13
The hard part wasn’t convincing Flo to consider being a foster parent. The hard part was dealing with a Flo Zink I had never seen before, a Flo Zink, complete with big-buckled denim skirt and bespangled blouse, who seemed to be on the verge of tears.
“They won’t let me, Lew,” she said.
“I’ve got a friend in the right place,” I said.
Flo had poured me a beer without asking. I drank it. I had no idea what the glass with clear liquid and squares of ice in front of her contained. We were sitting in her living room listening to Johnny Cash.
“I don’t know if I can cut this stuff out,” she said, holding up her glass.
“Cutting back might be a start. Flo, I’m not handing you a present. I’m giving you one great big problem kid.”
“I liked Beryl,” she said.
“I did too.”
“Well, if I can get her, bring her on. I’m old but I’m good at taming tough ones. Want a snack?”
“I’ve got to go.”
Flo walked me to the door. The drink wasn’t in her hand.
“I’d love to get a bead on the forehead of Beryl’s husband-what’s his name?”
“Dwight Handford,” I said.
“If he’d come when Beryl left, as Hank Williams is my witness, I’d have killed him and Beryl would be alive.”
“Lot of people feel that way about Dwight,” I said. “Good night, Flo.”
It was late now, after eleven. I wondered if the blue Buick was out there in the dark waiting. I didn’t see it, but I hoped he was out there and hadn’t gone home for the night or gone wherever it was he slept. I would sleep better knowing he was watching my back.
I didn’t want to think. I wanted to wash, shave, put on some shorts, put a chair under my door, watch the tape of The Mad Miss Manton I’d bought at a garage sale for three dollars. I wanted to ease the nagging throb just below my ribs where Dwight had hit me.
There were no ghosts nor any of the living waiting in my office. I didn’t feel haunted by Beryl Tree. She would know I was on her side and that there was no point in my going out on the road in search of Dwight Handford tonight. I needed rest. I needed someone with a weapon to go with me. I needed to think of a really good threat or a really good lie to frighten Handford off. None came to mind.
I was lying back on my three pillows when the phone rang. I hit the pause button and went into the office.
“Fonesca,” I said.
“Where is she?”
I recognized the voice.
“Dwight, I’ve got some advice. The police are looking for you. John Pirannes is looking for you and tomorrow I’m going to be looking for you. I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Say it now,” he said.
“No. Worry about it overnight. You’re a smart man. Running would be better than satisfying your curiosity.”
“Where is Adele?” he demanded.
“Have a good night,” I said, hung up and disconnected the phone.
I was back in bed and pushing the pause button again. Barbara Stanwyck started moving in black-and-white as the window in my office exploded.
I went to the floor, rolled over and crawled to the window. I counted five and looked out from the darkness of my room. A pickup truck with a tow winch was backing out of the DQ parking lot.
No one but me lived in the office building. The DQ was closed. Traffic was light on 301. I waited in the window for ten minutes. No sirens. No police. No one had heard the shots or, if they had, no one had reported them.
I was reasonably sure he wouldn’t be back tonight. He knew I would probably call the police and he wanted to be far away with some kind of alibi. But there was also the chance that he would think it over, figure that he had nothing much to lose with two murders behind him in the past two days and come back not just to scare me off, but to stand outside my window and blow holes in me.
Dwight Handford was a piece of work.
I grabbed my things, got dressed fast and went into the night. There was a rumble somewhere in the west but it wasn’t raining. I went to the Geo, got in and went back to the Best Western, making sure I wasn’t being followed by a pickup truck. I didn’t see one. I didn’t see anything behind me. My blue angel had missed another chance to save me.
I checked in, went to my room, showered, shampooed and climbed into bed after I checked the thermostat and found that the room temperature was seventy. I was hot, hot the way I had been until a few months ago whenever I drove a car. I turned the room temperature down to sixty.
Then I lay in bed, in the dark listening to the cold air rushing in and doing nothing to cool me.
I had a dream about rain and endless bowls of soup with tiny people splashing around in the soup and crying for help as they drowned. There were soup spoons in each bowl. They could have climbed out on the handles of the spoons or at least clung to them to keep from drowning, but they thrashed around and cried for help in tiny voices, hundreds of tiny voices, hundreds of bowls of soup, white chowder, red tomato, clear broth, green cream of broccoli.
When I woke up, I was hungry and I was certain of something. The dream had told me this, though it had nothing that clearly suggested what I was thinking. I got out of bed and stood for a minute. The room was cold, but I wasn’t.
I made a call to the Texas Bar and Grill. Ed Fairing wouldn’t be there this early. The only one who might answer was Ames. He did after twenty rings.
“I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes,” I said. “Bring your hog leg.”
“Fine,” he said.
I hung up, shaved, dressed and went to the car.
The sky was black with the threat of heavy hot Florida rain. I picked Ames up in front of the Texas. He was wearing his slicker. This time it was more than possible he would need it. I was sure the shotgun was under the yellow coat. I was positive when he climbed in the car and put it across his knees. Then I told him where we were going and why. He nodded. I drove.
And that’s where I began this story. The dead man in the house in Palmetto was Dwight Handford. There was enough left of him to make the identification certain. I didn’t know how many times he had been shot and I didn’t care, probably six or seven. It had happened up close and very personal, a handgun.
Now, with the rain still coming down dark and dangerous, I drove back, this time down the Trail, down 41. I knew who the people in the soup were now. Their tiny faces had been clear but I had blocked them out. They were the faces of people I knew, one of whom had driven out to Palmetto and shot Dwight Handford dead.
Dwight’s house hadn’t been all that hard to find. What I had done others could have done in the same way or a different one. My blue angel could have done it, could have been waiting somewhere when Dwight shot out my window the night before, could have followed him home. My angel had been thrashing in pea soup. Then there was Pirannes, who had been cursing in a chilled peach fruit soup. And, though I didn’t remember seeing them, there must have been Sally and certainly the rigid old man at my side, Ames McKinney, and Flo. There were probably two or three others I hadn’t thought of yet and others I’d never heard of.
On the one hand, I didn’t really want to find the truth, but, on the other, I had to know. I couldn’t walk away. I might not turn the killer in, but I had to know.
“Ames, did you come out here last night on your scooter and kill Handford?”
“No,” he said, looking straight ahead.
“But you’re glad he’s dead?”
