Stuart Kaminsky - Retribution

Ames had a job at the Texas Bar and Grille, a room in back, and a motor scooter. He also had access to Ed Fairing’s considerable collection of old rifles and handguns that Ames kept in perfect working order.

Ames considered me his responsibility. He was probably also the closest thing I had to a friend.

“Ames, Adele is missing,” I said.

“Run off?”

Ames was with me all through the ordeal with Adele and her parents. Ames had gotten along particularly well with Adele’s mother Beryl. When Beryl died, Ames rode shotgun at my side, literally, when we got Adele back from her life on the North Trail. When Ames looked at Adele with disapproval, Adele’s inventive foul language disappeared. There was something about the old man that made people want to earn his respect.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You know the Burger King on 301, near the Ringling School?”

“Know it,” he said.

“Kid works there named Mickey. Don’t know his last name. Must be about twenty. See if you can track him down, find out where he lives. Adele might be with him.”

“If I find her?” he asked.

“Leave a message on my machine,” I said. “You ever hear of a writer named Conrad Lonsberg?”

“I have.”

“He lives out on Casey Key. He might know something about Adele. I’m waiting for him.”

“Want help?”

Which meant, do you want me to come down there with a shotgun, break down the door, and threaten the noted man of letters.

“Not yet,” I said. “You read any of his books?”

“Liked Plugged Nickels” said Ames. “Didn’t read the poetry. The first one, Fool’s… something.”

“ Fool’s Lover,” I said.

“Fool’s Love,” he said. “Couldn’t get through it. Too much feeling sorry for everybody.”

“It’s considered a classic,” I said.

“Not by me,” Ames said.

“Can’t say I’m looking forward to finishing it,” I said.

“Put it away. Try Plugged Nickels if you have to read him. I’ll call you.”

I hung up, got back into the Cutlass, and drove over the bridge. It was almost dark when I parked across from Lonsberg’s gate. Across the Gulf of Mexico I could see the sun balanced big and yellow-red on the horizon line. A white heron flew in from the water and landed about a dozen feet from the car. It strutted, long-necked, gracefully, and then stood as still as a pink lawn flamingo. I was watching the sun beaming off the heron till the bird decided to look at me and fly back out over the water. I watched the sunset. A few seconds after it was down I heard the gate open.

It was on some kind of automatic device like a garage door. A battered blue Ford pickup rumbled out and the gates closed behind it. I had my lights off though it was dark enough to use them. I followed whoever was in the Ford down the road, off the Key, and over the bridge toward the mainland.

I stayed far enough behind that I hoped he wouldn’t see me but close enough that I wouldn’t lose him. He wasn’t going fast. Since the windows of the pickup were tinted, I couldn’t see who was driving but at least it was a human from the Lonsberg enclave. It was a start.

The pickup went north and turned into the mall just before Sarasota Square and parked near the Publix. I parked in the next aisle.

A lean, average-sized man with white hair, gray chinos, and a black short-sleeved polo shirt got out. The shirt wasn’t tucked in. I knew Lonsberg was about seventy. This man walked like a man twenty years younger and in a hurry. I followed. He got a cart at Publix. So did I. I followed him around and got a few decent looks. The face was sun-darkened, lined, good teeth that looked real, a serious look. He selected grits, eggs, cheese, a wide variety of vegetables, meat, chicken, fresh grouper, and a big jar of Vita herring in sour cream. He added six gallons of bottled water and six half gallons of Diet Dr Pepper before deciding he had all he needed or wanted. His eyes met no one’s and no one seemed to take note of him.

I got behind him in line with my four cans of albacore tuna.

While he emptied his cart, he looked back at me for an instant and in that instant he knew I recognized him. He turned his eyes back to his unpacking, his back to me.

While the clerk was putting his groceries in plastic bags, I paid for my tuna and followed him out to his pickup.

“Conrad Lonsberg,” I said.

He said nothing, just piled his bags in the back of his pickup truck.

“Adele Hanford,” I said as he opened the door of his pickup and started to get in. He stopped, turned his head, and looked at me. He knew how to stare someone down. He had obviously had a lot of experience. We were a good match. I had a lifetime of patience and since he didn’t close the door and drive away I was sure this contact was not over.

“You’re Fonesca. Adele’s description was nearly perfect,” Lonsberg said, one hand on the trailer railing. “I thought she was engaging in a little creative hyperbole. Where is she?” he asked, his voice now low. I thought he was trying to keep himself in control, battling something. Rage, disappointment?

“That was my question,” I said. “I’m looking for her.”

“Why?”

“It looks like she ran away from her foster home,” I said. “Her foster mother is a friend. Adele is… I’m sort of responsible for her.”

“Flo Zink,” said Lonsberg, now tapping his left hand on the truck’s door. He kept looking at me and then made a decision. “Adele says you’re a private investigator.”

“I’m a process server.”

“What do you do not for a living?” he asked.

“Brood, watch old movies, think too much about the past,” I said.

He nodded in understanding. A fat woman with a full shopping cart wheeled noisily past us giving us both a glance. Lonsberg pressed his lips together, thought, looked away and then back at me.

“Follow me,” Lonsberg said, getting into his pickup and closing the door.

I got into the Cutlass and followed him out of the parking lot and down the Trail. Seven minutes later I pulled behind him at his gate. He leaned out of his open window and waved for me to get out of my car. I did. The passenger side door of his pickup opened. I got in next to him. He looked at me, pushed a button on the dashboard, and watched as the gate swung open. We drove in. He pushed the button again and the gate closed behind us.

I don’t know what I expected to see, probably one of the three-story ultra-modern white concrete designer houses with wide windows, decks, and normative palm trees.

We drove toward the only house on the three- or fouracre property, a reasonably modest one-story wooden building with a covered porch hovering over a trio of white wicker chairs and a wicker table. The house wasn’t small, but it wouldn’t go for more than one hundred eighty-five thousand in the current market in any other location. The grounds were green, the road we went down unpaved and narrow. To our left, however, was the Gulf of Mexico. The view and the expanse of beachfront would put the property in the two-million-dollar range. Along Lonsberg’s beach, birds strolled and waves rolled in. There were four plastic beach chairs not far from the shoreline facing the water. A sand pile about three feet high was in the process of giving itself up to the tide.

Lonsberg parked in front of the house and got out.

“Don’t worry about Jefferson,” he said as I got out too.

“Jefferson?”

At that moment I learned who Jefferson was. A gigantic dog of a dozen breeds looking like a hairy version of the Baskerville hound bounded around the house heading toward us. No, amend that. He was heading for me and barking. Jefferson knew how to bark.

“No,” Lonsberg commanded gently.