“Why would I know?”
“Don’t wear me out,” he said.
He had stopped drumming.
“A neighbor saw two men going into Handford’s house this morning. Tall man with a yellow raincoat and a short bald man. They came in a little white car and left in it a few minutes after they went in. Sound familiar?”
“Anything else?”
“Manatee medical examiner is looking at the body. At this point all he’s sure of is that Handford is dead and that he died sometime last night or early this morning, very early, before you and your friend were there.”
“And?”
“You’re going to play games with me, aren’t you, Fonesca? Handford was murdered. Shot. Between you, me and the painters out there if they’re listening at the door, I say the world’s a little better place today. Fonesca, did you kill him?”
“You mean did I drive out to Palmetto in the middle of the night, kill him and then drive back in the morning, discover the body and not report it?”
“Did you kill him?” Vivaise repeated.
“No, did you?”
“Not funny,” he said.
“Not meant to be. You have the weapons, the reason. The same reason I’d have. You’re happy he’s dead.”
“My guess is a lot of people are happy he’s dead,” Vivaise said.
“Why is it your case if it happened in Palmetto?”
“Because I think Handford murdered his wife and probably murdered Tony Spiltz, who died within the jurisdiction of the Sarasota Police Department, died in my county. And the Palmetto police are happy to give it to me as long as I keep them informed.”
“Pirannes’s boat pulled out this morning,” I said.
“I know. We’re looking for him.”
“What now?”
“You feel like confessing?”
“To what?” I said.
He threw up his hands.
“To anything. A plot to kill the President. Crossing Proctor against the lights. I’ll take what I can get. Have you been to confession recently?”
“I’m not a Catholic,” I said. “Episcopalian, very lapsed.”
“Do you know who killed Handford or Spiltz?” he asked.
“I’m working on it. Let’s pin it on Pirannes. If he didn’t do the murders, I’m sure he did others we know not of. He gave me reason to believe.”
“That the way the police think in Chicago?” he asked.
“That’s the way,” I said. “But I’m not a cop.”
“You’re not even a private investigator,” he said, beginning to steam. “You’re are a goddamn little process server with a big nose that gets into places where it shouldn’t be.”
“I agree,” I said.
“Get out, Fonesca,” he said, both hands on the table. “I know where to find you.”
“What happened to those two guys last night? The black guys in handcuffs?”
“You are a piece of work, Fonesca,” he said with a grin almost as sad as mine.
“I can’t help it,” I said.
“They got off,” he said. “They’re car thieves, but we didn’t have enough to keep them without a confession. They didn’t confess. They went home. That’s the way it usually is.”
“Another question?” I asked.
“Why not?” Vivaise said.
“Have you ever been to the Ringling Museum?”
“You are nuts, Fonesca.”
“Maybe, but I’m taking a sort of survey.”
“I’ve been to the museum. My wife and I have taken the kids. We’re museum members. I like it there. It’s peaceful, old. It’s a refuge, a garden of sanity, a sanctuary from the mad chaotic world outside, the world where people like you drive the streets and ask crazy questions. You satisfied with my answer?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Get out, Lewis,” he said calmly. “I sort of like you, but that can change quickly.”
I got out. The two young cops who had brought me here were waiting outside Vivaise’s door watching the painters, talking to them, laughing. They offered to take me home. I told them I’d walk.
I went down Main Street past the YMCA. I hadn’t been there for five days. I longed for that bicycle ride and workout. I wanted my routine back. I wanted my loneliness back. I looked at the people beyond the glass on the exercise machines. I thought, waited for an epiphany. None came. I walked back to 301 and headed south toward home.
When I passed the Crisp Dollar Bill across from the DQ, it hit me. It hit me hard. It was the only thing that made sense. I didn’t like the sense it made.
The blue Buick was parked in the DQ lot. The blue angel was sitting at one of the tables eating what looked like the deluxe burger. He had probably seen the cops pick me up and had decided it wasn’t a good idea to follow a police car. He was waiting for me.
I didn’t want him with me where I was going, so I went into the Crisp Dollar Bill. It took my eyes a few long seconds to adjust to the darkness. There was no music. I had lived across from the bar for more than two years and had never been in it before. It wasn’t as big as I thought it would be, just a line of wooden tables to the right and a long bar with stools on the left. There were no booths. One man sat alone at a table. He was a silent solitary drinker, his eyes fixed in the past. He was wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt and I guessed his age at fifty.
There were two people at the bar, talking quietly. One was a woman who looked as if she were a retiree from the North Trail. The man wore a rumpled suit and had his back to me.
I went to the bar and ordered a Budweiser from the lean, long-haired bartender, who might have been any age between forty and sixty. He gave me a friendly smile and wink and said, “Coming up.”
No music. I liked that. I never understood why, when you got in someone’s car or went to their home to talk, they turned on music.
The television over the bar was off and the place was dark. I liked it here. I wondered if it was like this at night. I didn’t think so. Late afternoon was the time to come to the Crisp Dollar Bill. I’d remember that.
“Phone?” I asked when the bartender came back with my beer.
“Back there by the john,” he said. “Need change?”
I checked. I had a handful of quarters and other change in my pocket.
“No,” I said.
“Give me a nod if you want your bill or another Bud,” he said.
“There’s no music,” I said.
“Music-free bar,” he said. “Watch a football game once in a while. Sundays, Monday night. Quiet most nights.”
He moved down the bar toward the man and the woman. The bartender knew I needed space. He was one hell of a good bartender.
I made my call and went back to finish my beer.
Ten minutes later, my glass empty, I paid my bill and left a good tip.
I went out the door and looked over at the DQ. The blue angel had finished his burger. He was probably back in his Buick watching the parking lot and my door. I walked back to Main Street and stood in front of the Main Street Book Store across from the Hollywood Twenty movie theaters.
Ames pulled up on his motor scooter a few minutes later. He was wearing his blue zipper jacket and a helmet. I moved to the scooter and he handed me a helmet. It was a duplicate of his, green.
I had told him on the phone where we were going. I hadn’t told him why. It was too noisy on the scooter to
