Stuart Kaminsky - Retribution

“You know what happened?” I asked after taking a drink of the coffee. The coffee tasted like raspberries.

“The girl, Adele, took my father’s manuscripts,” she said. “He wants no publicity so he hired a private detective to find her, one, I understand, who actually knows the girl.”

“I’m not a private detective,” I said. “I do know Adele. How well did you get to know her?”

Laura Lonsberg Guffey picked up a glass owl from the small table in front of her and looked at it as if it would give her an answer.

“Not well,” she said. “I bring the girls over every week or two when the great man feels a need to see them. My husband doesn’t go. Sometimes Adele was there. Sometimes we talked. She’s bright, has a lot of energy, and has been through a lot.”

“She told you about…?”

“Yes,” said Laura, rolling the crystal owl from hand to hand. “I read some of the things she was writing. I think my father’s right. She’s talented.”

I said nothing.

“Was I jealous?” she asked. “Not really. I can’t write. I’m not interested. My major interest in writing is those manuscripts and the future of my daughters. My father made it clear when I finished college and married Danny that I was on my own. I accepted that. I think he was right.”

“And your brother?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re asking, but, yes, he was on his own after he got his B.A. He’s a C.P.A. in Sarasota.”

“But he lives in Venice?” I asked.

“He prefers it here and doesn’t mind the drive,” she said, putting down the ball. “You can discuss that with him. As to the rest of your ambiguous question, no, my brother was not happy to be sent into the world with a few dollars and a college degree.”

“Your father and brother get along?”

“I’d say so, but I wouldn’t call them buddies. Brad has one son, Conrad Junior. Conrad Senior is fond of him. Brad’s wife died when Connie was a little boy. Brad’s wife and the great man did not get along. She fought the few times they met so they stayed away from each other. Conrad Lonsberg, when his daughter-in-law died, condescended to attend the funeral but drove away when he saw reporters hovering at the funeral home for a glimpse of the famous literary recluse. In any case, the manuscripts, as I said, were they to exist would go to my girls and my nephew.”

Silence and then she added, “So, you see there would be no point in Brad or me wanting to take the manuscripts if that’s what you’re thinking. There’s nothing we can do with them. All we can do is sit and wait till he dies. Even Conrad Lonsberg has to die sometime.”

“You don’t love him?” I asked.

“The great man? He treated my mother reasonably well, but if you’re a girl looking for warm, fuzzy, and protection after her mother dies, Conrad is not the one to go to. Now for your next question. Was I worried about Conrad changing his will and putting Adele on it? The answer is ‘no.’ That’s not the way my father thinks. Read his books or his poems. He thinks people have to learn to take care of themselves. His grandchildren seem to be an exception.”

“Any idea why Adele might want to take your father’s manuscripts?”

“Adele’s a sharp kid, more than a kid, but Conrad knows how to hurt,” she said, putting the owl gently back on the table. “He wouldn’t touch her body, but he could play some painful games with her mind if he wanted to. He knows how to hurt.”

“Not one of your favorite people on the planet?”

“No,” she said simply. “Anything else?”

“Mickey Merrymen,” I said.

“Who?”

It sounded like an honest “who” to me, but I went on.

“Friend of Adele’s.”

“No. The only other person I ever saw her with was an old woman who drove her to Conrad’s a few times. I didn’t get her name, but she drove a big car and wore too much makeup. That it?”

“All I can think of,” I said. “Ames?”

“Conrad, the great man,” Ames said. “You don’t call him father or dad.”

“I don’t think of him that way,” she said. “Father is a word you earn by being one.”

“You think much of his writing?” Ames asked.

“He is a great man,” she answered with a shake of her head. “I really believe that even when I say it with a touch of sarcasm. A great writer.”

She gave us the address of her brother’s business office in Sarasota and we left. Back in the car, I asked Ames what he thought.

“One good real hug from her father would take away most of the bitterness,” he said.

“That simple?”

“In this case, I think maybe so.”

The conversation ended and we drove back to Sarasota.

It was late in the afternoon when we got back. We stopped at the Texas Bar and Grille for a quick bowl of chili. I called Brad Lonsberg’s office and asked if I could come over for a while.

“Sure,” he said. “I’m working on something now. Give me half an hour.”

The early-afternoon crowd was straggling into the Texas, some wearily glancing up at the television set where the news was on with no sound, some talking business or baseball. Some not talking.

The phone rang while we were finishing our chili. I noticed but didn’t pay any attention until Ed called over, “Lew, it’s for you.”

I left Ames working on his chili, moved to the bar, and picked up the phone.

“Fonesca,” I said.

“Adele,” she answered.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked.

“You weren’t at your office. I’ve just been looking.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been looking for me,” she said. “Don’t. By the time you find me they’ll all be gone.”

“Lonsberg’s manuscripts?”

“Every page.”

“Why?”

“Because of what he did to me,” she said, trying to keep her voice down. “But you tell him. You tell him what I’m doing.”

I heard a car horn on the phone. I heard the same horn outside the Texas. I motioned for Ames who wiped his mouth with his napkin and lopped over.

“Mickey’s grandfather,” I said.

“Mickey’s…? What about him?”

“He’s dead,” I said. “You didn’t know?”

“What happened?”

“Someone shot him in his house. The police passed on me but they’re probably already looking for Mickey and maybe for you. Let’s talk.”

“No,” she said.

“Ames wants to tell you something,” I said, handing him the phone, covering the receiver, and whispering, “Keep her talking.”

Ames nodded and into the phone said, “Got yourself some more trouble, girl?”

I ran for the front door, banged into a table sending a burger flying, and went out into the late afternoon. Flo’s white minivan was parked across the street. A young man was behind the steering wheel. Sitting next to him on the cell phone was Adele. As I started across the street Mickey stepped on the gas. He tore rubber and flew down the street. My car was half a block away and who knew which way he would turn.

As I headed back to the Texas, I saw the fire in the trash bin. It wasn’t big, but it didn’t belong there. I went over to it and looked down. What remained of a manuscript, a short one, was burning. I reached down to save some of it but it was too far along. I did read the title just as the flames hit the top page of the manuscript, Come Into My Parlor. The title page was off to the side of the burning bits and pieces. I picked up the title page and blew out the fire in the corner.

I went back into the Texas heading for Ames but was cut off by an angry small bull of a man with hell in his eyes.

“You fuckin’ ruined my burger, you little bastard.”

“Had to get outside. Emergency. Kid. I’ll pay your bill and get you another burger. I’m sorry.”