Stuart Kaminsky - Vengeance

“Okay. Pirannes wasn’t in the apartment with you. Spiltz was. Just you and Spiltz. He was there to keep an eye on you. You weren’t exactly a volunteer. Spiltz went after you. You got his gun, shot him, panicked and didn’t know what to do. You threw the gun over the balcony, managed to get Spiltz’s body into the chair and then you cleaned up the blood where you shot him.”

“No,” she said.

Tears were coming. She fought them back.

“I’ve got the gun. It has your prints. The police, if they know the story, can find the spot you killed him. There’ll be blood traces.”

“I shot him in bed,” she said, her eyes closed. “I wrapped him in the sheets and blankets and dragged him into the living room so there’d be no blood and so it’d be easier to move him. There’s a washer and dryer down four, five doors down. I washed the sheets and blankets, dried ‘em and put ’em back in the cabinet. Then I put new sheets and a new blanket on.”

“He had to have a holster,” I said. “Ames and I didn’t find one.”

“I figured a holster would be too easy to find. Reason I took it off him was I… I thought if he was wearing one when he was found dead, the cops might wonder where the gun was that went in it. I figured if he didn’t have a gun or holster, the cops would figure whoever shot him came and went with his own gun. I rolled the holster up neat and put it in one of Mr. Pirannes’s drawers.”

“That was smart,” I said. “No gun. No connection. Police would think the holster was Pirannes’s. Holsters aren’t registered and they’re not illegal. It might even suggest that a gun might have been in it and it might have been the gun Pirannes used on Spiltz. You really think it out that far?”

“No,” she said, eyes still closed. “I just…”

“It’s full of little holes, but it’s pretty good.”

“I was gonna go back when it was safe, find the gun, bury it fast, but I’m here and you got there first. What’s gonna happen to me?”

“I’m working that out,” I said.

“He was gonna rape me,” she said so softly I could hardly hear. “No one ever did it to me without saying I was willing. Nobody, not my dad, not Tilly, not any man. You won’t understand the difference. A man wouldn’t. Most women wouldn’t.”

“Maybe I’m the exception,” I said.

She looked at me.

“Our five minutes are just about up,” I went on as I checked my watch. “The gun disappears. You stick to your story. The only one who knows it’s not true is Pirannes. The police won’t believe him if they catch him. The problem is that Pirannes has probably figured out that you killed Spiltz.”

“He’ll come for me,” she said. “He’ll kill me.”

“No. I’ll get Sally to keep you in here a couple of more days. I’ll find Pirannes and convince him you didn’t kill Spiltz.”

“How you gonna do that?”

“You’re not the only one who can tell stories,” I said.

“And me?” she asked, turning to me again and pointing to herself. The question came out in a thin, plaintive whine like the air escaping from a balloon.

“You? You get out, go live with Flo Zink and live happily ever after,” I said.

“I’ll give it a try,” she said. “I’ll try. I really will.”

“You’ll make it,” I said with a certainty I didn’t feel.

“You don’t have to show me the gun,” she said. “I believe you.”

The door opened and Sally came in. She looked at Adele, who was looking down at the floor, her arms folded. Then she looked at me.

“You all right, Adele?” Sally asked.

“I’ll be fine. Sally, can I stay here a few days, just a few days? I’ve got some thinking to do, things to work out about my dad, stuff. I gotta get used to going to live with that lady.”

“I think that can be arranged,” Sally said.

“I’ve got to go,” I said.

Sally looked at me with questions in her eyes, questions I might never answer. Then she turned and moved to comfort Adele.

The afternoon was gone. I headed down Fruitville, driving into the setting sun. I flipped down my visor till I hit Tamiami Trail and turned right. The sun was big, low and bright over my left shoulder.

I thought about what I was going to do with Tony Spiltz’s gun. I thought about how many laws I was breaking, started counting them and gave up at six. I’d worry about that, if I had to, when and if there was peace for me here in Paradise.

People in business usually arrive early to prepare for the day or the night. They make sure the furniture or stock is in place, the cash register is still working, the pictures on the wall and the merchandise are straight. Lots of things.

Pimps are no different. Tilly was no different. I pulled into the parking lot of the Linger Longer Motel, parked, locked the doors and moved quickly to Tilly’s home away from home.

I knocked. No answer. I knocked louder. No answer.

I went to the office. The kid with the big glasses who spoke a dozen languages looked at me.

“Tilly?” I asked.

“If he’s not in his room, I don’t know,” he said. “I just got here.”

I needed Tilly.

“Take a guess.”

“He usually eats at the Mel-o-dee before he begins his night. Always goes alone. He says he needs some alone time to think before things start. Girls usually start when it’s dark.”

“Thanks,” I said.

The kid didn’t answer.

The Mel-o-dee was a little farther north and on the west side of the Trail. I’d eaten there a few times. Down-home food, small but good salad bar. The place was full. It was dinnertime. People in the neighborhood, low-budget tourists, men and women just getting off of work who lived alone or didn’t want to go home yet ate at the Mel-o-dee.

A quartet of elderly people, three women and one man, was waiting to be seated. I nudged past them, looking for Tilly. He was in a booth on the left next to the window. His back was turned to me but he was easy to spot. He was the only black customer in the room. There was another room in back, but I knew I had found him.

I walked past singles, doubles, trios and quartets of people eating and talking. A pair of families, both with babies in high chairs, one with two kids in high school, were seated at booths to the right of Tilly.

I sat across from him in the booth. He had a bite-sized piece of meat loaf on his fork and a newspaper next to his plate. He was wearing glasses. He was dressed in a white turtleneck shirt with a black jacket. He looked like a car salesman or a clerk at Circuit City.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked with exasperation, taking off his glasses and putting them in his pocket.

“You know Handford’s dead?” I asked, watching his eyes.

“No,” he said. “But as my grandmother would say, ‘Hallelu and Praise the Lord.’”

“Convince me you didn’t kill him,” I said.

He put down his fork and looked at me with even greater exasperation.

“Go away, man. I didn’t kill Handford. I wouldn’t go near him. I don’t kill people. Where’d the profit be in killing Handford? I’m a businessman.”

“Peace of mind,” I said. “With Handford gone you’d have a little peace of mind.”

“If I killed every motherfucker whose death would give me peace of mind, I’d rack up a better record than John Wayne Gacy. Now go away.”

“You convinced me,” I said.

“That makes me very happy,” he said. “Now, I want to finish my dinner and read my paper. I’ve got to get to work.”

“Adele is at the Juvenile lockup,” I said.

“She’s none of my business anymore.”

“If she ever tries to come back to you, I want you to call me.”