Stuart Kaminsky: Bright Futures

There was no one but Pepper and me in the reception room, and through the glass window I saw no one in the studio. Pepper opened the studio door, hurried in and sat just as the commercial ended. The speaker connected to the studio crackled with age, but it worked. Pepper put on his earphones, hit a switch and said, “You are waiting for an answer to the question I posed before the break, and I’ll give it to you. You’ll know that it is the voice of the Lord because your heart is cleansed and you follow the Ten Commandments and the teachings of Jesus. The wayward will hear the voice of the Devil; the good will hear the voice of the Lord.”

He said he would take calls if anyone wished to ask questions or give testimony. He gave the number and repeated it.

The phone rang.

“A call,” Pepper said hopefully. He picked up the phone in the studio and said, “Jesus and I are listening to you.”

At 1 p.m. Jack Pepper signed off, saying, “WTLW will return to the air tomorrow morning at ten. Join us if you can and trust in the Lord.”

Back in the reception area, Jack Pepper said, “We’ve got Dr Pepper, Mr. Pibb, canned iced tea, and all kinds of Coke in the refrigerator.”

I declined. He moved behind the receptionist and manager’s desk and came up with a can of Coke, which he opened, drank from, and said, “Parched.”

“Which of you was at Horvecki’s house the night he was murdered?”

He swished some Coke around in his mouth wondering if he should lie.

“Rachel Horvecki and Ronnie Gerrall both say they saw a pickup truck in front of Horvecki’s house that night,” I went on. “There was a man in it. You or Williams?”

“And if I say neither?”

“Then you’d be lying and Ronnie would be one step closer to death row.”

“I think the Lord sent you,” he said softly. “It was me. We’d been watching Horvecki’s house whenever we could, waiting for him to commit a new abomination. A man cannot help being the creature the Lord created, but he can do battle with his nature.”

“You saw and did what?”

He took another drink, let out an “aah,” and said, “A few minutes after midnight I hear voices inside the house, voices filled with hate. And then a thudding sound. Ronnie comes down the street just about then and goes in the house. Man in a watch cap climbs out the window at the side of the house and goes running down the street. Ronnie comes outside like a flash, looks around, and goes back inside.”

“How loud were the noises and voices inside the house before Ronnie showed up?” I asked.

“Loud enough,” he said. “Police came just about then, went in, and you know the rest.”

“How long between the time Ronnie came out to look around and the time the police arrived?”

“Less than a minute,” he said. “No noise. Police there almost instantly, which could mean-”

“Whoever called 911 did it before Ronnie got there,” I said.

“The murderer called 911?” asked Pepper.

“Where was Williams that night?” I asked.

“I’m not my brother’s keeper,” he said.

“Did either Ronnie or Rachel see you in front of the house?”

“Probably,” he said. “I wasn’t hiding. I wanted Horvecki to know I was there watching. The police will want a statement from me, won’t they?”

“They will,” I said.

“There is a restraining order against Essau and me. I prayed it wouldn’t be necessary for me to come forward,” he said. “I prayed that the real killer would step forth or be exposed before I had to speak out, but it looks as if the Lord has chosen me to speak the truth. It will be in the newspapers won’t it?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

He clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and dropped his head in prayer.

I left the building.

The dog got up, looked at me, and growled deeply. I wouldn’t make it to the gate if she didn’t want me to, and she didn’t look as if she wanted me to. I looked at the door. Pepper did not come out.

“Steady on, girl,” Ames called.

The big dog took slow, stalking steps in my direction. Pepper still did not appear. The dog rocked back, ready to pounce, when Ames’s voice boomed with authority.

“I said steady on.”

The dog looked at him as he took another step toward me. Ames came out with a small gun, which slipped out of his sleeve and into his hand.

I hadn’t moved, but the dog had. She was a few steps from me, now, and growling again. Ames fired into the air and the dog scampered off to a far corner. Then Pepper appeared in the doorway of the building. He looked at me and Ames and then at the dog.

“You shot her,” he said.

“No,” I said. “She’s just frightened.”

“So are we all,” said Pepper. “So are we all.”

A lean white heron stood on one leg atop the rusting pickup truck on Zo Hirsch’s lawn. The bird looked at me, and I looked back. He considered putting his foot back down but changed his mind as I walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door.

“You,” Hirsch said opening the door and looking up at me.

“Me,” I admitted.

“You’ve got the papers, right? More courts and lawyers after me? Okay, bring it on.”

I handed him the envelope with the summons enclosed.

“They can’t get blood out of a banana and I’m a banana.”

“Your wife?” I asked.

“And the third-rate shortstop,” he said. “I made an offer they couldn’t refuse, and they refused it. I’m down to selling off some of my collection. Interested in buying a genuine Cleveland Indians sweatshirt once worn by Larry Doby?”

“How much?”

“Two thousand.”

“What do you have under a hundred?”

“Baseball autographed by George Altman, a Cub. Led the National League with twelve triples in 1962.”

“How much?”

“My pride is gone. I’ll take what you offer over fifty dollars.” I took out my wallet, found two twenties and a ten and handed it to him.

“Can we talk?” I asked.

“We are talking.”

“Can I come in?”

“What the hell.”

He pocketed the money and stood back to let me in. I moved into the living room and sat down. Black baseball players in poses and smiles looked down at me. Zo Hirsch, summons and the cash I had given him in hand, hurried off to the back of the house and returned almost immediately with the baseball. He tossed it to me. Then he sat in the chair across from mine.

“You want something to drink? I’m down to store-brand ersatz cola and root beer from a dollar store. It tastes vaguely like something besides tap water.”

“Tempting,” I said, “but no, thanks.”

“Simply put,” he said, “what do you want from me? There isn’t much left, but what there is, with the exception of a few treasures, is for sale.”

“Horvecki,” I said. “You were his only friend.”

“Friend,” he repeated the word, more to himself than to me. “We talked baseball, had drinks.”

“He talk about anything else? What did he care about?”

“Guns,” said Zo Hirsch, “and his daughter, Rachel. I only saw her a few times a couple of years ago. Cute kid, too skinny, didn’t talk. My ex-wife was not too skinny and she could talk, mostly in Spanish. She called me ‘Pequeno.’ You now what that means?”

“Little,” I said.

“At first she said it with a smile and a touch. Later she said it with a hiss and folded arms. A piece of work.”

“Horvecki,” I reminded him. “What else?”

“He liked the ladies. They didn’t like him. He paid for companionship. Come to think of it, so did I.”

Zo Hirsch sat back in the chair and drummed his fingers on the arms.

“Pine View and Bright Futures,” I said.