Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

“I pay taxes-a hell of a lot of taxes to this country, this state, and this county,” he said, looking back at the interviewer, a pretty young brunette who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two and who was definitely uncomfortable as she tried to control the interview. “So do thousands of other people who don’t have children in school, don’t have grandchildren in school. We pay to give a third-rate education to kids who aren’t even ours, and no one gives us a choice. Well, I’m fighting for that choice.”

“But this is a matter of funding a much-needed program for gifted students,” the young woman tried.

“So all students aren’t created equal?” he said. “Some get a better education. No one asked me what I thought about that. Did they ask you? Your parents? Did you go to Pine View?”

“No,” the girl said protectively, “I went to Riverview.”

“Education should be paid for by parents and anyone who wants to give money,” Horvecki said. “I don’t want to give money for the children of the people who should be paying.”

“And Bright Futures?” she asked.

“Same thing,” he said. “A big, phony boondoggle. Take lottery money and tax money and give it to smart kids instead of distributing it evenly among all the kids who want to go to college.”

“That’s what you believe, that the money that-?”

“I don’t think there should be any Bright Futures program or any Pine View School funded by my BLEEP money.”

“So?” she asked.

He turned again to face the camera and said, “Vote no on the funding referendum.”

Cut to a silver-haired man behind a desk with sheets of paper in his hand.

“Philip Horvecki,” he said. “Man on a mission with a gift for making political enemies and a record of convincing voters in the past fifteen years to vote for his self-named Self Interest Initiative Voters Alliance.”

The television screen went gray with thin white fizzling lines.

Darrell reached over, ejected the disk and turned off the television.

“See,” said Torcelli. “That man was a monster.”

“Your father-in-law,” said Ames. “Your wife’s father.”

“Yes,” Torcelli said, touching the bandage on his nose to be sure it was still there.

“So you went to see him because of your commitment to Bright Futures,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Nothing to do with your wanting to be his true son and heir?” said Ames.

“A little, maybe, but does that negate what I was trying to do?”

“A little, maybe,” Ames said.

“I’m a con man, a fraud, an opportunist, a-”

“Asshole,” said Darrell.

“All right,” Torcelli conceded, “but if you came from the background I had-”

“Wrong road to go down with me,” said Darrell. “I’ll take you home for the night, and we’ll tour my neighborhood. We’ll play Mr. Rogers. And check out Fonesca’s tale. His-”

“Where is your wife?” I interrupted.

Torcelli shook his head to show that none of us understood the weight of his life or the toll it had taken.

“She’s not well,” he said.

“Sorry to hear that. Where is she?” I asked again.

He looked past us out the window at the slightly fluttering leaves of the tree outside.

“Want to have Viviase ask the same question?” I said. “He might add a few questions about your friendship with his daughter.”

“She’s a kid,” he said.

“Your wife or Viviase’s daughter?”

“My wife is staying at the Ocean Terrace Resort Hotel on Siesta Key,” he said. “Waiting for her father’s lawyer to tell us what she’s inherited.”

“You told us you didn’t know where she was,” I said.

“You said you wanted us to find her to give you an alibi,” Ames said.

“I did. I did, but I wanted to protect her. I was confused and you were…” He put his head in his hands.

“She’s registered under the name Olin. I’ll call her and tell her to talk to you.”

“Don’t call,” said Ames.

“You got anything to eat in the refrigerator?” asked Darrell.

“You just had breakfast,” said Ames.

“I’m still growing and I need food to keep me going. I was shot and almost dead. Remember that?”

“You plan on letting us forget it some time?” asked Ames.

“Hell no,” said Darrell.

“Go look in the refrigerator,” I said. And he went off to do just that.

“You believe me about what happened?” said Torcelli. “You believe I’m innocent?”

“Greg Legerman thinks you’re innocent,” I said, “but then, he doesn’t know about you and his mother.”

“Don’t tell him,” Torcelli pleaded.

“You were using Alana Legerman as backup in case your wife didn’t get Horvecki’s money?” I said.

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” he said, touching his bandaged nose again.

“Course not,” said Ames.

Darrell came back into the room with a bowl of Publix sugar-frosted wheat and milk.

“What’d I miss?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Torcelli sullenly.

Victor got up and left the room, brushing past Darrell who crunched away at the cereal.

“The State of Florida is going to try to kill me when they find out I’m an adult, but my wife will get me a great lawyer and you’ll keep looking for whoever killed Horvecki, right?”

“Your wife know you’re not really married?” Ames asked.

“We’ll get married again,” he said.

I thought of him with Sally, overworked Sally, caring Sally, Sally with a deep laugh and a soft smile when she looked at her children. I tried to conjure up the other side of Sally I’d glimpsed a few times, the Sally who had no compassion for the parents who took drugs or were religious lunatics or just plain lunatics. She was calm and determined with such people. She was relentless and willing to fight the courts and the law to see to it that they couldn’t destroy their children. She lost more often than she won, but she kept fighting. I thought about these two Sallys, and I tried not to imagine her with the man who sat across from me, the man whose nose I had broken, the man who wanted Ames and me to save his life.

Victor came back into the room. He had another bowl of cereal and milk. Less than an hour after breakfast Darrell and Victor were hungry. So was I.

Someone was knocking outside the door in the other room.

“I’ll get it,” said Ames, moving out and closing the door behind him.

Then we heard a voice, a familiar voice. I got up and went out to meet our visitor.

“He’s here, isn’t he?” said Ettiene Viviase.

“He’s here,” I said.

It wasn’t rage in his eyes exactly, but personal determination. The source, I was sure, was his daughter’s involvement with the man he still thought of as Ronnie Gerall.

“Haul him out,” he said.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“Just came from my third visit to his apartment,” he said. “This time I found something new, found it under a bookcase. I turned it over to the lab about ten minutes ago.”

“What?” I asked.

“The weapon that was used to kill Blue Berrigan.”

Ames went in to get Torcelli who came out black-eyed and slightly bewildered. The confident and angry young man of a few days ago had been replaced by this pained creature with a swollen and bandaged nose and black and blue eyes.

“What happened?” Viviase asked.

“I hit him,” I said.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“There’s hope for you, Fonesca,” he said. Then he looked at Torcelli and said, “Back to a cell. We’ve got lots to talk about.”

“Fonesca, tell…” Torcelli began, but he was no longer sure about who he might call for help.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Torcelli insisted as Viviase put handcuffs on him behind his back. “Fonesca, we’re both Italians, Catholics. I swear to Jesus. I swear on the life of the Pope. I didn’t kill Philip Horvecki.”