Stuart Kaminsky - Vengeance

“You’re right,” Flo said. “It’s… a different world.”

The blue angel was there, in his car not far from where I parked. I wanted to invite him in. I had the feeling he would like the fish, several of which resembled him. Some probably resembled me. I also wanted to talk to Angel about the death of Dwight Handford.

“Lunch?” Flo asked when we had finished the cycle and seen every fish and sea creature.’

“Had a late breakfast,” I said, “but I’m up for salad.”

“Columbia?” she asked. “They have a mean house salad.”

“Sure,” I said, and we walked back to my car. I let her in and asked her to wait for just a second.

“Mind if I turn on the radio?”

“No,” I said, and moved toward the blue Buick.

I knocked at the driver’s side window and he rolled it down and looked up at me. No music played in his car, but there was a pile of magazines on the passenger seat. The top one was the latest Cosmopolitan. He said nothing.

“Dwight Handford is dead,” I said.

“Who?”

“The guy who tried to beat me up. The guy you saved me from. The guy who shot a hole in my window last night.”

He nodded, accepting the information.

“You followed him last night after he blew my window out.”

He shrugged.

“You kill him?”

“No. What’d I tell you yesterday? Do your job.”

“I’m doing it,” I said. “What’s your job?”

He rolled his window closed. I couldn’t see through the tint. I gave up and went back to Flo, who had found a country-and-western station on the radio.

“Who’s that?” she asked, nodding toward the Buick.

“An angel,” I said.

She seemed satisfied.

“Who’s that?” I asked, nodding at the radio.

“Eddy Arnold,” she said. “Got all his CDs. They ran a special on television a while back.”

The Columbia, a Cuban restaurant on St. Armand’s Circle, wasn’t far. The original Columbia was opened in 1908 in Ybor City in the heart of Tampa. I’d been there once to serve papers on a computer salesman. Old, big, authentic, lots of colorful tile, lots of big solid wood tables. Zorro country. The night I served the papers there was a quartet of flamenco dancers. My wife would have liked it. She would have liked the sense of stepping into the past.

The Columbia in Sarasota was modern with lots of light and the house special 1908 Salad, which I ordered.

Flo was hungry. She ordered the seafood paella. It took twenty minutes to prepare, but we were in no hurry. I looked through the window at the passing traffic and across the street at the large circle surrounded by sidewalks around trees and bush-lined paths with benches where tourists could eat their ice creams from Ben amp; Jerry’s or Kilwins.

A man was standing on the concrete path on the circle across from the Columbia. He was looking through the window at me. Cars passed in front of him. Through one break in the traffic, he motioned to me.

“Flo, I’ve got to do something. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“The guy on the circle?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, getting up. “He’s a client, Carl Sebastian.”

“Just happened to be there and saw you?” she asked, reaching for her second warm, crisp roll.

“I doubt it. I’ll make it fast.”

“Take your time,” she said. “I like it here. You think a glass of wine would be…”

“A good idea,” I said.

The air outside the Columbia was warm and after-rain muggy. There were puddles and patterns of water in the street and on the sidewalk. I crossed between cars and faced Sebastian on the path.

“I knew some of the people,” he said. “The ones who have stars.”

The concrete sidewalk around the circle was embedded with stars honoring famous circus performers, much like the stars on Hollywood Boulevard. These bronze stars included information on the performers.

“Knew Emmett Kelly slightly. Lou Jacobs. The Wal-lendas,” Sebastian said, shaking his head. “Looking at those stars always brings back memories. I love the circus.”

“I’m fond of it myself,” I said. “You followed me out here to talk about circuses.”

“You said you’d find Melanie,” he said.

“I said I’d find her in two or three days. This is day one.”

“It’s day two,” said Sebastian.

“Look, Mr. Sebastian-”

“Tomorrow then?”

“The next day at the latest,” I said, knowing that Melanie Sebastian might change her mind about letting me find her and that Harvey might not be able to follow her on the Internet highway to where she was hiding.

“I’ll give you a bonus if it’s tomorrow,” he said.

“You said you’d double my fee. When we talked last time you said you’d double it.”

“Double, then. Just find her. I can’t sleep. I can’t work. I can’t think.”

He put his head down and rubbed his neck. Then he looked up and said, “Sorry. You said you understood what it was like to lose your wife. You remember? You said that?”

“I remember,” I said.

“Then find her. Find Melanie.”

There were tears in his eyes. He turned away and walked up the path that ran through the middle of the circle.

I went back to the Columbia. Flo was working on her paella. My 1908 Salad sat waiting.

“This is great,” she said. “What did he want?”

“Everything,” I said. “Everything.”

John Detchon sat behind the reception desk at the Children’s Services office. He looked up from a pile of papers he was sorting and smiled.

“The sad detective is back,” he said.

“I’m not a detective, John.”

“Indulge me in my fantasy,” he said. “I’m trapped behind this desk eight hours a day. I need to bring home tales of corruption and intrigue to my roommates.”

“I’m a detective, John. I carry a derringer in a tiny holster near my crotch. I’ve been shot five times and killed four people. I may not look tough but I turn into a raging revenge-seeking monster when provoked.”

John grinned.

“Beautiful,” he said. “Beautiful. I don’t believe a word of it, but it’s beautiful. I didn’t think you had an imagination.”

“I’m learning;” I said.

“Can we cut the crap and get on with our business,” Flo said.

“And you,” John said, “must be Mr. Fonesca’s mother.”

Flo went tight.

“Listen, sissy,” she said. “I’m broad-minded, but I don’t take shit on a silver spoon from anyone, especially sissy boys.”

“Sissy? God, the last person who called me that was my grandfather when I was six.”

“I’ve got better words,” she said.

“Flo, don’t blow this,” I said.

She shrugged, nodded to show that she was under control and said,

“Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” said John. “I like your sweater.”

“Thanks,” said Flo.

“Miss Flo,” said John. “The word of choice is ‘gay.’”

“I know,” said Flo.

“Sally is expecting you,” he said. “Go right up. You know the way.”

We got on the elevator. The doors closed.

“He’s okay,” she said, looking at the door. “I’m just fucking nervous.”

“Flo, if you have to, say ‘freaking.’”

“Can’t,” she said. “It’s a PG-rated coward’s word. Let’s get on with this.”

Sally stood as we approached. There was a woman with her. The woman was in her fifties, a little off in her color combinations and in need of a good hairbrush. She looked frazzled. Sally smiled at me. I liked the smile. She didn’t look like a woman who had shot a man this morning, but she might be smiling about it. I didn’t know her well enough yet.

“This is Florence Zink,” I said.