Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

North into night flying over your solitary den.

Luck will not last.

Move fast.

Move past.

Thou hast

No more tomorrows.

I cleaned up as much of the glass on the seat and the floor as I could and got in my car. Once I was seated I saw more shining shards on the passenger seat. I swept them on the floor with my hand and called Ames.

“Real bullets this time,” I said.

“You all right?”

“Yes.”

“Same shooter?”

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure. Where are you?”

“The office.”

“I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. A weapon would be in order.”

“Got one,” he said.

When I got to the house, Ames was coming down the steps. The day was cool enough that his lightweight leather jacket wouldn’t draw attention and whatever weapon he was carrying would remain hidden.

“Watch out for the glass,” I said as he started to get in the car.

“I’ll fix that window when we’re done,” he said swiping away at some of the glass bits I had missed.

He sat, looked at me and said, “Let’s do it.”

"Took you a while,” Corkle said, opening the door. “Come in.”

He was wearing tan slacks, a dark lightweight sweater and a blue blazer. Well dressed for a man who never left his house.

Ames and I followed him as he led the way to the rear of the house and onto a tiled, screen-covered lanai. The kidney shaped pool was filled with clear blue-green water.

A glass pitcher of something with ice and slices of lemon in it sat on a dark wooden table. There were five glasses.

Behind the table stood Jeffrey Augustine, black eye patch and all.

“It’s just lemonade,” said Corkle. “Mr. Augustine will pour you both a glass, and we can sit and talk.”

Both Ames and I took a glass of lemonade from Augustine. I took off my Cubs cap and put it in my back pocket.

“I feel like one of those rich bad guys in a fifties movie,” said Corkle, glass in hand, sitting on a wooden lawn chair that matched the table. “Like what’s his name, Fred…”

“Clark?” I said, sitting next to him.

Ames stood where he could watch Augustine, who was also standing. Augustine wasn’t drinking.

“Yeah, that’s the guy,” said Corkle. “Bald, heavyset sometimes, a little mustache. That’s the guy. Fonesca, D. Elliot Corkle is not the bad guy here, Fonesca.”

“You kidnapped Rachel Horvecki,” I said.

“Mr. Augustine brought her here to protect her,” said Corkle, looking at the lemonade after taking a long drink. “She came willingly, and you two executed a flawless rescue.”

“Protect her from what?”

“She’s rich now,” he said. “Someone might be inclined to take a shot at her or drop a safe on her in the hope and expectation of getting her money.”

“Ronnie.”

“Ronnie Gerall, otherwise known as Dwight Torcelli,” he said. “I’ve known Rachel since she was a baby. Always been a little bit in outer space. Her father put her there. Good kid. She deserves better than Torcelli. So does my daughter.”

“Someone tried to kill me about an hour ago in the parking lot at Beneva and Webber.”

“With a pellet gun?” he asked looking at Augustine whose fingers automatically reached for his eye patch.

“With a rifle.”

“You know why?” he asked, drinking more lemonade.

“Because I’ve been talking to people.”

“People?”

“People who told me who killed Philip Horvecki and Blue Berrigan.”

Corkle held up his lemonade and said, “Pure lemonade with small pieces of lemon evenly distributed throughout. Good, huh?”

“Very good,” I said.

“Made with the Corkle Mini-Multi Mixer Dispenser. Put in the water, the ice, lemons, push a button. It works almost silently; you just place the individual glass under the spout, and it fills automatically. Same perfect taste every time. Works with lemons, oranges, berries, any fruit or vegetable. Cleans with one easy rinse. I like orange-banana.”

“You know who killed them,” I said.

“I’ll give you both a Corkle Mini-Multi Mixer Dispenser when you leave,” he said. “Parting gift. Much as D. Elliot Corkle enjoys your company, he doesn’t think we can be friends. Are you owed more money for your troubles?”

“No,” I said.

“If there’s nothing else…”

“Nothing else.”

Augustine had placed his empty glass on the table and folded his arms in front of him.

At the front door, we waited while Corkle got us each a boxed Corkle Mini-Multi Mixer Dispenser. Ames handed his to me. They were lighter than they looked.

When we cleared the door, Ames said, “I’ll take that now.” He took his Corkle Mini-Multi Mixer Dispenser and added, “He was armed. Augustine.”

“I know,” I said.

“I think it best if I keep my hands free till we’re away. Where to now?” Ames asked.

“To see a baby and get something to eat.”

“I’ll watch for snipers,” he said.

About a block from Corkle’s I said, “Victor’s gone.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

“Good.”

“He saved my life when the shooting started.”

“He was waiting for something like that.”

“You knew?”

“I figured,” said Ames.

“I should have,” I said.

Flo was home alone with Catherine who toddled toward us, arms out for Ames to pick her up, which he did.

“Gifts for you,” I said, handing her both Pulp-O-Matics.

“Those are the things I saw on television years ago,” she said. “Almost bought one then. My friend Molly Sternheiser had one. Said it was a piece of shit. Tried to get her money back. Never did. Now, for some reason, I’ve got one and a backup.”

Flo had given up her flow of curse words when Adele and Catherine came into her life. Every once in a while, however, a small colorful noun bursts out unbidden.

“Don’t try to understand,” I said. “Just mix.”

She reached up, took my cap from my head and handed it to me. I pocketed it.

The music throughout the house wasn’t blaring, but it was as present as always.

“That’s Hank Snow,” she said. “ ‘Moving On.’ ”

Flo was wearing one of her leather skirts and a white blouse. She only had six or seven rings on her fingers. She was dressing down.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, watching Catherine and Ames, who were almost face to face and both very serious.

The baby reached up and touched his nose with pudgy fingers.

“I’ll find something to eat,” said Flo.

“Adele?”

“School,” she said. “How about chili? Got a lot left over from dinner yesterday.”

“Fine,” I said.

She went to the kitchen while I sat and listened to Hank Snow and watched Catherine and Ames. After a minute or so he handed the baby to me and went toward the kitchen to help Flo.

Catherine was pink and pretty, like her mother. She sat on my lap and started gently bumping her head against my chest until Flo called, “Come and get it!”

The chili was good, not too spicy. We drank Diet Cokes and talked.

Catherine in her high chair worked on crackers. I watched her. I was here for a few minutes of sanity.

I told Flo that Ames and I were now officially partners.

“That a fact?” she said.

“Fact,” Ames confirmed.

“How’s the new place working out?”

“Fine,” I said.

Ames ate his chili straight. I filled mine with crumbled crackers.

I had been aware for some time that if Ames indicated something beyond friendship in his relationship with Flo, she would be receptive. Flo was somewhere around sixty-five years old. Ames was over seventy. Flo had a built-in family to offer-herself, Adele, and the baby, plus the money her husband Gus had left her.