Stuart Kaminsky - Retribution

Everyone lifted their glasses to black shirt who turned his head toward me and said, “I’m getting married.”

I nodded.

“I’m celebrating,” he said in a surprisingly high voice.

“Congratulations,” I said, paying Billy at the bar.

“Yeah,” he said with little enthusiasm.

I left, spirits not in the least uplifted.

I had time for one episode of The Shadow. Victor Jory disguised himself as a sinister Chinese merchant. The bad guys kidnapped the lovely Margo Lane who screamed at least once a chapter and three times in this one, and a bomb was about to blow up a building where the city moguls were meeting.

The phone rang. I got to it before the answering machine kicked in and picked up. It was Adele, reasonably calm and definitely sure of what she wanted and what she had decided to tell me.

“Did you read the section in Plugged Nickels?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said and then asked me not to interrupt till she had finished what she had to say. I told her I would be quiet. And I was. I knew or had guessed much of what she told me, but there were a few things I hadn’t been close to.

“That’s it,” she said when she was finished.

“Ames and I are on the way to Conrad Lonsberg’s now,” I said. “They’ll all be there. I’ll take care of it. Don’t destroy any more manuscripts till…”

“You trying to make a deal?” she asked.

“No, a request. Hold off. Are you someplace safe?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Call me back at eleven tonight,” I said. “Thanks for telling me. I know it was hard.”

“It was more than hard,” she said.

At ten minutes to seven I got up, zipped on my blue jacket, and went to pick up Ames.

He was standing in front of the Texas in his slicker, hatless, ramrod straight. I didn’t know what weapon was under his coat but I was sure it was large and formidable. He climbed in.

“Peacefully, if possible,” I said.

“If possible,” he agreed.

We started driving. I had explained why we were doing it this way instead of going to the police. I definitely didn’t have enough evidence for an arrest. I might be able to convince Ed Viviase that there was a reasonably good chance I was right, but the police, the lawyers, wanted evidence or something they could label evidence. And so we drove.

We drove straight south on 41 missing all the lights. Traffic wasn’t heavy but there was some. A little red sports car cut us off as we neared Stickney Point Road and then zipped past a big light blue Lincoln and cut it off. The sports car was in a hurry. I wasn’t.

We pulled up in front of Conrad Lonsberg’s gate at fifteen minutes to eight. I guessed dinner would be over. Both Brad’s and Laura’s kids were certainly there, but it was a school night. They would be heading home soon. There might be a better way of doing this but this was the most direct. I pushed the button with Ames at my side and waited.

A voice crackled on, “What?”

“Fonesca,” I said. “Important.”

The speaker went off and we waited. We could see the sun starting to set from where we stood. I tried not to dream about what could have been and to concentrate on what was.

Laura opened the door, one of her little girls at her side.

“Hi,” the girl said.

“Hi,” I answered.

Ames bowed his head and held up his right hand. The girl giggled.

“Did you find them?” Laura asked.

“No,” I said.

“We just finished dinner,” she said. “My father’s not in… well, let’s say Brad and I are seeing his dark side when the kids aren’t in the room. I’ve got to get the girls home and in bed and Brad twisted his ankle and doesn’t want to be here at all. You sure you want to walk in on this?”

“I’m sure,” I said.

Laura looked up at Ames.

“My friend Ames McKinney,” I said. “He’s keeping me company.”

“Come on in,” she said, opening the door. “But I don’t think the great man’s going to welcome this visit. He had me call the editor of the Herald-Tribune today to warn them to keep a reporter away who follows my father whenever he leaves the house.”

“Rubin,” I said, “the reporter’s name is John Rubin. He’s doing his job.”

We followed Laura. Ames chatted with the little girl who switched from a hop to a skip.

“You look like a cowboy,” the girl said.

“Never was,” said Ames. “But I take that as a compliment.”

“You talk like one too,” she said.

’Thank you.”

We were at the house. There were three vehicles at different angles in front of the house. The second of Laura’s daughters, slightly older than the one at Ames’s side, was down at the shore with a tall boy, who I assumed was Brad Lonsberg’s son Conrad Jr.

“Nice sunset,” I said.

Laura looked toward it as if she hadn’t considered this possibility before.

“Yes,” she said.

“Maybe your little girl would like to join her sister and cousin on the beach and watch it go down,” I suggested.

Laura looked at me. There was no doubting now that what I had to say was serious. I wanted the children out of the way. She paused and turned to the little girl.

“Go down with Jenny and Connie,” she said. “Contest. Whoever finds the biggest shell wins. You can search till the sun goes down.”

“What’s the prize?” she asked.

“Five dollars,” said Laura.

“Five dollars?” the girl said in openmouthed disbelief.

“Five,” Laura repeated. “Bring your biggest when there’s no more sun.”

The girl went running and Laura opened the door. We walked in. Lonsberg and his son were in the living room. So was Jefferson, who lay on the floor, looked up at us, and then put his head back down to return to his dozing. Brad Lonsberg sat in a chair to the right. Conrad stood, hands in pockets.

“Does it have to be now?” Lonsberg said, looking at Ames.

“If not now, when?” I said.

“Now then,” he said, looking at Ames.

“My friend Ames McKinney,” I said.

“Good to meet you,” said Ames, holding out his hand. “Read everything you’ve written.”

“You mean everything I’ve had published,” Lonsberg said. “Which I hope is not the extent of your reading or the extent of what will be published.”

Lonsberg and Ames shook hands.

“This is my son Brad,” Lonsberg said.

“Hello,” said the younger Lonsberg, still seated.

“Brad twisted his ankle,” Laura explained.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

Everyone looked at me. Two beers and a big steak with grilled onions were not enough for this moment and I wanted to get it over with quickly.

“You don’t think so? About what?” asked Laura.

“About your brother’s twisted ankle,” I said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Brad Lonsberg asked, sitting up.

“I think there’s a good chance you were bitten by a dog,” I said.

“Jefferson didn’t…” he began.

“Michael Merrymen’s dog just before or just after you shot him and Merrymen,” I said.

Far away, through the open window of the living room, we heard a girl shriek with delight at the discovery of a large shell.

Brad Lonsberg glared at me, almost motionless.

“I think you should leave, Mr. Fonesca,” Laura said firmly.

“I think he should stay,” Conrad Lonsberg said softly.

Taking this as an invitation either to coffee and biscotti or to continue, I continued.

“Both murders were committed by someone who apparently and desperately wanted to get your father’s manuscripts back before Adele destroyed them,” I said. “Whoever killed Merrymen and Corsello.”

“And don’t forget his dog,” Brad Lonsberg said, shaking his head.