Stuart Kaminsky - Retribution

“No,” I said, eating cold tofu.

“That’s it,” he said.

“Name of the real estate company she worked for?”

“Cornell and Bostik,” he said. “They’re still there. You want the address and phone number?”

I took them down on the lined pad on the desk.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Not right now.”

“Get me something more to work on. I’ve got long fingers and the Internet is waiting to invade everyone’s privacy.”

I hung up, pushed the remainder of my Thai food away, and dialed the number in Arcadia. A very young woman named Faith informed me that the company no longer belonged to Mr. Cornell and Mr. Bostik. Both were dead. A woman named Lorraine Kinch had bought the business at least ten years ago. According to the young woman, there were no records kept from Cornell and Bostik. Since the young woman couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty, she was not even born when Vera Lynn Uliaks seemed to have disappeared, and according to Faith, Ms. Kinch was busy with a client.

“It’s urgent,” I lied.

“Well,” Faith said after appropriate hesitation. “I’ll give you her cell phone number.”

She did. I thanked her, hung up, and called the cell phone. Lorraine Kinch picked up on the second ring and said, “Yes.”

“Ms. Kinch, my name is Lew Fonesca. I’m searching for a woman named Vera Lynn Uliaks who worked for Cornell and Bostik.”

“I don’t know any Vera Lynn Uliaks,” she said. “There was a young woman who worked in the office when I took it over. She quit. I don’t think she wanted to work for a woman.”

“And that was it? You never saw her again?”

“No, this is a small town, Mr…”

“Fonesca,” I said.

“I think I heard that she got married and… oh, I remember. She… I really can’t talk now. I’m showing a house to a client.”

“Can I call you back?”

“There’s nothing to call back about,” she said.

“But you remembered…”

That was as far as we got. She hung up. I called Arcadia information and got the number for the newspaper.

“Arcadia News,” a young woman said.

“Who is your oldest reporter?” I asked.

“Our oldest…”

“The one who’s been there the longest.”

“Mr. Thigpen, no, wait, Ethyl’s been here longer, I think.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know,” the girl said. ‘Twenty, thirty years, maybe more. She does social coverage.”

“May I talk to her?”

“I’ll connect you to her desk. She’s there right now.”

There was a click, a few seconds of Barry Manilow, and then a no-nonsense older woman’s voice.

“Bingham,” she said.

“My name’s Fonesca. I’m looking for a woman named Vera Lynn Uliaks. She’s the sister of a friend and he wants to find her.”

“Marvin,” she said.

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“Slow one.”

“Very slow. He lives in Sarasota now. About Vera Lynn…”

“She married Charles Dorsey,” she said. “I’d say 1975 but I’d have to check.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Needn’t be,” said Ethyl. “I’d like to string you along, tell you I have one of those photographic memories like those women on television, but it’s not in me. I was Vera Lynn’s bridesmaid. Not a big wedding, but I stood up and so did Charlie’s brother Clark.”

“You know where they went, Charlie and Vera Lynn?”

There was a long pause and then Ethyl Bingham said, “If you’re a reporter or something trying to dig up what happened to the Taylor girl, believe me you’re wasting your time. It was an accident. I knew Vera Lynn. She had a temper, yes, but under it… It was the rumors, the talk that drove them off, not some big job Charlie said he had waiting in Ohio. Charlie was doing just fine right here in Arcadia.”

“What did he do?”

“He was chief of police.”

“And something happened to a girl named Taylor?”

“You didn’t know,” she said.

“I told you. Marvin wants to find his sister. What was the Taylor girl’s first name?”

“Sarah, Sarah Taylor,” she said. “That’s all I’ve got to tell you.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died,” said Ethyl Bingham. “She died. I’m sorry. I don’t like ghosts in the morning.”

“I know how you feel,” I said. “But…”

“I’m sorry. That’s all I can or wish to say.”

She hung up.

I called Harvey and said, “Good Morning, Americans,” in my best Paul Harvey, which is far worse than Harvey’s. “Vera Lynn Uliaks married a Charles Dorsey in Arcadia in 1975. He was chief of police. A young woman named Sarah Taylor died in 1975 in Arcadia. There may be a connection.”

“If the Arcadia court system and police have a data bank or the newspaper, I’ll get back to you soon. Meanwhile, I’ll work on finding Charles Dorsey and Vera Lynn Dorsey.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Just keep mentioning it,” he said. “I live on health food, computers, and sincere compliments.”

I shaved with my electric razor and went outside where the sun was glowing orange and happy. I ignored it and with my toothbrush and paste moved down to the rest room shared by the tenants.

An old man, fully clothed, was sitting on the toilet. His head was back and he was snoring. I moved to the sink and brushed my teeth. The hot water wasn’t working. I washed cold.

Considering the state of the building, the indifference of the landlord, and the clients and the homeless, the rest room was reasonably clean thanks to Marvin Uliaks who swept and scrubbed once a week and then knocked on every door in the building holding his hand out and saying, “Bathroom’s clean.”

Some said “thanks.” Some didn’t answer. Most gave him a quarter or even half a dollar. I gave him what I could, usually a buck. It was worth it.

The homeless guy snoring in the toilet stall had a definite smell of baked and spoiling human. He woke up with a snort. There was a partition between us but I could hear him drop his pants, use the toilet, cough, pull up his pants, and stagger forward.

He turned to look at me.

“You’re the little Italian,” he said, pointing at me.

In spite of the heat he wore two sweaters and a three- or four-day growth of beard.

“I am,” I said, washing the remnants of soap from my face. The bruise on my face provided by Bubbles Dreemer was almost gone.

“I slept here,” the man said, reaching into his pocket for something he didn’t seem to be able to find.

“I guessed.”

“Usually sleep in a closet at one of the twenty-four-hour Walgreens,” he said. “Move from one to the other. Used to be a pharmacist. No, that’s not right. I am a pharmacist. I just don’t work as one. It’s been more than a while.”

“That a fact?” I asked, toweling off my face.

“True as the fact that the sun is out there waiting to bomb us to early ultraviolet death,” he said, searching his other pocket for whatever was missing. “Not good to spend too much time in the sun.”

“I’ll remember,” I said.

“You’re in the office about five doors down,” he said.

“I am.”

He failed to find what he was searching for in his second pocket.

“I’m a bit unsteady today,” he said. “Oh, I don’t drink. Never did. No drugs either. It’s my mind. Doesn’t function right. I lose days, weeks, get headaches, fall a lot, get to know the people over there in the emergency rooms at Doctor’s Hospital and Sarasota Memorial.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“It’s the way things are,” he said with a sigh. “Saw something last night might interest you.”

“What was that?” I said, heading for the door.

I had to come within inches of him. Decay.