Stuart Kaminsky - Retribution

“Right now,” he said. “You want to hear my side of this or are you just going to sit there?”

“Your side,” I said.

He let out a deep sigh and stopped pacing to lean on the bat and look at me and Ames. Then he looked at Ames again and said, “You two are the best they could get. An old man and a little guy.”

“Your side of the story,” I repeated.

“Okay, it started when I moved in,” he said. “I had my land surveyed. The neighbors on both sides were on my land. A few inches on one side. Almost a foot on the other. Hot tub right over the line on one side. Tangelo trees on the other.”

I looked at Ames who folded his arms and waited to see where this was going.

“Okay, I thought. Live and let live, but no tangelo tree dropping fruit on my property and no lard ass dipping almost naked in her hot tub and spying on me. Are you following this?”

“Yes,” I lied. “Go on.”

“Okay, then came the mailbox,” he said. “Deed restricted community. My mailbox didn’t meet their rules. They turned me in. I was given a written order to move my mailbox back and get it repaired. But that’s not what you want to hear.”

“No,” I agreed.

“You want to know about her,” he said, tapping the bat on the floor. He reminded me a little of Fred Astaire tapping a black cane before he went into a dance.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, I got the dog,” he said. “No restrictions on dogs. Only have to clean up after them, keep them leashed if you walk them. I got a dog. I got a pit bull. Staked him in the yard so he could reach the property line. He could go right up to that fucking hot tub. So she started the calls. Got a lawyer. Said the dog smelled up the neighborhood even though I cleaned up after him. They are out to get me and you have to stop them. I can get a lawyer too.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ames asked.

“The bitch next door,” Merrymen repeated. “I called to get her to shut up and that’s why the fuck you’re here for Chrissake.”

“You’re Michael Merrymen?” I asked.

“Yeah, funny,” he said. “My son and me are the Merrymen of Sherwood Forest.”

“Your son?” Tasked. “He’s Mickey?”

“Michael Junior,” he said. “Works for me at the Burger King. I’m the manager. What the hell are you talking about? Did they make an Internet search for the two dumbest deputies in the county and come up with you?”

Ames looked at me. He had a low boiling point but he didn’t show it. He looked calm. He always looked calm even when he was gun to gun with someone who might want to end his life. This time the someone had a baseball bat, but Ames didn’t care. Loyalty and dignity were important to him above all things and I had the feeling though he was giving away about thirty years and a baseball bat, Michael Merrymen might be in trouble.

“We’re not deputies,” I said, pleading with my eyes for Ames to stay put. “We’re looking for your son.”

“My son? What the hell for? And who are you?”

“Your son is friendly with a girl named Adele Hanford,” I said. “She’s missing. Her foster parent doesn’t want to call the police so she asked us to find her.”

Merrymen laughed and shook his head.

“Mickey is among the missing,” he said. “We don’t get along that well. He goes for days at a time. Usually to his idiot grandfather.”

“Your father?” I asked.

“My dead wife’s father,” he said. “I don’t know who else he sees or what he does.”

“Your father-in-law’s name?” I asked.

“Corsello, Bernard. Why?”

“You’ve never met Adele?” I asked in return.

“No, and I don’t give a shit about her or what Mickey is doing with her,” he said.

“You’d best watch your mouth,” Ames said evenly.

“I’d best… this is my fucking house,” Merrymen answered, pointing the bat at Ames.

The fat end of the bat was inches from Ames’s chest. Merrymen’s chin jutted out.

“If you’ll just let us look at your son’s room, we’ll go quietly,” I said.

“No,” he said, smiling at Ames who didn’t smile back.

I got up to leave. Merrymen walked across the room to a door off the kitchen. He opened the door and the dog came running in. He was big for a pit bull though not as big as Jefferson, but this was a pit bull and Jefferson was just a dog.

The pit bull looked at Merrymen and Merrymen made the mistake of pointing the bat at Ames again. The dog knew what he was supposed to do, but so did Ames and Ames was smarter than the dog. He yanked the bat from Merrymen’s hand and as the dog leaped toward him, Ames flipped the bat and took a full swing at the animal that was in the air flying toward his throat.

Ames connected. A line drive. The dog flew across the room, hit the wall with a yelp, and turned to attack again. Only now there was something distinctly wrong with his right front leg. He growled and limped forward. Ames readied the bat and then swung it once four feet in front of the dog who squealed, turned, and headed back for the door from which he had come.

Ames walked slowly over to the door and closed it.

“You son of a bitch,” Merrymen said, reaching for the bat.

Ames held out his arm warning the hysterical man to stay back.

“You break in…”

“You invited us in,” I reminded him.

“You attacked my dog. In my house. You bastards. She sent you, didn’t she?”

Merrymen pointed toward the kitchen again.

“We’re looking for your son,” I reminded him. “We’re looking for a girl named Adele.”

“You’re looking for jail time,” he said. “I’m calling the police. What are your names?”

“Hal Jeffcoat and Glenn Beckert,” I answered. “Now we’re leaving.”

I moved toward the front door. Ames backed away with me and dropped the bat on the tile floor. Merrymen took a step toward his fallen club.

“Best not,” Ames said.

“Go, go report to the bitch that you almost killed my dog,” Merrymen shouted. “I can get another dog. Two of them.”

“Just be sure you clean up their manure and yours,” said Ames.

We went through the door. Ames pushed it closed behind us.

“He might have a gun,” I said.

“Might,” Ames agreed.

We hurried to the Cutlass and got in. Merrymen’s door didn’t open. I made a circle in the cul-de-sac and headed away from the far side.

“You know how to swing a bat,” I said.

“Played some,” Ames said calmly.

“In high school?”

“Farm team. Pittsburgh Pirates. Didn’t have the temper or talent for it,” he said. “Long time ago.”

I checked my watch. I still had an hour and a half before I met Sally and her kids for dinner.

“You’ve got some time?” I asked.

“Whatever the Lord if there is one is willing to give,” he said.

I pulled over to the Walgreen drugstore at Tuttle and Fruitville. Walgreens drugstores seem to be about half a mile apart throughout Sarasota. The phone book was reasonably intact and I found a Bernard Corsello on North Orange. We drove, said nothing. I turned on the radio. A talk-show host I didn’t recognize was on WFLA talking about serial killers. The NPR station had the market report. I switched back to AM and found WGUL, the oldies station.

A woman was singing, “Let me free.”

“’Let Me Go, Lover,’” Ames said. “First song written for a television drama. Don’t know her name.”

The woman on the radio was just singing, “If you’ll just let me go” when we pulled in front of a one-story house just north of Sixth. The neighborhood was a couple of notches below middle class. The houses were small, in reasonable shape with neat green yards.

A half-moon and bright stars. A nice evening. On the cool side. Some kids on bicycles, two black, one white, the kids purposely came close to hitting us and zipped away jabbering to each other.