrived, the same thing all of us had.

“Anything Ronnie needs?” asked Greg.

“His name is Dwight Torcelli,” Winn said.

“The best criminal defense attorney in the United States would help,” I said.

We ate for a while, and I thought in silence.

Then Darrell whispered to me, “You don’t need more money? I do. Rich white boys probably have their pockets full of twenties. You take it, give it to me. I keep a little and give the rest to my mother.”

I shook my head, but it didn’t stop him. He whispered to me as he finished his breakfast.

“I took a bullet in the back for you, Fonesca,” he said.

“Pellet,” I said. “Maybe you were the one being shot at.”

“People from my part of town don’t use pellets and BBs after they’re five years old. They don’t shoot people with toys. Someone after me’d have a serious weapon.”

“Because you’re so bad?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m just saying.”

“You didn’t tell people you got shot with a pellet gun.”

“Hell no.”

After we were finished with breakfast, Greg and Winn stood, and Greg said, “You’ll let me know?”

“I’ll let you know,” I said, though at this point I wasn’t sure about what it was I would be letting him know about.

“Sorry,” said Winn, though at this point I wasn’t completely sure what it was he was sorry about.

When they left, Ames finished a second cup of coffee and said, “Smart boys.”

I wasn’t sure how he meant it, and I wasn’t going to ask him to explain.

We picked up carryout breakfasts for Victor and Torcelli. The same truckers we had seen earlier were in line behind us at the cash register.

The one with muscles and, I could now see, fading tattoos on his arms, said to Ames, “Your grandkids cost me forty bucks.”

I touched Ames’s arm in the hope that he wouldn’t respond, but he said, “Cost yourself forty dollars.”

“Not the way I see it,” said the trucker.

“Let it go, Ben,” said the trucker who had won the bet.

“You let it go, Teek. Easy for you. You won. Way I see it, old bones here owes me.”

It was our turn to pay now. I handed over cash for the carry-out to Gwen’s daughter at the register. She pushed it back to me.

“Ames owes you shit,” said Darrell. “Right, Fonesca?”

“Right,” I said.

“Mess with Ames, he’ll shoot your ass,” Darrell said. “Mess with Fonesca he’ll break your nose. Ames shot and killed a man and Fonesca just broke a fool’s nose.”

“That a fact?” said Ben the trucker with the biceps.

“Fact,” Darrell said.

The trucker reached for Darrell. Ames put his arm in the way.

“You want to take this outside,” said Ames. “I’ll accommodate.”

I led our happy band out the door.

“Parking lot,” said Ben.

“I’m having no part,” said Teek.

When we got to the parking lot next to the restaurant, Ames opened his jacket so Ben could see an old, but very large, well cleaned, and shining pistol tucked into his belt.

“Bullshit,” said Ben, now glaring. He took a step toward Ames, who calmly removed the weapon from his belt and fired into the ground at the trucker’s feet.

“Another step and you’ll be on your way to the emergency room,” said Ames.

“He means it,” I said.

Ben backed away three steps and raised a fist, but didn’t say anything.

Teek took Ben’s arm and started to pull him away.

“Crazy old fucker,” said Ben, looking over his shoulder as he wisely allowed himself to be escorted from the lot.

I didn’t ask either trucker if they had a favorite first line from a book.

“You did him, Ames,” said Darrell holding up his right hand for a high five, which Ames didn’t deliver.

“Best we go now,” Ames said.

“Best,” I agreed.

"I’m not an unreasonable man,” Horvecki said, professionally looking at the camera and away from the SNN interviewer.

He was looking directly at me as I sat in my room with Ames, Darrell, Victor, and Ronnie watching the DVD Greg Legerman had given me.

Horvecki had the raspy voice of a smoker and a haunted look. He was slightly frail and definitely on the verge of being old. He had a well-trimmed, close-cropped head of dyed black hair and the slightly blotched skin of a man who had spent too many hours outside without benefit of sunblock.