Stuart Kaminsky - Retribution

Abel looked at the baby again. No, the tilt, the lack of balance, lay behind those dark eyes that looked about trying to find something or someone on which to focus. They finally found the eyes of her father and Abel, whose imagination was admittedly undisciplined, was confirmed in his opinion that the living, pulsing parts of the baby were not normal.

“Is she all right?” he called to the nurse through the glass window.

“Perfect,” the nurse answered, looking down at the child.

Did the nurse have a checklist of responses? Was “perfect” the best?

Was “fine” something to worry about? What were the other possible answers? “Imperfect, not well, badly damaged.” This was the first day in what Abel Terelli felt, was sure, would be the beginning of that which was worse than a nightmare, the living with a worm of uncertainty that would grow.

Abel was an architect, a creator, a young success, with a beautiful wife, a dark-eyed beautiful child. Then why did the devil, Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, Belial, Mastema, the Prince of Darkness, the Lord of Lies, the Accuser, the Evil One, place this child before him? Or was it God testing him? Or was it, as was most likely, the fact that Abel Terelli was slowly, slowly, slowly growing mad?

“He’ll be fine,” came a voice breaking into my reading. I looked up at a male nurse with thin glasses and a shaved head dressed in hospital blues. Next to him stood Mickey who did not look fine to me. He didn’t look tilted like the infant of Abel Terelli, but “fine” was not a word I would have used.

Ames opened his eyes and immediately stood up. It reminded me of that great moment in The Magnificent Seven when James Coburn is sitting on the ground with his back to a post, his hat over his eyes, and he suddenly ruefully agrees after being goaded into proving that he is faster with his knife than his challenger with a gun. Quick, name all seven of the actors who played the magnificent seven, I thought as Ames rose. Ask me that one for a million dollars.

“Thanks,” I said as Ames put a hand under Mickey’s arm to hold him up.

One of the little coughing black girls looked up at me and coughed.

“The desk wants to go over payment again,” the nurse said apologetically. There was something about the nurse that made me think he was gay. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to worry about the hospital bills of this confused and broken kid.

I walked to the woman behind the desk. We had fished Mickey’s wallet out when we came in and were asked for insurance. Mickey had a Blue Cross/Blue Shield card in his father’s name with Mickey listed as insured.

“Just sign here,” the little woman in white behind the desk said.

I pushed the clipboard in front of Mickey and handed him the pen that went with it. He signed. We left.

“Do you have anything at home, your father’s place, that you have to pick up?” I asked.

“Yes, no. Some clothes. A little money hidden, you know. Other stuff. Most of my stuff is with Adele.”

“Your father home now?” I asked.

“He should be at work,” Mickey said.

“You meant it about not going back to live with him?” I asked.

“I meant it,” he said.

I looked at Ames who nodded and touched the revolver in his pocket. We headed down Bahia Vista past Mennonite churches and the huge Der Dutchman restaurant and just past McIntosh turned into Sherwood Forest and headed toward the cul-de-sac where Michael Merrymen lived and did battle against the world.

We didn’t make it all the way down the street. There were yellow police barricades up blocking the circle at the end of the cul-de-sac. Two police cars were parked just outside the barricade and one was inside the enclosure.

Outside of the Merrymen house three men were talking. Two of them were uniformed cops. One was Detective Ed Viviase. I considered just backing out, but Viviase’s eyes came up and took me in. He recognized the Taurus. He recognized Ames and he may even have seen Mickey in the backseat.

There was no choice. I parked. I suggested that Ames park his Buntline special or whatever it was under the front seat. He did and we got out. The three of us walked slowly between the barricades and headed for the house. Viviase, looking even more solid outdoors than in his office, looked up at the sun and then at us as he came forward to meet us.

“I believe in coincidence,” he said in greeting. “I really do. Seen plenty of it. But it’s not my first choice when I try to explain things. Fonesca, what are you doing here?”

“This is Mickey Merrymen,” I said. “He lives in there with his father.”

“Wrong tense,” said Viviase, looking at Mickey. “Sorry to tell you this, but your father is dead.”

“And the dog?” asked Mickey.

“Dead too. Sorry.”

“No,” said Mickey. “He won’t attack me when I go in and get my things.”

“You don’t seem surprised your father is dead,” Viviase said.

“I don’t care,” Mickey said. “Yes, I do. I feel… I don’t know the word?”

“Happy?” Viviase tried.

“Relieved,” I helped.

“Relieved,” said Mickey. “Yes, relieved. My father was crazy. When my mother died…”

“What happened to your face?” asked Viviase.

“His father beat him in my office,” I said.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Viviase said, looking at Ames who was blankly looking at the house. “When was this?”

“Three hours ago, something like that. I can pin it down if you need it,” I said.

“You with him all the time?” asked Viviase. “I mean since the fight of the century in your office?”

“Ames and I have been with him all the time. Took him to Sarasota Memorial ER,” I said.

“So, all three of you can account for each other’s time for the last three hours or so.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Michael Merrymen was shot about an hour ago,” said Viviase. “Care to guess about the cause of death?”

“Bullet. Nine-millimeter. Matches the bullet that killed Mickey’s grandfather and someone shot at me,” I said.

“We’ll know in a few hours but that sounds about right to me. Merrymen’s nose was smashed and he had a few other signs of getting the shit kicked out of him. That happen in your office?”

“I did it,” said Ames. “He was beating the boy. I did what had to be done.”

“Okay,” said Viviase, rubbing his hands together and looking at the sun again. “Anyone know the UV level today? I forgot my sunscreen.”

None of us knew.

“Okay,” Viviase repeated. “Let’s get back to those coincidences. If you and I are right about the bullet and the gun and you show up here about an hour after Junior Merrymen’s unloved gets shot, I’ve got to ask once again, ‘What is going on here, Fonesca?’”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“But you have some idea.”

“Ideas,” I created. “I suspect everyone but the four of us and I’m not so sure about you.”

“Okay,” he said, “we go another way. Someone kills Merrymen, his father-in-law, and takes a shot at you. Merrymen’s son turns up in your office and so does his father. Vendetta against the Merrymen?”

“Don’t forget the dog,” I reminded him.

“Pit bull,” said Viviase. “People don’t like pit bulls.”

“People didn’t like Michael Merrymen,” I said.

“Everyone hated my father,” said Mickey. “Everyone who knew him.”

“I’ve looked at his record,” said Viviase. “We’re talking to the neighbors. I have a feeling we’ll wind up talking to half of Sarasota County before we’re finished unless…”

“Unless…” I repeated, knowing what was coming next.

“Unless you tell me what this killer is looking for?” he said. “Someone went through this house. Someone went through Bernard Corsello’s house. I’ve got a feeling whoever it is, is still out there looking. I have a feeling that you know what they are looking for. I have more than a feeling that I’m going to wind up arresting you for obstruction of justice and withholding evidence. It could be worse, your friend with the nine-millimeter might kill someone else and you’ll need a very good lawyer.”