Stuart Kaminsky - Retribution

“Some of it,” I said. “It’s not my kind of book.”

“Chapter six, first five paragraphs,” she said.

“What about them?”

“Read them,” she said.

“I’m getting too old for games, Adele,” I said.

“I was too old when I was twelve,” she said. “My father was screwing me and I was turned over to a pimp when I was thirteen, but you know all that. So a little game playing won’t hurt you or me. I missed out on game playing when I was growing up and going down.”

“I’ll read it,” I said. “But I’ve got a condition.”

“No more manuscripts destroyed. Not for a day or two. You bought time by helping Mickey.”

“Have you any idea who took a shot at me last night?” I asked.

“Son of a bitch shot at you?” she screamed. “Tell the legend I’m tearing two of his books right now. Tearing them and throwing them into the Gulf. Rains Rising and Childhood on Fire”

“I thought you weren’t going to destroy any more manuscripts. We have a truce.”

“Screw the truce,” she said. “You want to get killed? Mickey’s grandfather was a good man. So are you. Flo’s a good woman. Ames is…”

“But not you,” I said.

“No, not me,” she said soberly. “It’s in the genes and the jeans. He saw it in me. I thought I could be… What’s the use. Tell him the titles and take care of yourself and Flo and Mickey.”

“I didn’t sign on as a baby-sitter,” I said. “I signed on to find you. Come to my office. No strings. I won’t hold you. Just you, me, and Mickey.”

“Battery’s low,” she said. “Needs recharging. I’ll think about it.”

She hung up.

“Well?” asked Flo, brushing back her mess of hair.

“I don’t know,” I said. “She’s an angry girl.”

“Don’t I know it.”

I thought but didn’t say that Adele was going to get someone very hurt or very dead if she didn’t stop this mind game with Lonsberg. What I didn’t know was how soon I would find out how right I was.

When I got back to my office and opened the door Mickey Merrymen was against the wall. His father was in front of him, his fist raised ready to strike at an already bloody face.

At this point I want to make some things clear. First, I am in reasonably good physical shape. I bicycle. I work out four or five times a week. I’m a little on the thin side, a bit taller than short, and I don’t have the kind of face that tells people violence lurks behind it ready to explode at some minor infraction of my space or sentiments.

I could also add at this point that I don’t do violence. Most sane and sober human beings could say the same things, but I’ve seen and imagined too much violence from that very active minority of violent humanity. I couldn’t hit anyone. I won’t carry a gun.

Ann Horowitz once asked me what I would do if my own life or the life of a loved one were being immediately threatened. I said I would try to save them, but there was no sincerity or passion in my answer. Yes, I would try to save them and I had no intention of letting myself be killed without trying to do something about it. It was the extreme situation Ann had given. Most violent situations did not push me into a corner of the extreme.

And so instead of leaping forward, turning Merrymen around, and slamming my fist into his nose or throat, I shouted, “No.”

Merrymen’s fist froze in the air and he turned from his son toward me. Mickey slumped back against the wall.

“They think I killed that old fart,” he said, advancing on me. “You and Mickey gave them the idea that I killed Charlie. The cop told me.”

Viviase was doing what a good cop should do when he wasn’t sure where he was going. He was throwing dust in the air and seeing if it bothered someone enough to lead to answers. In this case, he had turned loose a less than fully sane Michael Merrymen with the idea that his son and I had pointed the finger at him. He wasn’t completely wrong.

The fist was up and ready. My plan, to the extent that I had one, was to get through the door and run. There was a flaw in the plan. Either Merrymen would come after me, and I doubted that he could catch me, or he would turn back on Mickey whose teeth were red with blood.

I wasn’t sure I liked Mickey, but I was sure I was not going to run out on him. If the Lone Ranger hadn’t shown up, I was going to be beaten into something like Tropicana orange pulp, or I’d get in a good or lucky punch and stop Merrymen.

The Lone Ranger arrived. He stepped into the room standing tall, unmasked, years older than I had remembered him from television.

Ames took in the story as he stepped into the room. Just as Merrymen was turning to face him, Ames stepped forward and threw a bony elbow into the younger man’s face. Flannel backed by bone hit flesh and Merrymen staggered back.

The phone started to ring. Ames moved to pick it up, which didn’t strike me as the thing to do in this situation.

Merrymen, now bloody and broken-nosed, pushed himself away from the wall and headed toward Ames with a gurgling sound that could have been his own animal reaction or the result of blood dripping into his throat.

The phone hit Merrymen in the chin just as Merrymen put his open hand out toward Ames’s eyes. This time Merrymen went down. He hit the floor hard and rolled over groaning, his hands covering his face.

“For you,” said Ames, handing me the phone.

I took it and Ames moved to help Mickey to his feet.

“Fonesca,” I said.

“Horowitz,” said Ann. “Are you incapacitated?”

“Huh?”

“If you are going to miss an appointment, you need only dial my number and give me an excuse, preferably the truth.”

“Things happened,” I explained, looking at the not so very Merrymen.

“That is the nature of life,” she said. “You are late. Are you coming?”

“Yes,” I said. “Ten minutes.”

She was less than five minutes away and I shouldn’t have trouble parking at this hour.

“Ten minutes. I’ll explain when I get there.”

I hung up the phone and used a tissue from the dispenser on my desk to wipe the blood off its corner before putting it down.

“How’s Mickey?” I asked.

“He’ll be fine,” said Ames who had sat the boy on one of my folding chairs.

Michael Merrymen rolled over and looked up at me. He was a mess.

“I’m suing you and that old man,” he said, glaring at me.

It was hard to understand what he was saying. His nose was bent to one side and his jaw was swelling rapidly.

“I’m sure you’ll win,” I said as he sat up still on the floor. “Can you drive yourself to the emergency room?”

He didn’t answer, rolled on one side, and managed to get up on wobbly legs. He put his hand on his head and groaned.

“Hit my head,” he said.

“I saw,” I answered.

“Why are you all after me?” Merrymen suddenly said, his arms outstretched, his eyes moving from me to Ames to his son.

“It’s called paranoia,” I said.

“Bullshit,” Merrymen said, spitting blood on my office floor. I handed him a wad of tissues. He took them and applied them to his face.

“You’ve got a club in one hand and a target on your back,” said Ames, looking into Merrymen’s eyes. “Then you scream, ‘Here I am.’ That’s why people are after you.”

“You don’t understand,” Merrymen said.

“All I’ve got to say,” said Ames, turning his back on the ranting bloody man.

“The door’s over there,” I said.

“You people just don’t understand,” he shouted. “You don’t listen. You don’t… what’s the use. Mickey, if you come home, there’s a dog waiting to greet you.”