Midnight Pass: A Lew Fonesca Novel Part 19

"I'm basically literate," I said. "But I prefer old movies."

"Never could get into movies," Stanley said, adjusting his gla.s.ses. "Books? You can lose yourself in a poem, in a book, go to another s.p.a.ce, time, world, a place better or worse than the one we're in, but definitely far from it."

"Kevin Hoffmann a reader?"

"A patron of the arts," Stanley said. "Theater, opera, symphony, ballet."

"And baseball."

"And baseball," Stanley agreed. "Dr. Obermeyer drinks a little."

"Dr. Obermeyer drinks a lot," I said.

"And when he drinks he talks."

"He talks," I agreed.

"Mr. Hoffmann would prefer that you not talk to Dr. Obermeyer."

"I can appreciate that."

"Mr. Hoffmann will be upset if you talk to Dr. Obermeyer again."

"Upset?"

"*Who wills to know what weal awaits him, must first learn the ill that G.o.d for him hath wrought.' Benvenuto Cellini wrote that in his autobiography."

"And it means?"

"Simply put," Stanley said, "if you talk to the doctor again, you'll discover something bad waiting for you."

There really wasn't much more to say.

Stanley walked toward the bar. I had the feeling Dr. Obermeyer was about to have a new drinking partner. I wondered what Stanley's drink of choice might be. I guessed Diet Sprite.

10.

IT WAS THURSDAY NIGHT, a little before nine. The rain had started again. It wasn't much of a rain but it was enough to hide the moon and stars and give me a feeling of protective isolation from people.

Traffic going north on Tamiami Trail was light, but there was the usual cast of coastal Florida characters on the road. I pa.s.sed the infirmed and ancient, weak of sight, hearing, and judgment, hunching forward to squint into the darkness, driving twenty miles under the speed limit, trying not to admit to themselves that they were afraid of driving. These senior drivers were a potential menace, but I understood their loneliness, their unwillingness to give up driving and lose even more of their contact with the world.

Then there were the grinning kids in late-model cars or pickup trucks. They took chances, cut people off, and were unaware that death was a reality. You might challenge death fifty, a hundred, two hundred times, but the one time you lost, the game was over. They didn't consider losing. The game was everything.

There were families on their way back from somewhere or someone, one or two children sleeping in the backseat, mother and father in the front listening to the radio, just wanting to make it home and to bed for a few hours.

And then there was me.

I stopped at the video store a block from the DQ. They specialized in Spanish-language movies, but had a good collection of American movies from the Thirties, Forties, and Fifties, most of them second-generation copies.

Eduardo, overweight, sagging eyes, too-small b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, sat behind the counter at the back of the small store. He nodded when I walked in. Eduardo had been an almost promising middleweight in the late Seventies. Time had been no more kind to him than it had to me.

I didn't think I would find what I was looking for, but I did. I almost missed it. It was one I hadn't seen before called Forbidden Destiny. I recognized the t.i.tle, knew who was in it. I found it in the bin of overused tapes for sale in a plain white box with the t.i.tle printed in ink on the spine. I gave Eduardo three dollars.

"Rain," Eduardo said, looking out the window. "Bad for business. I think I'll just close up early and get a beer at the Crisp Dollar Bill. You want to come?"

"Tired," I said. "Busy day."

Eduardo understood tired. I don't think he knew much about busy days. He nodded.

When I got to my office just before ten, I found a message on the machine from Sally. "Lew, call when you get this if it's before ten."

I called.

"h.e.l.lo," said Susan, Sally's daughter. Susan was eleven and was convinced that every time the phone rang it was for her.

"It's me, Lew," I said.

"I'll get her," Susan said, and put down the phone.

I could hear the television playing. The voice sounded like George Clooney in serious mode.

"It's Mr. Suns.h.i.+ne, Mom," Susan called.

"Dork," said Michael, who was going to be fifteen some time soon. "He can probably hear you."

"Lew?"

"Mr. Suns.h.i.+ne himself," I said.

"I have to talk to you about the Severtsons. I need to fill out a report and I want to quote you in it."

"Ken Severtson wants custody of the kids," I guessed. "And he wants a divorce."

"Neither," she said. "I talked to them a few hours ago. They're going to stay together."

"For the kids," I said.

"It's always for the kids," she said. "Even when it's the worst thing that can happen to the kids. Well, almost the worst thing."

