steaming blue metal bowl along with a glass of dark beer.
“Special,” said Harry. “Mandarin Nacho Supreme.”
He departed and I looked at McKinney.
“You in a hurry?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“You gonna talk to me straight?”
“I’ll try,” I said, drinking some beer and looking down at the brown stuff in the bowl.
“How’s business?”
The Braves must have done something interesting. Harry and some of the customers groaned, and one shouted, “You see that?”
“Business is bad,” I said.
McKinney nodded.
“Then you got time to concentrate on what I’m gonna give you.”
“Depends on what it is,” I said.
“How old you, Mr. Fonesca?”
“Call me Lew,” I said. “I’m forty-one.”
“Your people? Italian? Mex?”
“Italian.”
He nodded and ate some more.
“You a good man?”
I shrugged.
“No, but I’m an honest one. I can prove it. You can see my office.”
“Lots of crooks are broke,” he said. “They just don’t know how to do thievin’ right. But I believe you,” he said, wiping the bottom of his plate with a wad of sourdough bread.
“Thanks,” I said. “What is it you want me to do?”
What he wanted was for me to find his former partner, a man named Amos Sprague, who Ames had tracked to Sarasota.
“I tracked him slow through a sister of his in Yuma, a dentist he went to in Truckee, a car dealer he bought a Dodge pickup from in Texarkana,” Ames had explained. “Got him down to here. Lost him. Need some help.”
“Can I ask why you’ve spent a year looking for Amos Sprague?”
Some business guys at the table behind me let out a whoop of laughter. One of them started to choke.
“We were partners, cattle. Hard work, but it pays if you know what you’re doin’,” said McKinney. “Amos took the money out of our joint account on a Saturday afternoon and took off in the company truck.”
“How much did he take off with?”
“A million and four hundred thousand dollars even. He left eighteen hundred in the bank. Bought a motor scooter and been livin’ on the rest since.”
“And you want your money back?” I asked.
“I want Amos Sprague dead,” he said. “I can’t live dignified or die justified with this unfinished between us.”
“So I find Amos Sprague and tell him to give you your money back or…”
“Tell me where he is and I shoot him between the eyes.”
“Seems simple enough,” I said. “My fee is…”
“Contingency and some cash out flat,” said McKinney.
“I don’t…”
“I’ve got a little over five hundred to my name. I’ll give you half and a week. You can’t find him in a week I get me a job and raise enough to find someone who can. You find him and get the money back and I give you twenty thousand. Simple as that.”
“Fair enough,” I said toasting him with what remained of my beer. “What can you give me on Sprague?”
He had given me enough to find Sprague, who had a new name, new wife, new teeth and a reputation for philanthropy. I found him and made the mistake of telling Ames. The two old men had an old-fashioned duel on the beach. I had arrived in time to watch it and testify later that Sprague had pulled his gun and fired first.
Ames had decided to stay in Sarasota. I guess he was my best friend.
I stepped in and Ames closed and locked the door behind me.
Beryl Tree was sitting in the straight-backed chair that went with the small desk near the window. The chair was beyond the bed near the bathroom. The window drapes were closed and only one small lamp over the bed was on.
Beryl Tree had her hands folded in her lap.
“He called,” she said.
“Ames called you?”
“No, Dwight. Called. Said if I didn’t get out and stop lookin’ for Adele, he’d come and kill me. He knows you’re lookin’ for him too. Told me to tell you to stop.”
She touched the bruise on her face.
I moved over to the bed, sat and faced her. She was holding on, sitting straight, but there was a catch in her voice and her eyes were focused on some distant thought on a far-away planet. If she started rocking, I knew she would be in real trouble.
“How did he know where you were?” I asked, reaching over to touch her hand.
When she felt my fingers, she came back to earth, almost, and looked at me as if she were trying to remember who I was.
“Remember I told you I saw him at the Waffle House across the street? He followed me, watched me go into this room. After he called, I called your number. Mr. McKinney answered. I guess I sounded… he asked what was wrong, said he was your friend. I told him and…”
“I was fixing your air conditioner,” Ames said, holding the gun at his side. It looked like the one with which he had shot his partner, a gun right out of a Randolph Scott western. “Tryin’ to anyway.”
“They could send you back for carrying that gun,” I said.
“Not much choice, was there,” he said.
“Maybe not,” I agreed.
“Borrowed it from Ed. He’s got a collection,” said Ames.
Ed Fairing owned the Texas Bar and Grill on Second Street off of downtown. The Texas was not a place where you’d find snowbirds, retirees and people with money. You would find great hot chili and good thick burgers, both with enough fat to kill a long-distance runner and enough taste to lure a vegetarian. Ames had a small room behind the kitchen. In exchange for room and board and a minimal salary, Ames kept the Texas clean and swept. Ames had once been more than a millionaire, but he was content with his job. It gave him plenty of time to think, read the Bible and do odd jobs for me from time to time on his motor scooter. Ames had also become a great source of information. People liked to talk to the tall, quiet man, and the people who came into the Texas often had interesting things to talk about.
“Ever hear of Dwight Handford?” I asked Ames.
Ames thought for a moment and then said,
“From Ms. Tree’s description, I think maybe he came into the Texas about three or four months back. Drunk. Tried to start a fight with a tomato picker named Seranas, skinny little fella minding his business. Ed threw this guy out who mighta been Handford.”
When Ed threw someone out, it wasn’t figurative. Ed Fairing had played two years for the Dallas Cowboys. Never a starter. Popped a knee. Gained some weight. Lost some weight and moved to Sarasota, where he had relatives. With the few thousand dollars he had left, Ed had bought the bar and made a living serving as his own cook and bartender. Ed still topped 300 pounds and never lost his temper.
“Think you could ask some questions?” I asked.
Ames nodded.
“Think you can get that gun back to Ed fast?”
Ames nodded again.
“I’m not goin’,” said Beryl Tree.
