Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

Twelve hundred years before I drove my dying car into the parking lot of the Dairy Queen on 301 in Sarasota, saber-tooth tigers, mastodons, giant armadillos, and camels roamed what are now the high-end malls that house Saks, Nieman-Marcus, Lord amp; Taylor, and twenty-screen movie theaters.

The land that is now the Florida Keys was part of a single landmass double the size of the present state.

People who inhabited Florida twelve hundred centuries ago were hunters and gatherers who lived on nuts, plants, small animals, and shellfish. There was a steady clean water supply, good stones on the ground for toolmaking, and more firewood than they needed. Complex cultures developed with temple mounds and villages. These villages traded with one another and developed cultivated agriculture.

As ocean waters wore away land, the peninsula shrank.

Juan Ponce de Leon landed in 1513 in what became St. Augustine. He called the area “La Florida,” in honor of Pascua florida-the feast of flowers. In 1539 Hernando de Soto arrived, and a short time later, in quick succession, came settlers, slaves, and hurricanes. The natives were gone, though remnants of natives and runaway slaves created the Seminole tribes. By this time the peninsula had already long since shrunk to its present size.

Soon came the railroads, the airplanes, and the almost endless stream of cars on I-75 and I-95 carrying snowbird Canadians and retirees from Illinois, Minnesota, New York, Michigan, and even California. The few remaining Seminoles were herded into casinos, which they fought over and operated at a profit.

Towering buildings rose, blocking out view and sun. The more that were built, the more they cost and the greater the crowds.

Then my wife was killed by a hit-and-run driver on the Outer Drive in Chicago. With a Chicago Cubs cap on my head and in need of a shave, I came 1,044 miles looking for the end of the world and settled in an office at the rear of the Dairy Queen parking lot in Sarasota when my car broke down forever.

Now the DQ is gone, replaced by a bank. The less-than-shabby, concrete block two-story office building I live and work in will be torn down in a few days.

There are twenty-nine banks and numerous branches in Sarasota County, and only one DQ remains.

There are more than 360,000 people in the county. Florida progress.

My name is Lewis Fonesca. I find people.

There’s a man sleeping in the corner of your office,” the boy said.

“I know.”

“He’s Chinese,” the kid said. “You want to know how I know?”

“He looks Chinese,” I said.

“But he could be Japanese or Korean,” the kid said, looking at Victor Woo, who was lying faceup on his bedroll with his eyes closed.

“He’s not.”

“Pale skin, small eyes, and his…”

The boy was seventeen, a student at Pine View School for the Gifted. His name was Greg Legerman. He was short, nervous and unable to sit still or be quiet. Next to him sat a tall, thin boy with tousled white hair and rimless glasses. Winston Churchill Graeme, also seventeen, was tall, calm, and sat still, looking at whomever was talking.

“Am I right? Winn, am I right?” Greg said to his friend with a laugh as he punched the other boy in the arm, punched him hard.

Winn Graeme didn’t answer. Greg didn’t care.

“You’re moving,” Greg said.

“How could you tell?” I asked.

“The six cardboard boxes over there near the Chinese man.”

“I’m moving,” I said.

It had taken me less than an hour to pack. I lived in the adjacent room, a small office space, and I owned almost nothing. We were sitting in the reception room, which had a desk, three chairs, and four small paintings on the wall. That was it. My friend Ames McKinney would be by later to pick up the desk, the boxes, the TV with the built-in video player, and the knee-high bookcase.

“They’re tearing this building down,” said Greg. He grinned.

He was easily amused. He punched Winn Graeme in the arm again.

“Why do you keep punching him?” I asked.

“We’re kidding. He punches me sometimes.”

Winn gave a halfhearted tap to the arm of Greg Legerman.

“Am I right? They’re tearing the building down?”

“Yes.”

“You have another place for your office?” asked Greg.

“Yes.”

“The Dairy Queen used to be right out there,” said Greg.

“Yes,” I said.

“They should tear down banks and put up DQs,” Greg said.

I agreed but didn’t say so. He didn’t seem to need anyone agreeing with him about anything.

Victor Woo stirred in the corner and rolled toward the wall.

“Mind my asking who that is?” asked Greg.

“Victor Woo.”

“And what’s he doing sleeping on the floor of your office?”

“He walked in one afternoon,” I said.

“Why?”

“He killed my wife in Chicago. He feels guilty and depressed.”

“You’re kidding, right?” asked Greg.

“No,” I said.

“Wow,” said Greg.

I called out, “Don’t punch him.”

Greg hesitated, shrugged and let his hands fall into his lap for a few seconds before they started to roam again.

“Let’s go,” Winn said, starting to rise.

Winston Graeme had the remnants of a Russell Crowe accent.

“No wait,” said Greg. “I like this guy. I like you, Mr. Fonesca. You come highly recommended.”

“By who and for what?”

“By a Pine View student.”

“Who is nameless?”

“No, the student has a name,” he said with a laugh.

I couldn’t open my mouth fast enough to stop him from punching his friend.

“I’m a process server,” I said.

“You find people. You help people.”

I didn’t respond. He hadn’t really asked a question. I make enough money to live by serving papers for lawyers. I didn’t want more work. I didn’t want money in the bank. I wanted to be able to pick up my duffle bag, which was always partially packed, add a few things, and walk out the door.

“We can pay,” said Greg. “What’s your fee?”

Victor got up on his elbows and looked over at us. He was wearing a red sweatshirt that had a Chicago Bulls logo and the word “Bulls” on the front. The sleeves on the sweatshirt had been roughly cut off.

Something in my face told the two boys that I wasn’t interested.

“You can listen,” said Greg, starting to rise, changing his mind and sitting again. “Ten minutes.”

“Five minutes. What’s your problem?” I asked.

“Ronnie Gerall is in jail, juvenile. He’s seventeen. They say he murdered a crazy old man. He didn’t. The police aren’t even looking for anyone else.”

Winn Graeme adjusted his glasses again and glanced at Victor.

“Okay,” said Greg. “We want you to find someone-the person who killed Philip Horvecki.”

I had read about the murder of Philip Horvecki in the Herald-Tribune a few days before. He had been beaten to death in his home. Horvecki was one of the Sarasota super rich. Semi retired, he had earned his money in land development when the market was hot. He was involved in local politics and had run without success for everything from property appraiser and tax collector to city council, and his causes were many.

His latest cause was something called Bright Futures, a program to provide financial aid to high school students going to a Florida college or university. Horvecki wanted the program abolished. He didn’t want to pay for people’s college education. The argument that the program was paid for by the Florida lottery made no difference to Horvecki.