Stuart Kaminsky - Vengeance

“Kosher hot dogs, fresh steamed buns, good buns.”

“Cost too much,” she said.

“Double your business,” I said.

“You want to guarantee that?”

“Life’s a risk,” I said, finishing my hot dog and throwing my napkin into a garbage bag she had set up.

“I’ll stick with what I know,” she said. “High profit. Low maintenance. If I spend more on merchandise I’ll need more volume and I’ll have more customers than I can handle.”

She had a point.

“See that car, the blue Buick at the end of the parking lot?”

“Yes,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.

“Two dogs with everything, a bag of chips and a Coke,” I said, taking out two fives and handing them to her. “No change.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“I’ll watch the stand while you make the delivery. You can keep an eye on me.”

She got the dogs together, wrapped them, pulled out a Coke and a bag of potato chips and put it all in a brown paper bag. I stood watching as she hurried across the lot and knocked at the window. The window came down. She handed him the package and pointed back at me. I waved. He took the bag and rolled up the window.

I had missed the arrival of the blonde, but there she was. She was wearing a white skirt and blouse and her long hair was in a single braid that hung over her left shoulder. She was carrying a red purse over her right shoulder and looking around.

A few people passed her going in and out while I stood watching and the hot-dog lady returned. All the men looked at her, pretending not to look. The women were more open in their glances.

I moved around a pair of parked cars and approached the waiting woman, who had spotted me. She was a beauty. She wore no makeup and was probably in her late twenties. Her eyes were blue, her skin clear. There was even a good chance that the color of her hair was natural.

I held out the envelope. She took it without a word, put it in her purse and walked away. So did I.

I got in the Metro, pulled out onto Ringling and headed east. The Buick was a tactful distance behind me. I imagined my angel working on his second hot dog, cheek full, dropping relish on his lap as we drove.

There is a definite advantage in being the one who is followed rather than the one who follows. A good driver with a lot of nerve who knows the city could have lost the Buick in ten minutes even if the pursuing driver was good at what he was doing. A decent driver with imagination could have lost him in fifteen minutes. Lewis Fonesca, who couldn’t speed and was unable to take chances in a car, took a little longer.

I went down Ringling to Tuttle, turned right, drove to Bahia Vista and went back to the Trail, where I turned left and then right to get to the parking lot across from the medical office building. I drove up the ramp wondering if the Buick would follow me or just wait for me to come down. My guess was that he would have to follow. I could park and walk over the ramp to the hospital, but I needed the car. I could go out the other exit or try to sneak past him. I went to the top of the garage and then headed down, trying to decide what I should try. Worst case, I’d have to think of something else to do.

By this time he had to know I was trying to lose him. I went up and down for about five minutes till on my fourth or fifth pass by the front exit I saw four cars waiting to pull out. There was a slight space between the first and second cars. I forced my way into the open space. The Metro was small enough to do it with a little cooperation from the driver in the second car. The driver was a heavy old woman with glasses who had to strain her neck to see over the windshield. She didn’t seem to notice what I had done. I was sure the blue angel knew. He was now four cars behind me waiting to get out. When it was my turn, I turned right and then right again and drove the half-block to Osprey. Instead of turning either way, I went into the parking lot of the medical complex on my right. The lot was full. I drove to the rear where I knew there was a driveway to the buildings in back, found a space, parked and got out. The Geo couldn’t be seen from the street.

The Buick came to the corner and hesitated. Then he turned right and moved up Osprey looking for me.

When he was out of sight, I went back to the Metro and got out of the lot before he came back. When I was reasonably sure I had lost him, I drove behind the Southgate Mall to the large Dumpsters. I took the gun out of the plastic bag, removed the remaining bullets, wiped the weapon clean, dropped it in my McDonald’s bag and, when I was sure I wasn’t being watched, dropped the bag into the nearest Dumpster, acting as if I were simply a good citizen getting rid of his lunch garbage.

Eventually, I took the bridge across to St. Armand’s, drove straight up. Longboat Key, up Gulf of Mexico Drive and past both Pirannes’s high-rise on my left and the Sunnyside Condos on my right, where he docked the Fair Maiden. I drove on, hoping I had put John Pirannes out of my life.

I drove over the short bridge at the end of the key and went through the far less upscale and often ramshackle small hotels and rental houses along the water in Bradenton Beach. Ten minutes later, I spotted the sign for Barrington House and pulled into the shaded driveway. I parked on the white-crushed-shell-and-white-pebble lot, which held only tow other cars.

Barrington House was a white three-floor 1920s stucco-over-cement-block building with green wooden shutters. There were flowers behind a low picket fence and a sign to the right of the house pointing toward the entrance. I walked up the brick path for about a dozen steps and came to a door. I found myself inside a very large lodge-style living room with a carpeted, dark wooden staircase leading up to a small landing and, I assumed, rooms. There were bookcases whose shelves were filled and a chess table with checkers lined up and ready to go. The big fireplace was probably used no more than a few days during the central Florida winter.

I hit the bell on a desk by the corner next to a basket of wrapped bars of soap with a sketch of the house on the wrapper. I smelled a bar and was doing so when a blond woman came bouncing in with a smile. She was about fifty and seemed to be full of an energy I didn’t feel. I put down the soap.

“Yes, sir?” she asked. “You have a reservation?”

“No,” I said. “I’m looking for Melanie Sebastian, a guest here.”

Some of the bounce left the woman but there was still a smile when she said,

“No guest by that name is registered.”

I pulled out the photograph Carl Sebastian had given me and showed it to her, the one of Carl and Melanie happy on the beach. She took it and looked long and hard.

“Are you a friend of hers?”

“I’m not an enemy.”

She looked hard at the photograph again.

“I suppose you’ll hang around even if I tell you I’ve never seen her?”

“Beach is public,” I said. “And I like to look at birds and waves.”

“That picture was taken three or four years ago, right out on the beach behind the house,” she said. “You’ll recognize some of the houses in the background if you go out there.”

I went out there. There was a small, clear-blue swimming pool behind the house and a chest-high picket fence just beyond it. The waves were coming in low on the beach about thirty yards away, hitting the white sand with a moan, bringing in a new crop of broken shells and an occasional fossilized shark’s tooth or dead fish.

I went through the gate to the beach and looked around. A toddler was chasing gulls and not even coming close, which was in the kid’s best interest. A couple, probably the kid’s parents, sat on a brightly colored beach towel watching the child and talking. Individuals, duos and quartets of all ages walked along the shoreline in bare feet or floppy sandals. Melanie Sebastian was easy to find. There were five aluminum beach loungers covered in strips of white vinyl. Melanie Sebastian sat in the middle lounger. The other four were empty.