Stuart Kaminsky - Midnight Pass

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” he said.

“But…” I began as he lifted his glass again and held up his free hand to stop me.

“I’m drunk,” he said. “I’m not a fool. Ask me now. Ask me in the morning. Ask me on the witness stand and I say I’m treating William Trasker properly. And given his condition, it would be the truth.”

“Kevin Hoffmann’s got a lot of money,” I said.

“One hell of a lot of money,” Obermeyer agreed, holding his glass and looking at the contents he swirled in a small circle. “And he gives it generously.”

“Any causes you’re particularly interested in?”

“A campaign to build a center for state-of-the-art treatment of heart disease near the airport,” he said. “A state-of-the-art center which I will have the honor of heading and for which I am already a leading candidate as first patient.”

I dropped a five-dollar bill on the table to cover my two drinks and tip and stood up.

“You understand?” Obermeyer asked, as if he really needed understanding for whatever he was doing for Hoffmann.

“I understand,” I said.

“I’ll tell you a secret, Mr…”

“Fonesca.”

“Mr. Fonesca. I’m really a good doctor, but that’s not what I was going to tell you. I’m a little overweight. I drink too much, have a slight cardiac problem, and I’ve got an arthritic knee but I could come close to shutting Kevin Hoffmann out every time we get on the court. He has no backhand. His forehand has no power and my nearsighted eight-year-old niece could return his serve. I have to cover for him in doubles to keep us in most matches and I have to do it without letting him know. Now that, Mr. Fonseca-”

“Fonesca.”

“Fonesca, sorry, that is hard work. Kevin Hoffmann is not the athlete he thinks he is and maybe, some day, when I think I have nothing left to lose, I’ll wipe his ass on the tennis court so badly that he’ll realize I’ve been kissing that ass for years and he…Enough.”

I left him and went back out to the parking lot.

Stanley, hands folded in front of him, stood in front of my rented Nissan, watching me.

“You read?” Stanley asked as I stopped in front of him.

There was traffic in the parking lot and the lights were bright.

“I’m basically literate,” I said. “But I prefer old movies.”

“Never could get into movies,” Stanley said, adjusting his glasses. “Books? You can lose yourself in a poem, in a book, go to another space, time, world, a place better or worse than the one we’re in, but definitely far from it.”

“Kevin Hoffmann a reader?”

“A patron of the arts,” Stanley said. “Theater, opera, symphony, ballet.”

“And baseball.”

“And baseball,” Stanley agreed. “Dr. Obermeyer drinks a little.”

“Dr. Obermeyer drinks a lot,” I said.

“And when he drinks he talks.”

“He talks,” I agreed.

“Mr. Hoffmann would prefer that you not talk to Dr. Obermeyer.”

“I can appreciate that.”

“Mr. Hoffmann will be upset if you talk to Dr. Obermeyer again.”

“Upset?”

“‘Who wills to know what weal awaits him, must first learn the ill that God for him hath wrought.’ Benvenuto Cellini wrote that in his autobiography.”

“And it means?”

“Simply put,” Stanley said, “if you talk to the doctor again, you’ll discover something bad waiting for you.”

There really wasn’t much more to say.

Stanley walked toward the bar. I had the feeling Dr. Obermeyer was about to have a new drinking partner. I wondered what Stanley’s drink of choice might be. I guessed Diet Sprite.

It was Thursday night, a little before nine. The rain had started again. It wasn’t much of a rain but it was enough to hide the moon and stars and give me a feeling of protective isolation from people.

Traffic going north on Tamiami Trail was light, but there was the usual cast of coastal Florida characters on the road. I passed the infirmed and ancient, weak of sight, hearing, and judgment, hunching forward to squint into the darkness, driving twenty miles under the speed limit, trying not to admit to themselves that they were afraid of driving. These senior drivers were a potential menace, but I understood their loneliness, their unwillingness to give up driving and lose even more of their contact with the world.

Then there were the grinning kids in late-model cars or pickup trucks. They took chances, cut people off, and were unaware that death was a reality. You might challenge death fifty, a hundred, two hundred times, but the one time you lost, the game was over. They didn’t consider losing. The game was everything.

There were families on their way back from somewhere or someone, one or two children sleeping in the backseat, mother and father in the front listening to the radio, just wanting to make it home and to bed for a few hours.

And then there was me.

I stopped at the video store a block from the DQ. They specialized in Spanish-language movies, but had a good collection of American movies from the Thirties, Forties, and Fifties, most of them second-generation copies.

Eduardo, overweight, sagging eyes, too-small button-down shirt, sat behind the counter at the back of the small store. He nodded when I walked in. Eduardo had been an almost promising middleweight in the late Seventies. Time had been no more kind to him than it had to me.

I didn’t think I would find what I was looking for, but I did. I almost missed it. It was one I hadn’t seen before called Forbidden Destiny. I recognized the title, knew who was in it. I found it in the bin of overused tapes for sale in a plain white box with the title printed in ink on the spine. I gave Eduardo three dollars.

“Rain,” Eduardo said, looking out the window. “Bad for business. I think I’ll just close up early and get a beer at the Crisp Dollar Bill. You want to come?”

“Tired,” I said. “Busy day.”

Eduardo understood tired. I don’t think he knew much about busy days. He nodded.

When I got to my office just before ten, I found a message on the machine from Sally. “Lew, call when you get this if it’s before ten.”

I called.

“Hello,” said Susan, Sally’s daughter. Susan was eleven and was convinced that every time the phone rang it was for her.

“It’s me, Lew,” I said.

“I’ll get her,” Susan said, and put down the phone.

I could hear the television playing. The voice sounded like George Clooney in serious mode.

“It’s Mr. Sunshine, Mom,” Susan called.

“Dork,” said Michael, who was going to be fifteen some time soon. “He can probably hear you.”

“Lew?”

“Mr. Sunshine himself,” I said.

“I have to talk to you about the Severtsons. I need to fill out a report and I want to quote you in it.”

“Ken Severtson wants custody of the kids,” I guessed. “And he wants a divorce.”

“Neither,” she said. “I talked to them a few hours ago. They’re going to stay together.”

“For the kids,” I said.

“It’s always for the kids,” she said. “Even when it’s the worst thing that can happen to the kids. Well, almost the worst thing.”

The light in my office came from a line of fluorescent overheads, two of which were out, one of which was flickering and pinging. I could see the painting, the Dalstrom painting of the black forest and the single colorful flower.

“You think the kids should be taken away from the Severtsons?” I asked.

“It doesn’t much matter what I think. There’s not a judge in the state who would take kids away from parents who aren’t criminal offenders, don’t take drugs, and don’t beat the kids. But a detective in Orlando faxed a report to the sheriff’s office here, and the sheriff’s office sent me a copy.”