“For five dollars?” he asked. “There are crevices of this city of sun and beautiful beaches where hidden people for two dollars a night provide cots and dubious company. I have a friend who lives beneath a stone bench right on Bayfront Park. His head rests on his guitar and the police leave him alone. For fifty cents, he will move over and share his musical pillow.”
“A roof, Digger,” I said, opening the envelope.
“Then Lilla’s it shall be,” he said, his head lolling. “A refreshing walk in the evening, a cot, and conversation. Life goes on but the pace is so slow.”
“I agree,” I said as he staggered out the door and closed it behind him.
The four-folded unlined sheet of paper in front of me was written in the same block letters as the first one left by Digger’s monk:
YOU CAN’T BRING BACK THE DEAD. LET THEM REST. YOU CAN ONLY MAKE IT WORSE.
That was it. I have been threatened by pimps, muggers, cops-crooked and otherwise-goons, loons, and the completely mad. This note read less like a threat than a warning, a warning that something bad could come out of the box if I opened it any wider and looked in.
I called Sally. Her son Michael answered.
“It’s Lew. Your mom home?”
“Yeah, you ever have zits?”
“Yes,” I said. “When I was about your age. Also boils. Two on my neck. Had to be lanced. Hurt like hell.”
“I don’t have boils,” Michael said.
“I know. I was trying to make you feel better,” I said. “I understand they have all kinds of things for pimples. Over the counter.”
“They don’t work,” said Michael.
“Soap, water, prayer, and the passage of time,” I said.
“Shit,” he said. “I thought you might be able to come up with something. You know, like some old Italian remedy. Italian kids don’t seem to get it as bad as Jewish kids.”
“I always thought it was the other way around.”
“Here’s my mother.”
I heard the clinking of the phone being passed and heard Sally say, “Lew?”
“Yes, Michael and I were just bonding philosophically over adolescent pimples.”
“Adele called,” she said. “Not long ago. Michael just went back in his room. I think the pimple talk was a result of talking to Adele. He’s got a crush on her. God, I’m doing more than showing my age. ‘Crush.’ They must have a better word for it now, or at least a more graphic one.”
“Adele has that affect on men and boys,” I said.
“She told me she was all right and that she planned to continue to burn Lonsberg’s manuscripts. She asked me to tell her how much trouble she was really in.”
“And you told her?” I asked.
“Can’t lie to them, Lew. Once they catch me in a lie they never believe me again. I told her Lonsberg wanted the manuscripts back, of course, but I also told her I didn’t think he’d be going to the police about them. She had already figured that one out. I told her she had to go back to Flo’s or she was subject at worst to criminal charges or to placement in another foster home. She asked me if I’d do that.”
“And you said ‘no.’”
“I said ‘no.’ Where could I place a sixteen-year-old former prostitute? The possibilities are few. Flo is perfect for her. So, I asked her about Mickey Merrymen and his grandfather. She said they had gone to his house, found his body, grabbed a few things, and left. She wasn’t lying, Lew.”
“You’re sure?”
“You mean would I put my life on the line for it? No, but I believe her. I told her the police were certainly looking for Mickey.”
“So?”
“She’s angry,” Sally said. “She’s determined. All she would say is ‘He’s going to suffer for every page.’ Then she hung up. Hold it.” Sally put her hand over the mouthpiece but I could hear her call out, “Susan, did you shampoo? That was one quick shower… No, I’m not calling you a liar. It’s a matter of degree and intensity. I’m sure your hair is wet and has just had at least a passing acquaintance with shampoo. I’ll check.” Then back on the phone with me. “Lew, I can cover Adele for a few days, even that’s taking a chance. I’ll file a report that she may be missing. The report will stay buried on my overburdened desk for a few days, no more. Find her.”
“Sunday?” I asked. “Can you get away for a movie?”
“I can get away if I bribe Michael and Susan with a Scream 3 tape from Blockbuster and a sausage pizza.”
“Seven?”
“Check the show times,” she said.
We hung up. That left Dorsey to call. I dialed. The voice came on before the first ring had ended.
“Yes,” he said.
“Lew Fonesca,” I said.
“My wife is out,” he said. “She’ll be back soon. So this has to be fast. I talk to Charlie once or twice a year. He always calls me, never tells me where he is, but…”
“Caller ID,” I guessed.
“Yes,” Clark Dorsey said as if he had just betrayed his brother, which was probably just what he was thinking.
“Vera Lynn is alive?” I asked.
“Yes, but I don’t know much. He just says, ‘Clark, are you okay?’ I say, ‘I’m fine.’ He says he’s fine though he doesn’t sound it. And then he hangs up. That’s it. He sounds worse each time we talk. We’re brothers. We were close. Now… I think he needs help.”
“What number did he call from?” I asked, reaching for an envelope and a blunt pencil.
“I called it back,” he said, giving me the number. “It was a phone booth in a rib house someplace not far from Macon, Georgia, called Vanaloosa. A man with a black accent answered, said there were no white people around that neighborhood. Charles must have picked out the phone so I couldn’t find him. Maybe you can. He sounded like… he sounded like. I can’t explain it. Like he was dead and going through the motions. My brother was tough, Fonesca. Big, tough, smart. I don’t know if you can resurrect the near dead. My wife thinks what happened to Charles is responsible for our… well, responsible for what we are. But he’s my brother.”
“I’ll try to find him. How’s the house coming?”
“I bought new lumber like your friend suggested. I’ll even out the walls, but the house doesn’t seem to care. It just grows, section by section, each room holding less and less.”
“Ever think of seeing a shrink?” I asked.
“I don’t believe in it,” he said.
“I see a shrink,” I said. “Good one. I think she’d see you. You might want to give it a try.”
“My wife would like it,” he said flatly. “But I’m not sure I want to be anything else than I am.”
“I know. You get used to it,” I said. “Then it’s hard to give up the pain.”
“Yes, I guess. How do you know?”
“You build more rooms. I crawl back into smaller ones,” I said. “I don’t like talking about it.”
“I know,” he said. “Give me your shrink’s name. And let me know if you find Charlie and Vera Lynn. I’ll pay whatever…”
“I’ve already got a client,” I said.
“Marvin,” he said.
“What does he want with his sister after all this time?” Dorsey asked.
“Maybe I’ll find out,” I said.
We hung up. That left Marvin Uliaks and Conrad Lonsberg to see in the morning. I checked my face in the mirror of my small back room. The mark of Bubbles Dreemer seemed to be gone. I shaved with the electric so I could be sure. It was gone.
I went out the door. It was raining. The DQ lights were out. All the lights on the street I could see from the
