Stuart Kaminsky: Bright Futures

“Forty-two songs on three CDs,” he said. “Best of the original jazz crooners. Bing Crosby, Dick Powell, Russ Columbo.”

“I don’t have a CD player,” I said.

“Not in your car?”

“I don’t own a car.”

He shook his head and said, “Wait.”

I looked at Augustine as Corkle disappeared back in the closet and came up with a white box even smaller than the one with the CDs. He placed it in my free hand.

“Big seller in its day,” he said. “Nine ninety-five. Thirty-dollar value. Great little CD player.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Think about my offer,” said Corkle. “D. Elliot Corkle is as good as his word. You a poker player, Fonesca?”

“Used to be.”

When Catherine and I were first married, I played poker twice a month with two cops, an assistant district attorney and another investigator who, like me, worked for the state attorney’s office. Well, he wasn’t quite like me. He was in prison now, for murder.

“I host a weekly Wednesday game in my card room. If you like, I can let you know when we have an open seat. You can join us, see how you like it, how we like you.”

“Game?”

“Five card stud. That’s it.”

“Stakes?”

“Ten, twenty-five, fifty for the first hour,” said Corkle. “Last hour, one to two in the morning, we go up to twenty-five, fifty, and a hundred. We start at nine at night. I know where you can get the money to play. Think about it.”

He started to close the door as Augustine and I stepped out and said, “If I can’t get you to say ‘no’ to Greg, can I hire you?”

“To do what?”

“Exactly what my grandson hired you to do, with one exception.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t care if you find evidence to clear Ronnie Gerall or get him locked up till he is ready for Social Security.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“D. Elliot Corkle doesn’t work that way. The offer is going fast. Just fifteen seconds to decide. I’ll make it a cash offer, payable right here on my doorstep. Two thousand dollars.”

“Your grandson is still my client.”

“Now you’ve got two clients. You just have to report to me and keep a protective eye on Greg.”

I looked at Augustine, who gave me no help, and then back at Corkle.

“Why not?” I said.

Corkle reached into his pocket and came out with an envelope and folded sheet of paper.

“Two thousand in hundreds and fifties in the envelope. Just sign the receipt. It’s made out ‘for consulting fees.’ ”

“You were sure I’d agree.”

“Reasonably,” he said. “D. Elliot Corkle could always put the cash away and tear up the unsigned receipt. One should always be prepared for contingencies.”

I took the envelope without checking the contents and said, “I can’t sign this receipt.”

Corkle smiled in understanding.

“I’m a process server, not a consultant.”

“Then,” said Corkle, “we’ll just have to trust each other. Call when you have information.”

He closed the door behind us as Augustine and I walked down the path.

“I think he likes you,” said Augustine. “He’s never invited me in on that poker game, not that I could afford it.”

“I’m glad,” I said, putting the envelope in my pocket.

“He’s a good guy. You don’t know him.”

“And you do?” I asked.

“He sells gadgets, has millions of dollars, and refers to himself in the third person,” said Augustine. “Also, he loves his grandson and he never leaves the house.”

“Never?”

“For the last four years at least, I’ve been told. I don’t know what his reasons are.”

I shifted my gifts and got in the car.

“Corkle produced the only movie I ever starred in.”

“ Shoot-out On a Silent Street,” I said, closing the car door. “You and Tim Holt.”

He started the car. I put on my Cubs cap.

“Who was the woman who ran out of the house?” I asked.

“Alana Legerman.”

“Greg’s…?”

“Mother. D. Elliot’s daughter. If you ask me…”

I never found out what he wanted me to ask him. The front window exploded. Glass shot toward my face. I covered up. Augustine lost control. We spun around three times, skidded onto the freshly cut lawn of a large ranch-style house and came to a stop against a row of trimmed bushes.

I looked at Augustine. He was silent. Blood dripped like a red tear from the corner of his right eye and made its way down his nose. I was fascinated. Then I passed out.

Ames McKinney looked down at me. He was tall, lean, a little over seventy years old with tousled gray hair and an accent that came from the West. He always wore jeans with a big buckled belt and a flannel shirt, even when the temperature hit a humid one hundred. He never sweated. Ames was the closest thing I had to a best friend.

“You’re lookin’ tempered,” he said.

My face was scratched in four or five places, and my shirt was torn. Nothing was broken.

“I feel fine,” I said trying to stand. “Augustine?”

“Other fella in the car? He’s a bit chiseled down but he’ll survive.”

“Envelope? Money?”

“Right here,” said Ames, holding up the bulging envelope.

I tried to stand.

My legs didn’t cooperate. I started to sink back on the bed. I had been taken to Sarasota Memorial Hospital by ambulance, treated and asked if there was anyone I wanted the people in the ER to call. I came up with Ames, who I knew would be at the Texas Bar, where he worked as a handyman, cleanup man, occasional short-order cook, and bartender. Big Ed, who owned the place, had been taking more time off to visit his children and grandchildren back in New Jersey. The only person Ed trusted was Ames.

Ames and I had met four years ago when I tried to stop him from having a shoot-out on Lido Beach with his ex-partner, who had gathered every dime in their company and run off to Sarasota to change his name and spend his way into what passed for society on the Gulf Coast. Ames had done some jail time, but not much, since I had testified that the partner had shot first.

“Steady, partner,” Ames said, grabbing my arm and easing me back when I tried to rise again.

“What happened?” I said.

“Don’t know.”

“How long was I out?”

“Four hours,” Ames said. “Besides those cuts on your face, you have yourself a concussion.”

The room tilted at a slight angle and then tilted back the other way. I closed my eyes.

“Augustine?” I said.

I passed out again.

When I next opened my eyes, Detective Ettiene Viviase of the Sarasota Police Department was standing next to Ames.

“You all right?” he asked.

He was a burly man of about fifty who pretended to be world weary. We had experienced a number of close encounters of the third kind.

“Fine and dandy,” I said.

Augustine would have known I was quoting Earl Holliman in The Rainmaker.

“You were serving papers?” he asked.

I didn’t answer.

“Lewis is confused,” said Ames. “Trauma.”

Viviase nodded and said, “What’s it all about?”

“How is Augustine?” I asked.

“He’ll live,” said Viviase. “Maybe they can save his sight. He had a. 177 caliber pellet lodged in his right eye.”

“A pellet? Someone shot Augustine with Ralphie’s Red Ryder you’ll-shoot-your-eye-out BB gun?” I asked.

“And came close to shooting his eye out. Something like that,” said Viviase. “Any idea who shot at you?”

“Me? What makes you think they were shooting at me?” I said. “They could have been shooting at Augustine, or maybe it was just kids shooting at a car.”

“Ronnie Gerall,” Viviase said.

I closed my eyes and started to lean back, and then I remembered. I touched the top of my head. The hair was definitely thinner with each passing crime. Ames reached back into his pocket and came up with my Cubs cap. He handed it to me. I clutched it like a teddy bear.