Stuart Kaminsky - Vengeance

“You scare the shit out of me,” he said with a smile. “I wouldn’t take her back. Pirannes would have me disappear in a minute if he found out. Are you finished now? Can I eat now? My food is getting room temperature.”

“Where’s Pirannes?”

“Okay. I tell you, you go.”

“I’ll go.”

“Word is he’s on his big boat hiding out somewhere, probably Texas, maybe Mexico, waiting for his lawyer to clean up some stuff he’s into. I don’t know what.”

“That’s the word,” I said. “But where is he really?”

“You’re smarter than you look.”

“It helps in my business. Pirannes?”

“Tell me and I go,” I said.

“Just when I’m beginning to enjoy your company. He finds out I told you and I’m a dead man.”

“That’s what you said the last time we talked about Pirannes. He won’t know.”

“Word is he sent the boat out to make it look like he was waiting things out across the gulf. Cancun. He’s got business here. He leaves for three, four days and it all falls apart here. You know what I’m saying?”

“I know,” I said.

A waitress approached and asked if I was eating. I said no. She moved away.

“I’m not supposed to know it,” Tilly said, leaning forward, “Nobody’s supposed to, but a lot of people do. Pirannes likes to hang out at a place he owns a piece of out on Proctor, gated, town houses, big houses. Place is called New Palm Manors. Pirannes uses the name Steele. Now you know. Now you go. Looking for that man is a bad idea. I told you once. He boils over real easy.”

“I know,” I said. “He tried to kill me.”

“And you’re going to look for him again?”

“Yes.”

Tilly shrugged and put his glasses back on.

“Have a nice forever,” he said.

He looked down at the newspaper. Our conversation was over.

I drove south down the Trail past an endless line of malls small and large, gas stations, office supply stores and restaurants. Sarasota has lots of restaurants. People on vacation eat out. Retired people with money eat out. This is an eat-out town. There were no really good Chinese restaurants. I missed that. Chicago had more than a hundred first-class Chinese restaurants. My favorite Chinese restaurants in Chicago were in China Town. My wife and I had gone there at least once a month for dim sum.

I drove warily, slowly, watching other drivers, waiting for one of them to cross the line coming at me and hit me head-on, or one of the ancient drivers to sideswipe me into another car.

I turned on the radio. G. Gordon Liddy was answering a caller’s question about morality and loyalty. G. Gordon said he had gone to jail in the Watergate case because he refused to lie under oath. He praised Susan McDougal and said something about the importance of loyalty. You give your loyalty to someone and you don’t betray it even if the person you’ve given it to abandons you. At least it was something like that.

I had given my loyalty to Beryl Tree. I hadn’t given it to Carl Sebastian, but I was still working for him. I owed him what I had promised to give. I’d promised to find Melanie. But right now I was trying to bring Beryl’s case to an end.

I drove down Proctor, past walled-in and gated developments on both sides, across the bridge over I-75. The New Palms Manor was on the right. I drove up to the gate and waited. A woman in a gray uniform came out of the gatehouse. She wasn’t wearing a hat or jacket. She was slim, dark and serious. I considered asking her if she was Italian.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Steele. We have an appointment. My name is Dwight Handford. Is there a clubhouse, community house, here?”

“Straight ahead to the right.”

“Busy in there tonight?”

“Wouldn’t know for sure, but it’s Friday night and there’s almost always people playing cards, talking, having drinks or parties.”

“Good, will you tell Mr. Steele that I’ll be waiting for him in the clubhouse.”

She nodded and went back into the gatehouse. I watched her pick up the phone, hit some buttons and start talking. She looked over at me once and then talked some more. She hung up and came out.

“Mr. Steele will meet you in the clubhouse in a few minutes,” she said.

She went back in the gatehouse, did something, and the gate went up.

The clubhouse was easy to find and there were about thirty cars in front of it. I parked the Geo as far from the entrance as I could get.

Immediately through the doors I found myself in a large room full of couches, tables and chairs. Most of the chairs and couches were full. A few dumps of people were standing. There was a small bar to the right, behind which stood a small bartender in a white shirt and a red vest. The people of the manor were dressed casually, in simple dresses, skirts and blouses, slacks and short-sleeved shirts. The people of the manor were generally not young.

I found a vacant couch to the right of the door and sat.

Pirannes came in alone five minutes later. He was wearing slacks, a shirt, a tie and a lightweight tan jacket. He was overdressed and he didn’t look happy. He found me and sat down at my side without looking at me.

“You’re dead,” he said.

“How did you know I wasn’t Dwight Handford?”

“Handford’s dead,” he said. “I knew about it by noon. Besides, Angela described you.”

“Angela, at the gate. Is she Italian?”

“Her name’s Angela Conforti. And my name is Richard Steele and your name is mud. How did you find me? Who told you?”

“Your secret is safe with me, but I’ve got to tell you, about a third of the criminal population of this community knows about Mr. Steele’s manor retreat.”

“What the hell do you want, Fonesca?”

I looked at him.

“Did you kill Dwight Handford? Not that I care much. Just for my peace of mind. I can’t prove anything and it’s just between you and me. You can deny it later.”

“You’re wearing a wire, carrying a tape recorder,” he said.

“Get friendly. Check me out.”

“Let’s go in one of the private rooms,” he said.

“I might not walk out,” I said.

“I’m not going to kill you here. I’m not an idiot.”

I followed him through a lounge on the left, where people were playing cards at two tables. Beyond the lounge were two doors. We went through the one on the right. Pirannes turned on the lights, faced me and patted me down. He wasn’t gentle.

The room was small, had tastefully wallpapered walls, sconces with teardrop lightbulbs, furniture with the look of something old and French.

“I didn’t kill Handford,” he said. “And I didn’t kill Tony Spiltz. The kid lied about me being there. I’ll tell you something, Fonesca.”

He was starting to get worked up. That was not a good sign.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” he went on, pointing a finger at me. “I think Handford set me up. I think he came back to get the kid when I wasn’t there. I think he killed Tony. I think maybe she helped him. He told her the story about me being with her. I’ll tell you that if someone hadn’t killed Handford, I would have done it myself, personally. But I didn’t.”

“Leave Adele alone,” I said.

He laughed and shook his head. He even started to choke a little. I was being very funny.

“I wouldn’t…” he managed to get out and then paused to regain his voice and some of his anger. “I wouldn’t take her back. I wouldn’t go near her. She might kill a customer. She might kill me. But I tell you what I do want, what would keep her safe.”

“What?”

“The money I paid for her,” he said.

He ran his hand back over his hair and pulled himself completely together.