Stuart Kaminsky - Denial

Ames stood in the doorway, shotgun in hand.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You do some fool things,” he said, his eyes and his gun leveled at Alberta.

She was holding her injured shoulder now. She was also crying.

“I’m not a monster,” she sobbed.

Four hours later I knocked at Flo’s door. She took a long time answering. When she did, she had the baby in her arms and the voice of Johnny Cash behind her telling me he kept his eyes wide open all the time and walked the line.

I could have used Cash’s advice when I got up that morning.

“She’s sleeping,” Flo whispered. “Loves the man in black.”

I stepped in and she closed the door.

“Adele?”

“In school. You look like a soaked coyote that’s just dragged itself out of the Rio Grande.”

Flo’s knowledge of coyotes and the Rio Grande were acquired from movies, television and country music. She was a product of New York City, but a longtime citizen of popular country-and-western land.

“Ames is in jail,” I said.

“What the hell did he do now?” she said, moving to the sofa in the living room.

I sat in the straight-backed armchair across from her.

“Want to hold her?” she asked, offering the baby.

“No,” I said. “No thanks.”

Looking at Catherine was all I could handle. I wanted no responsibility. I hadn’t been doing very well with responsibility lately, particularly this day.

“He blew an office door open with a shotgun,” I said.

“What the hell for?”

“To save my life,” I said. “The gun is legal, owned by Ed at the Texas, but Ames has a record. He’s not supposed to carry a gun.”

“He saved your life?” Flo asked as Johnny Cash rasped out that he kept a close watch on his heart.

“Long story,” I said.

“I like long stories,” she said. “Just keep it interesting.”

I told her what had happened, kept it as short as I could and then said, “When the police came to Alberta Pastor’s office, she was crying. Very convincing. She insisted that the police arrest Ames and me. I told them that Alberta was a murderer. There were two of them, both too young to remember when Reagan was president. They took all three of us in. I asked for Ed Viviase. Alberta Pastor asked for her lawyer. I asked for Tycinker.”

“Sounds like a goddamn mess,” said Flo.

The baby stirred as the song ended. Flo rocked her gently. Johnny walked into a ring of fire and Catherine was still again.

“Alberta said Ames and I were trying to blackmail her about a story we made up about killing her mother-in-law. When she refused to give in to us, we threatened her.”

“What about the missing mother-in-law?” asked Flo.

“She said her mother-in-law checked herself out of the Seaside and insisted on being driven to the Tampa airport, where she said she was getting as far away from Sarasota as she could, that she was going to stay with friends. Alberta says her mother-in-law didn’t say where she was going.”

“But she lied to you about her mother being her mother-in-law,” said Flo.

“She says she never said it, that I was making it up on the spot.”

“What about the nurse, Emmie Jefferson?” asked Flo, leaning forward.

“They talked to her, showed her a picture of Vivian Pastor. She said it wasn’t the woman she had seen in Alberta’s car the night of the murder, but Alberta Pastor had never said Gigi was her mother-in-law.”

“What’s Alberta Pastor say now?”

“She insists that the police conduct a nationwide search for her mother-in-law to prove her story. I told Viviase that Alberta had fed her mother-in-law in pieces to the gators in Myakka Lake.”

“How many gators in the lake?” asked Flo. “A few thousand?”

“Right, the police would just have to cut open a few thousand gators looking for body parts,” I said.

“You went in ass first and she almost tore it off,” said Flo, smoothing down the baby’s fine yellow hair.

“I underestimated her,” I said.

“Where is she now?”

“Probably at her lawyer’s office filing a civil suit against me and Ames.”

“They let you go?”

“Viviase believed me,” I said. “Told me I should have come to him with what I had instead of going to Alberta’s office.”

“He was right, Lewis.”

“He was right.”

“What’s the word? Hubris. That’s it, right?” she asked.

“Walked into a ring of fire,” I said. “Brought Ames with me. We got burned.”

“And you want me to buy you asbestos suits or did you just feel the need to tell your tale to someone who’d listen to you and pat you on the cheek and say, ‘Poor boy’?”

“I’ll settle for you coming up with Ames’s bail.”

“Good,” she said, standing up. “I’ll get Catherine dressed and we’ll go down and get the Lone Ranger out of the jail. One condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Stop feeling sorry. for yourself and nail the bitch. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said.

When we got to the lockup on Ringling Boulevard, Viviase met us and ran the maze to get Ames out. He also told me that there was a restraining order against Ames and me. We couldn’t get within sight of Alberta Pastor.

Ames needed a shave. Catherine was awake and made it clear she wanted to be fed. I wanted someone to tell me to pack up and get out of town.

“Fonesca,” Viviase said, his face pink, his red tie loose. “You are in serious need of a shrink.”

“I’ve got one,” I said.

“Double your sessions,” he said. “You were an investigator for the Cook County states attorney. You had to know what could happen when you went into Pastor’s office. What’d you think? She’d just break down, confess, say she was sorry, take a plea with the district attorney?”

He was right.

“She killed her husband’s mother,” said Ames.

“And she’s going to pay for it, right?” said Viviase with a sigh. “You have any idea of how many murderers are driving around the city drinking coffee at Starbucks, deciding if their next car is going to be a Lexus or a… the hell with it. You two.”

He pointed at Ames and me.

“You two come with me and you, Mrs. Zink, the baby’s hungry,” Viviase said.

“I’ll get her home,” Flo said.

“You do that,” he said.

“I’ll call you later, Flo,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Let’s go,” Viviase said when Flo went through the door.

“Where?”

“To talk to a witness who might be able to save your very pathetic carcass,” he said, leading the way through a thick steel door. “But don’t count on it.”

“Who?” asked Ames.

“Georgia Cubbins,” he said.

We turned a corner, walked down a narrow corridor of polished white concrete. Viviase stopped at a door, reached for it.

“McKinney, you wait here,” he said.

“Who’s Georgia Cubbins?” I asked.

“Alberta Pastor’s mother,” he said. “Gigi.”

“But she-” I started as he opened the door.

“I told you not to count on it,” he said.

We were in a small dark room without furniture. In front of us was a glass partition, a two-way mirror. Beyond the window seated at a table was the old woman I had last seen at the Pastor house concentrating on newspaper ads and coupons in a state that could be called out-of-it. A very thin young woman in her early thirties wearing a white blouse and dark skirt sat across from Gigi Cubbins, who was drinking from a white porcelain mug. She held the mug in both hands and nodded, smiling at something the young woman, who had a pad of yellow, lined legal paper in front of her and a pen in her hand, said.