Stuart Kaminsky - Always Say Goodbye

“Come on, Lewis. Work with me here. I’ve got a point.”

The elevator dropped slowly, a slight metallic clatter beneath their feet.

“Husband’s dead,” Lew said.

“And?”

Lew looked away, felt the sheet of paper in his hand.

“She’s hiding her grief with a smile. She’s resigned herself to the unfairness of life and she’s dedicated herself to trying to understand and comfort others,” said Lew as the elevator stopped.

“You’re saying it like you’re reading it off a Wheatie’s box.”

“Jewish woman who lived through the Holocaust,” said Lew as they stepped into the lobby. “What she’s been through is a lot worse than what I’ve been through and she’s taking it better.”

“Pretty good,” said Franco. “But you’re wrong about one thing.”

“What?”

They were on the sidewalk again. Across the street a pretty girl with a blue backpack was hurrying somewhere, talking on a cell phone. Her long dark hair bobbed with each step. Lew had the feeling he had seen her before, a thousand times before.

“Rebecca Strum isn’t Jewish,” said Franco as they moved back to the truck. “Her husband was a Jew. I think she’s a Lutheran or something like that. Her father was a Communist, landed the family in a camp. You should read one of her books, Lewie.”

When they got back into the Franco’s truck, the phone hummed. Franco picked it up, said, “Massaccio Towing.” He handed the phone to Lew.

“Fonesca, my name’s Bernard Aponte-Cruz,” said the man. “I was the one with Claude Santoro last night. We should talk.”

“When?”

“Now,” he said. “Right now. Claude had something to tell you. That’s why we followed you last night. We got your number from the side of the truck. He said he was looking for the right time to get you alone. He never got the time. Now the police think I killed him.”

“What did he want to tell me?”

“I don’t know, but it had something to do with the bank.”

“Bank?”

“Claude was a consultant for First Center Bank. He specialized in banking and insurance law.”

“He wasn’t a criminal attorney?”

“No, never,” said Aponte-Cruz. “And he was a good guy. I’m telling you. He was a good guy.”

“You worked for him?”

“He was my brother-in-law.”

“Why did your brother-in-law need you with him last night? Why didn’t he just talk to me?” Lew asked.

“Someone called him. He didn’t know who. A man, said he should stay away from you or he’d be killed. That’s when Claude called me. I’m not such a good guy. Shit, my aunt and uncle, Claude’s mother and father, they live in Yuma. I’m going to have to call them, tell them. Shit. Claude was their only kid.”

“Why didn’t he just talk to me?”

“He wanted to check you out. He was looking for a safe place to talk and Claude was sure he was being followed. We were about to go into the house you were in last night when the cops showed up. Then you and Tow Truck came out and… come on, you know this.”

“What did he-” Lew began.

The phone went dead. Lew hung up and the phone rang instantly. Franco picked it up and said, “Franco… right, right, I got it. Hold on. He covered the mouthpiece with his palm and turned to me. “Job. Parking lot downtown on Washington. You want me to get someone else to take it?”

“No,” Lew said.

Franco nodded and pulled onto the street.

Lew read the sheet Rebecca Strum had printed out.

Posnitki, Andrej (Posno)

Murderer. Assassin. Thief. Born in Kaunus, Lithuania, 1949. Accused of murdering a Russian Orthodox priest in 1969. Fled to Budapest. Fled Hungary in 1976 to avoid arrest and almost certain imprisonment following the murder of five anti-Communist dissidents at a cafe.

Posno came to the United States illegally, moved from city to city, changed his name frequently. He made his services available to a Russian criminal organization.

Andrej Posnitki has never been arrested.

Andrej Posnitki has murdered more than thirty-five people.

One of those people he murdered in the Budapest slaughter was my father.

If you have any information or recognize the man below, please contact: Relentless, Box 7374, Boise, Idaho.

At the bottom of the page was a head and shoulders drawing in black of a heavyset man, head shaved, a nose that veered to one side from being broken, and a neat, short beard.

Lew held up the drawing for Franco, who looked at it and said, “Looks like the guy who always plays bikers on TV shows or that wrestler, what the hell’s his name, the Blast. No wait, looks a little like that Packer’s linebacker from a few years ago. Even looks a little like my brother Dom if Dom took off a few pounds, shaved his head and face. Dom even has a broken nose, but it goes the other way.”

Franco demonstrated by pushing his nose to one side.

“I don’t think Posno’s your brother.”

“I don’t either,” said Franco. “I’m just saying…”

Lew was spread too thin, too many people to see, too many strings to follow into the cave. He needed help.

As they drove, he picked up Franco’s phone, took out his notebook and found Milt Holiger’s phone number. In Lew’s life, he had been able to remember only three telephone numbers. Not his own, not his parents. He remembered Catherine’s phone number before they were married. He remembered his friend Lonnie Sweeney’s phone number, still did, though he hadn’t talked to Lonnie for at least fifteen years. Or was it more like twenty years? The phone number of the Texas Bar amp; Grille in Sarasota where Ames worked. That he remembered. Oh, yes, the number of his aunt Marie, the old number she hadn’t used in at least twenty years.

Numerically challenged, Lew kept a stained and frayed sheet of paper in his notebook. On the sheet were the phone numbers of people and memories he had fled in Chicago, and people who had squeezed or pushed through the door into his life in Sarasota.

Lew had tried many times over the years to memorize the multiplication tables. Never could. Still can’t. Ask him how much seven times nine is and he has no idea.

Milt answered his cell phone after three rings.

“Lew?” he said.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Caller ID. I’ve got the number you’re calling from and the name of your brother-in-law Franco.”

“How’s your time?” Lew asked.

“Moving inexorably forward,” Holiger said. “What can I do for you?”

“Roadwork.”

A blue Mini Cooper driven by a clown smoking a cigar passed by and waved. The clown was in whiteface with a bulbous purple nose. A sad look had been painted on his face. He held up his hand. So did Lew.

“If I can help, sure,” Milt said.

Lew told him about the Asian driver and the parking permit, and Santoro’s working for the bank.

“Take your pick.”

“Bank,” he said. “I can walk over there. I’ll give you a call. Not much more on Posno on my end. How about yours?”

“A little.”

“I’ll keep looking.”

Lew carefully folded the sheet of paper and tucked it into his notebook, reasonably sure neither he nor Pappas or his sons would find Posno. Lew remembered the sweet, proud smile on the face of Pappas’s mother, who had divided her time between the kitchen and murdering her husband. He imagined Posno, broad, bald, hulking, being thrown into the Pappas kitchen. John or one of the boys would lock the door and Posno would be alone with Pappas’s mother wearing an apron, smiling, holding an oven tin with a red pot holder in her left hand. The oven tin is filled with sweet honey treats. In her right hand, she holds a long, very sharp knife, which is ideal for both slicing phyllo dough and Posno’s throat. He is twice her size, but he doesn’t stand a chance in her kitchen.