Stuart Kaminsky: Bright Futures

At ten minutes to four, Winston Churchill Graeme sat next to me, right where the heron had been. He cleaned his glasses on his shirt and turned his eyes in the same direction mine were pointed.

“When I was sixteen, I thought about quitting school and joining the Navy.”

“What stopped you?”

“The fact that my parents didn’t object. They thought it was a pretty good idea. They thought going to college and becoming a lawyer was an even better idea.”

“What happened?”

“I didn’t become a sailor. If I had, I might be out to sea instead of sitting here with you.

“Why are we here?” Winn asked.

“So you could tell me why you killed Blue Berrigan.”

There was a single fry left. I had missed it, but I spotted it now as I was about to crumple up the bag and drop it in the nearby trash basket. I handed him the bag.

“For the birds,” I said. “One left.”

He nodded, adjusted his glasses, and threw the fry in the general direction of a pair of nearby pigeons.

“Why do you think I killed him?” he asked.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the white and red golf tees.

“I found these in the backseat of Berrigan’s jeep.”

“So, he played golf.”

“No, he didn’t. I looked in his room and his closet and asked his landlady. He didn’t play golf. You do.”

“Maybe they didn’t belong to whoever killed him. Maybe they had been there a long time,” he tried.

“No,” I said. “Both tees were on top of a splatter of blood. The killer lost them during the attack.”

“I’m not the only one who plays golf,” he said.

“No, you’re not, but you’re the only one who would kill Berrigan for blackmailing Greg. Greg told me that Berrigan tried to get more money out of him.”

“Yes.”

“And you told me you would do anything to protect your friend.”

His hands were shaking now.

“What happened, Winn?” I said.

He paused, looked into the DQ bag as if there might be a miracle fry in it, and then spoke. “I was with Berrigan when he went to see you at that bar. I wanted to be sure he would go through with saying he had evidence to clear Ronnie. I stayed in the jeep.”

“But?”

“He got frightened, panicked. You said something to him in the bar. He told me he wanted more money, a lot more money. He was hysterical. He said he’d tell you, tell the police that Greg had murdered Horvecki. He drove to his place and parked in front. He kept saying things like ‘What am I doing? What am I the fuck doing?’ He didn’t get out of the jeep, just sat there looking over his shoulder down the street, hitting the steering wheel hard with the palms of both hands. I told him to get out. He wouldn’t move. He kept saying he would tell the police that Greg killed Horvecki. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Winn closed his eyes.

“So you hit him with something in the backseat.”

“Yes, one of Greg’s grandfather’s mallets.”

“Then you got out of the jeep and ran before I got there.”

“Yes.”

“You went to Ronnie’s apartment and put the mallet under his bookcase. He was in jail for one murder. Two wouldn’t make a big difference, right?”

“You know, I could hit you with something and throw you in the bay,” he said.

“No, you couldn’t,” I said.

“No, you’re right. I couldn’t. What are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” I said. “You’re going to go to Elisabeth Viviase’s father and tell him what happened.”

“I can’t. My mother…”

“The odds are good that eventually, probably soon, a strand of hair, a string of cloth, a DNA trace is going to lead to you. You already left the two tees. What else did you leave?”

“I don’t know.”

“Turn yourself in, get a good lawyer. I’m sure Greg’s grandfather will pay for one. You’re still a minor. Think about it.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll think about it. Thanks. Will you turn me in if I don’t do it?”

“You’ll do it,” I said. “Do you know who George Altman is?”

“Cardinals outfielder in the sixties?”

“And a Cub before that. Here.”

I took the autographed baseball I had purchased out of my pocket and handed it to him. He took it and looked at me, puzzled.

“It’s yours,” I said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

I got up.

Winn Graeme looked down at the ball cupped in his hands as if it were a small crystal ball.

“Mr. Fonesca,” he said. “What will Greg do without me?”

At ten the next morning, I carried my tribute of coffee and biscotti into the office of Ann Hurwitz who motioned me into my usual seat. She was on the phone.

“I’m not investing in alchemy,” she said patiently. “I want secure stocks and bonds. I do not want real estate, neither malls nor parking lots nor the foreclosed property of others.”

There was a pause while she listened, accepted a bagged biscotti and coffee, nodded her thanks, and then spoke into the telephone as she jangled the heavy jeweled chain around her thin wrist:

“We’ve been through this many times, Jerome. You are forty-four years old. I am eighty-three years old. Depending on what chance and heredity bring your way, you will live about forty more years according to current actuarial projections. I, on the other hand, should have, at most, another seven to ten years. I am not interested in risking what my husband and I have saved. It is not because we intend to retire to Borneo on our savings. We wish to give to a set of charities, charities that support the continuation of human life. Get back to me when you’ve thought about this.”

She hung up and looked at me.

“Lewis, you are the only one of my current clients who does not believe in God and does not want to live forever.”

“If there is a God, I don’t like him,” I said.

“So you have indicated in the past. Almond or macadamia?” she asked, hoisting a biscotti.

“Almond.”

“Tell me about your week,” she said, “while I enjoy your gift.”

I told her, talked for almost twenty minutes, and then stopped. She had finished her biscotti and coffee and my almond biscotti.

“Progress again,” she said.

“Progress?”

“You made a commitment to Ames. You offered something resembling a commitment to Sally. After four years you are putting down tentative tendrils in Sarasota.”

“Maybe.”

“Have you done your homework?”

I reached into my pocket and came out with the stack of lined index cards on which people’s favorite, or just remembered, first lines were. She took them.

“Why did I have you collect favorite first lines rather than jokes?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think it is time for you to have a new beginning,” she said, quickly going through the cards, glasses perched on the end of her nose. “And now yours, Lewis, your book.”

“ Moby-Dick,” I said.

“What do you think the book is about?” Ann asked.

“A lone survivor,” I said. “I bought a copy of the book at Brant’s and copied the line.”

I took out my notebook.

“Is it that hard for you to remember? Almost everyone knows it. ‘Call me Ishmael.’ ”

“Yes,” I said. “Can I read what I have on the card?”

“All right,” she said, lifting a hand in acceptance, “read.”

“ ‘It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.’ ”

“That’s not the beginning of Moby-Dick, Lewis,” she said.

“No,” I said. “It’s the end.”