The light in my office came from a line of fluorescent overheads, two of which were out, one of which was flickering and pinging. I could see the painting, the Dalstrom painting of the black forest and the single colorful flower.

"You think the kids should be taken away from the Severtsons?" I asked.

"It doesn't much matter what I think. There's not a judge in the state who would take kids away from parents who aren't criminal offenders, don't take drugs, and don't beat the kids. But a detective in Orlando faxed a report to the sheriff's office here, and the sheriff's office sent me a copy."

"Which says?"

"Mother and children present at a suspicious death. Mother in bed with a man who wasn't her husband. Family bears watching. We add that to the complaint about them from before and...I don't know."

"What?"

"Report on Stark," she said. "Lost his wife. Had some trouble with the law when he was young, but he's been a regular churchgoer for years. Upstanding businessman. Volunteer at the food bank."

"And child molester?" I added.

"Nothing in his past and no proof but Janice Severtson's word," said Sally. "Neither child remembers ever being touched by Stark."

"It would have happened. It was about to happen."

"But it didn't," Sally said. "Can you do me a favor and write out your version of what you know happened, what she told you, how Kenny and Sydney behaved? I'll attach it to my report and list you as a semiretired former member of the Office of State Attorney of Cook County, Illinois."

"When do you need it?"

"Soon," she said. "Tomorrow? The kids want to go to the movies Sat.u.r.day. How about coming over here for dinner and you join us?"

Sally couldn't help it. It was her mission. Saving children and reclusive process servers. She knew I didn't like going to the movies. I preferred my cot, something old in black-and-white, and being alone. She had made progress with me. I had gone out to restaurants alone with Sally five times, and seven or eight times with her and kids. The kids liked The Bangkok. Susan liked getting a sugar high on Thai iced tea.

The rain started to come down harder. I could hear it beating on the concrete outside my door.

"Dinner is fine," I said. "I'll let you know about the movie."

"I was just joking when I called you Mr. Suns.h.i.+ne," Susan suddenly came on.

"I know," I said. "You know any real jokes?"

"Sure. Blond jokes. Lots of them. Why?"

"I'm collecting them for a friend I have to see in the morning."

Susan told me a joke. I jotted it down in my notebook and thanked her and then Sally came back on.

"Tomorrow," she said. "Afternoon. I have to be in court in the morning. Another crack child is going to be given back to his mother who just got out of rehab."

"And you'll fight it."

"And lose," Sally said. "And then I'll have the case back in a month or two or five and we'll start the same cycle again. Listen to me. I'm starting to sound like you."

"Did you hear the joke Susan just told me?" I asked.

"No."

"Ask her to tell it to you. I think it will make you smile."

"Did it make you smile, Lew?"

"No," I admitted. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon sometime."

When we hung up, I turned off the office light, went into my cubbyhole room, hit the light switch, and got undressed. I put on a fresh pair of underwear, turned on the VCR and the television, and popped Forbidden Destiny into the slot.

I watched George Nader and Ernest Borgnine plan a bank robbery before Claire Collins appeared, her hair swept back, a knowing smile on her face, a dark sweater and skirt, her mouth pouting, her eyes darting.

When it was over, I turned off the television with the remote and lay in the dark listening to the rain.

Tomorrow was a busy day. I hated busy days.

The rain had stopped by morning but the sky was still dark and the DQ parking lot wet with puddles where the concrete was indented. Cars kicked up splashes and small waves on 301. My watch told me it was eight o'clock.

The phone rang. I got to it before the answering machine kicked in.

"Fonesca," I said.

"You know where the Seventeenth Street softball fields are?" Kevin Hoffmann asked, full of energy.

"I can find them," I said.

"Go east down Seventeenth past Beneva," he said. "You'll see the sign on the right. Drive past the big enclosed field where people run their dogs, and park in the lot. You'll see the fields. I'll be at the first diamond on your right."

"When?"

"If the rain doesn't come back, we'll start our first game in about half an hour."

"I've got a ten o'clock appointment," I said.

"It won't take long," he said.

"I can come to your house later," I said.

"I think it'll be better if you stay away from my house," he said.

"And from William Trasker?"

"Healthier," he said.

"For who?"

"Everyone involved. Get to the game as soon as you can."

I hung up, checked my watch again. I had time.

I put on clean underwear and my jeans, picked up my clean towel and green plastic bag with my soap, razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, and went out on the landing. The air was heavy and wet and I didn't want to deal with it.