Stuart Kaminsky - Retribution

“Why didn’t you just have some of them published while you’re alive?”

He looked at me intently.

“I write because I must,” he said. “I don’t want to be misunderstood by a world that will laud, speculate, read my stories and contort them into their stories, turn my work into movies or television miniseries. It happens to them all. If it can happen to Tolstoy, Melville, Dickens who are perfectly clear, it can and will happen to a minor quirk in the history of literature named Lonsberg. Let it happen when I’m dead. I write them to stay sane, to trap my demons on paper. I’ve got some money that still comes in from my books, but I’m not rich. And every year the fewer and fewer things written about my work have grown more obtuse and stupid. People should read novels and short stories instead of reading books about novels and short stories.”

Jefferson was sniffing at the shelves. Lonsberg and I watched. And then Lonsberg spoke again.

“You know Adele,” he said. “You’re a process server. You know how to find people and you know how to keep quiet. Find her. Return my manuscripts. I’ll give you five thousand dollars if you get my work back. Quietly.”

“And Adele…?” I asked.

“No questions,” he said. “I get my manuscripts back and press no charges.”

“I’ve got questions,” I said.

He nodded.

“Why would she do this?” I said, looking around at the empty shelves in the vault.

“I don’t know,” he said.

I had a feeling he did, but there are right and wrong times and ways to deal with lies. It takes a feel for the person who is lying to me. I can call someone a liar, which results in grief, almost always mine. Or I can wait till I find the truth myself or the right time to ask the question again. I usually wait.

“Holding them for ransom?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“Why?”

Lonsberg moved to the wooden box, took it down, and brought it to me.

“Open it,” he said.

I took the box and opened it. It was filled with cash. Fifties, twenties, hundreds, tens, fives.

“Forty-six thousand four hundred in that box. Adele knew it was there. There are other places in the house with a lot more money. I don’t use banks. Adele knew where it all was. There’s not a dollar missing.”

He looked at me and took the box back.

“Makes no sense, does it?” he said.

“So she took them to hurt you,” I pushed, knowing I could push only a little further, but I decided the moment was right. He looked just a bit bewildered by the emptiness of the vault. “Did you and Adele ever?”

“Sex?” he asked. “No. Would I have liked to? Yes, I’m old but I’m not dead. I also know what statutory rape is. I never touched her, never even kissed her. I have a grandson older than Adele. I turn seventy in two weeks. Letting my ancient libido go at the risk of losing Adele’s talent would have been stupid. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“You’re not stupid. Then…?” I asked.

“You’ll have to ask her,” he said. “Well?”

“One short story,” I said.

“What?”

“If I find her,” I said, “and you get your manuscripts back, you give me one short story, any one.”

“No. I’ll give you the five thousand dollars,” he said.

“One short story,” I answered. “Full rights.”

Lonsberg looked at me. So did Jefferson.

“I can’t do that,” he said.

“You keep any copies of those stolen manuscripts?” I asked

“You know I didn’t.”

“Adele, or whoever took them, could be taking your name off now and sending them out under their name to agents, publishers, Internet sites.”

“They’d be worth nothing,” he said. “Or at least not very much. Their value has nothing to do with whatever quality they may have. Their value lies in the fact that they were written by Conrad Lonsberg. Find me some scribbles and stick figures, junk by Picasso on a sheet of paper, and I’ll get you half a million dollars as long as it’s signed and authenticated. No, it’s more likely they could all be getting shredded or thrown into a bonfire right now,” he said.

He shook his head.

“Okay, someone doesn’t like you, Lonsberg,” I said.

“And her name is Adele. Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “I’ll pay you ten thousand to get them back.”

“What does money mean to you?” I asked.

“Food, shelter, paper, postage, a few clothes, security for my family,” he said.

“What does your writing mean to you?”

“I get your point. You want me to give up something important to me,” he said.

“Something that means something to you. Adele means something to me. Not money.”

“You’re a remarkable man, Fonesca,” he said, smiling again. “You may also be a stupid one or you’ve read too many romantic novels.”

“Movies,” I said. “I got it from movies.”

He looked at me for a long time and came to a decision. “And from life. All right. You can have the rights to a story if you get all my manuscripts back.”

“Plus one thousand dollars for expenses, in advance.”

“I pick the story,” he said. “Adele said you’re a good man. She thought I was a good man. She was wrong about me. Her judgment does not match her talent.”

“One of her problems,” I said. “We have a deal?”

“We do,” said Lonsberg.

“Tell me again, how many people know about your vault and the manuscripts?”

“My son, daughter, Adele, me, and you,” he said. “I bought the place because it was isolated and because it had the vault. The last owner was a drug dealer. He had to leave the country quickly.”

“Your son or daughter may have told someone about your manuscripts,” I said. “Maybe Adele mentioned it.”

“Fonesca,” he said evenly. “Whoever took them knew when I was going to be out. Whoever took them got past Jefferson who wouldn’t let a stranger in. Both of my children know they get the manuscripts when I die. And they are quite aware that no one can sell or publish those stories, certainly not with my name on them, while I’m alive. My will is clear.”

“Did your son and daughter meet Adele?”

“Yes.”

“They get along?”

“With Adele or each other?” he asked.

“Both.”

“I think they liked Adele,” he said and then paused. “As for each other, it’s on and off. And in anticipation of your next question, I think my children respect me. I think they don’t like me. I’m not a tender man, Fonesca.”

“I’ve noticed. I’ll need their addresses and phone numbers,” I said, turning and walking out of the vault. “Anyone else Adele might have met through you?”

“There is nobody else,” he said, moving into the kitchen with the box of money in his arms. Jefferson ambling behind us. “Wait.”

He put down the box, pulled a small, battered black notebook out of his back pocket and a click pen from a front pocket, tore out a page, and quickly wrote the names and addresses of his two children. Then he opened the wooden box and counted out a thousand dollars in bills of various denominations.

“I’ll be in touch,” I said, taking the cash and the small sheet and heading toward the front of the house. “You want a receipt?”

“You get nothing with my name signed and I want nothing with yours,” he said behind me. “I have one last question.”

“Go on,” I said.

“Who slapped you?” he said, looking at my cheek. “And don’t tell me you fell. I know what a slap looks like. I’ve had them. Good ones. Solid ones. Usually I deserved them.”

“I served papers on a woman named Bubbles Dreemer this morning,” I said. “She took exception.”

“Great name, Bubbles Dreemer,” he said.