Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

“I’m not a U.S. marshal. I’m a private contractor.”

“I know, I know. But you see the history, the connection. Our lives, our history, and the history of the entire country-the entire world-are connected by slender threads of seemingly random events.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Would you like a can of Coke?”

If he said yes I would have given him the caffeine-free variety. Greg Legerman needed no more stimulation.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I get carried away.”

“You have any idea who killed Blue Berrigan?”

“No, but I have to tell you something about him. Berrigan.”

“Tell.”

“I hired Blue Berrigan to lie to you, to tell you he had evidence that would clear Ronnie.”

“He tried.”

“He wanted more money from me. Said he’d tell the police I had killed Horvecki.”

“And you wouldn’t give it?”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t kill him. I don’t know who did, probably whoever killed Horvecki.”

“Maybe,” I said. “How did you know Berrigan?”

“He used to work for my grandfather on his infomercials and at his mall appearances. I’ve known him all my life. He always needed money. It was a bad idea.”

“Very bad.”

“I got him killed,” said Greg.

I didn’t say anything.

“What happened to the Chinese guy?” Greg asked. “His bedroll’s gone.”

“Went home. A place far away and exotic.”

“China?”

“Oswego, Illinois.”

“Cheng Ho, fifteenth century admiral, diplomat, explorer, son of a Muslim, descendent of Mongol kings, was the first real Chinese explorer extending his country’s influence throughout the regions bordering the Indian Ocean.”

“Greg,” I said, trying to slow him down as he paced, speaking so quickly that I missed some of the words.

“Fifteenth century,” he said. “Do you know how the Romans numbered the centuries before the Christian era?”

“Greg,” I said again as he paused in his pacing to glance at the dark Dalstrom paintings on my wall.

I thought he was going to shift from the Roman calendar to something about art, but he stayed with his history.

“Eleven months, a three-hundred-and-four-day year. But my question was a trick. Your answers to me have been tricks. The Romans didn’t number their years. When a new year came, they called it something like ‘The Year of the Counsels of Rome.’ They didn’t think of decades or centuries. Time meant something different to the Romans.”

“Greg, how did you get here?”

“I drove, of course.”

“How about staying here tonight?”

“Why?”

“Do I have to tell you?”

He went back to the chair, sat, played with the money, scratched his forehead and said, “No.”

“I’ll call your mother.”

“No,” he said. “Not necessary. She isn’t sitting up waiting for me.”

“Your grandfather?”

“No. I won’t be missed. I’m never missed. I am a trial and a tribulation to my family,” he said, finishing with a broad grin. “Don’t worry. I’ve brought some of my quiet-down tranquilizers. I’ll be fine.”

“Bathroom is over there. I’ll get my sleeping bag out of the closet.”

“I need a pillow.”

“I’ll get you one.”

“Thanks. I’ll take that Coke now.”

“Caffeine free,” I said.

“I’ll take it.”

I got it for him. He used it to wash down three pills he fished from a small plastic bottle.

“I’ll resist telling you about the developmental history of tranquilizers,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“You remind me of your grandfather,” I said.

“Is that an insult or a compliment?”

“Observation.”

“Others have said the same. I long to be away at the Duke campus, built and endowed by…”

I sat listening as he slowly talked himself down, drank two Cokes, used the bathroom twice, and finally, at a few minutes past midnight, took off his shoes. I got him a pillow. He took it and moved to what had been Victor’s corner.

I turned off the lights and got into bed. It would not be the first night I slept without a pillow. I’d have to put the purchase of a guest pillow on my mental list of things I needed.

There was no problem. I lay in darkness in my T-shirt and shorts and let the thoughts of both Catherines, of Sally, and of what I had to do in the morning come. They came and went, and I slept well. I slept dreamlessly.

Greg was gone when I got up a few minutes before eight the next morning. The sleeping bag was rolled up with the pillow plumped on top of it. The cash I had laid out was still on the desk and there was a scribbled note I could barely read:

I have the feeling that what you will do today will be something other than what I would like. Consider the cash payment for your putting up with me last night. Greg Legerman is not an easy town.

I called Ames and told him I would pick him up in half an hour.

“Did you get any sleep?” I asked.

“Some.”

“Our shooter?”

“Didn’t move.”

“You have breakfast?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Okay if we eat here?”

“Sure.”

Half an hour later I was seated at a table in the Texas Bar and Grill and being served by Big Ed. We ate chili and eggs and didn’t say much.

“Thanks,” I said.

“For?”

“You fixed my car window last night,” I said. “Or was it the car window fairy?”

“Me. Took a few hours off when our shooter was tucked in.”

“You armed?”

Ames pulled his jacket open to reveal a small holstered gun.

“Leave it here,” I said. “We won’t need it where we’re going.”

I called Ettiene Viviase and he agreed to meet us at the jail just down the street when I told him what I wanted to do.

We could have walked to the jail from the Texas, but I drove and we found a space with a two-hour meter. I dropped enough quarters into it and we met Viviase in the reception area in front of the bulletproof window, behind which sat a uniformed woman.

“She’s here,” Viviase said. “Make it good.”

He took us through a door and into a small room where lawyers and clients, relatives and inmates, cops and criminals met to talk and lie and threaten and plead.

Torcelli, wearing an orange uniform, sat at the table.

He looked at me and said, “You’ve come to get me out.”

“No,” Viviase said. “He came to be sure you stay in here. You killed Philip Horvecki.”

Torcelli’s nose was covered by a wide bandage that didn’t hide the spreading purple. The cavities of his eyes looked as if they had been painted black.

“I didn’t… What? I didn’t kill Horvecki. Tell him Fonesca.”

“Go ahead,” said Viviase. “Tell us.”

I told my tale slowly and carefully so Torcelli wouldn’t make any mistake about what he was hearing.

The first words from him when I finished talking were, “I want my lawyer.”

“He withdrew from your case,” said Viviase. “He has a bad cold.”

“His feet are cold,” said Torcelli. “Alana stopped paying him, didn’t she? Find Rachel. Rachel will pay him.”

“We’re looking for her,” Viviase said.

“This is a mistake,” Torcelli said again, this time looking at Ames, who said, “Take it like a man.”

“I didn’t touch your daughter,” Torcelli tried, turning to Viviase. “A kiss, maybe. What’s the harm in that?”

“She’s fifteen,” Viviase answered.

“Fonesca, you were supposed to help me,” Torcelli said, his voice dropping, his head in his hands.

“I guess I failed,” I said.

"You sure?” Viviase asked.

“Sure,” said Ames. “Followed the taxi right here.”