There was nothing in his hands but his fists were clenched tight.
I didn’t have to guess who he was.
“Where’s Adele?” I asked.
Dwight Handford was no more than three yards away and closing in slowly. I was on the second step. I turned to face him. With me standing on the second step our eyes were almost dead even. Even in the dim light I could see that his eyes were blue-gray and dancing.
“You’re a dago, right?” he said.
“And you’re a redneck,” I answered.
“That sort of sets up how we’re gonna have this conversation,” he said. He had closed the distance between us to less than a yard. “Dagos understand violence.”
“And rednecks know how to come up with it,” I said.
“I’m not stupid, dago,” he said.
“Can we switch to wop?” I asked.
“Suit yourself,” he said with a smile. “I’m planning to hurt you just enough to let you know I’m serious.
Then you’re gonna tell me where Beryl is. I’m gonna go see her and be sure she leaves town. You’re gonna stop looking for Adele and asking questions.”
“How did you find out I was looking for you?” I asked.
“You asked a lot of people,” he said, inches from my face now. “Where is she?”
“Are you willing to kill me over this?” I asked.
“Maybe, I’ve… maybe.”
“I’m not telling you,” I said.
He searched my eyes.
“You’re not scared,” he said.
“No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I said. “I’m not sure myself. Sometimes I think I came here to sit down in a chair, watch old videos, eat at the DQ and die.”
“You’re a crazy son of a bitch,” said Handford.
“I don’t know. I’ve thought about it. I don’t think so. But you may be right. I think it’s a lot more complicated than that.”
“We’ll see,” he said, slamming his right fist into my stomach. I started to sink, grabbed the railing. Whatever was in my stomach wanted out. He’d missed the rib cage.
“Where is Beryl?” he asked. “I’m not an unreasonable man. I just want to be left alone. I want Adele to be left alone. She’s mine and I fully intend to keep her and take care of her.”
“You’ve done a great job so far,” I said, sinking back on the steps and letting go of the rail so I could clutch my stomach. “You’ve got her out selling herself on the Trail.”
He stood over me, hands on his hips, and shook his head.
“It’s all fuckin’ simple for you,” he said. “You don’t know shit, do you?”
I nodded. I really didn’t feel much like talking.
“Then I’ll tell,” he went on. “It’s all about stayin’ alive and doing what you feel like doin’ without getting caught. You live. You die and there ain’t no God watchin’. You understand?”
I nodded again.
“Just because cowards like you say there’s somethin’ wrong with what I do, don’t make it wrong. It’s horse shit. If God didn’t want me doing what I do, he’d have nailed my ass to the shit house wall long time ago.”
“I’m glad I’m being beaten by a brillant, if maniac philosopher,” I said, gasping at the end.
“Wop,” he said, “for the last time, where is Beryl? Answer me fast. Answer me true or you’re goin’ to the hospital or worse. You read Studs Lonigan?”
“No,” I gasped.
“What I’m gonna do to you is in that book. Look for it if you live out the night.”
I came up as quickly as I could and rammed my head into his face. He staggered back with a groan and I sank back down on the steps. I had intended to run for the DQ, but my legs weren’t on my side. Handford moved back toward me. It didn’t take much imagination to know what was about to happen.
But it didn’t happen.
A man came out from behind my car. Dwight Handford paused. The man took a few steps toward us. He was built like a wrestler, a short round wrestler. He was almost bald and he looked bored. He wore slacks, a sports jacket and a white shirt with no tie.
“Walk away,” Handford said to the man.
The man in the sports jacket moved closer.
“This is between my wop friend and me,” Handford said. “A matter of filial responsibility. I heard that word on television. You like that word, wop? Filial.”
Handford’s nose was bleeding, badly. He didn’t bother to hold it or try to stop the bleeding.
“I’m Italian too,” said the new man. “And I don’t like people calling me names.”
“Walk,” Handford said between his teeth.
“You walk,” said the man. “You walk or I blow your goddamn head off.”
There was a gun in his hand now.
“Who the hell are you?” Handford asked.
“I’m a man with a fuckin’ big gun in my hand,” the man said. “And if you think I won’t shoot your pissant balls off, take another step toward Fonesca. Or better yet, take one toward me. The way I figure it you got only one way to go and that’s back into the fuckin’ night.”
“You won’t shoot,” Handford repeated, but he didn’t move.
“It would mess things up,” the man said, “but shit, I can make it work. I don’t feel like talking anymore. Get the hell out of here, fix your fuckin’ nose or die. Those are your choices and I’m real bored here.”
Handford looked at me. The look said we were going to meet again. Then Handford looked at the man with the gun. It was the same look.
“Next time I see you,” said Handford, pointing a finger at the man, “you may not have that gun.”
“Hey,” said the man. “If I don’t you’re in real god-damn trouble ’cause I’ll break your neck. Hey, I don’t need a show here. Move out.”
Handford moved back into the bushes. I could hear him rustling away. I watched the darkness for a few seconds and then turned toward the man with the gun. He was gone.
I groaned my way up the steps, used the rusting handrail and made it to my office. I went inside and locked the door behind me. Light came through the window from the DQ and cars on 301. I leaned my back against the door and tested the spot just below the ribs where Handford had punched me. I was reasonably sure nothing was broken or ruptured. It wasn’t that kind of pain.
There was a chance Handford would come back that night. I didn’t think so, but you never know. I didn’t have a gun but I did have a tire iron in my closet. I had rescued it from my Toyota when it died. The tire iron would remain dose to me, and my reasonably sturdy office chair would go under the doorknob. I couldn’t count on my guardian angel in a sports coat to return.
I closed the drapes, turned on the lamp on my desk and looked at the air conditioner in the window. It was humming and doing its best to kick out air. Ames had done something to it, but the air coming in was still almost as warm as the night.
I got the tire iron from the closet, brought it back to my desk, reached for the telephone and the folder Carl Sebastian had given me. It was almost nine. It felt like a washed-out midnight. I made my call. An answering machine kicked in with a male voice repeating the number and politely asking me to leave a message.
“My name is Lew Fonesca. I’m working for Carl Sebastian. I’d like to speak to Caroline Wilkerson. When she-”
“This is Caroline Wilkerson,” she said, picking up the phone.
Her voice was light, cultured.
“I’d like to talk to you about Melanie Sebastian,” I said.
“Are you all right, Mr…?”
