“Hey, he’s home losing weight, watching Judge Judy, drinking green tea, and chewing on Advil. He should be happy. How can I make you happy?”
“What’ve you got?”
“Personality,” said Fred who stood up from his desk and saluted me with his coffee. He was wearing navy slacks and a short-sleeved pullover with “EZ Economy” embossed in white on the single pocket. “And coffee. It’s bad but it’s strong. Put three packets of Equal in it and it’s tolerable.”
’Tempting,” I said, “but I’m thinking more of a deal on something small and cheap.”
Fred took a sip of coffee and nodded to indicate he knew just what I wanted. I knew he did. He just wanted to bicker for a while.
“Got a ‘99 GEO, tracker, runs smooth, fifteen thousand plus miles. How long you need it?”
“I don’t know. A day, maybe two.”
“One hundred a day, everything covered including insurance. Is that a bargain or is that a bargain?”
“That’s a bargain,” I agreed. “Give me a better one.”
Fred shrugged and drank some coffee. He looked deeply into the cup, maybe reading the grounds and my future.
“How cheap we going here? You got a homeless client or something?”
“Something,” I agreed.
“The ‘88 Cutlass, the white one with ninety-four thousand miles. Looks good. Runs. I’ll sell it to you for five hundred.”
“I’ll rent it for twenty-five a day,” I said.
“You’re no fun today, Fonesca,” he said, going to the wall and taking a set of keys off one of the little hooks.
“I didn’t know I was fun any day,” I said as he looked at me and tossed the keys.
He was about to come back with something Fred clever but the telephone was ringing.
“Car’s where it always is. I think it has some gas. I’ll keep a tab. Quick question.”
The phone kept ringing.
“Okay.”
“Who gave you that cheek?”
“Woman named Roberta Dreemer,” I said.
“Bubbles,” said Fred. “She’s living hell.”
“I’ve got the mark of the devil,” I said, thinking it was true in more ways than one.
Fred picked up the phone and waved good-bye to me.
“Glaucoma?” he said to whoever was on the other end of the phone.
I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I headed for the white Cutlass.
2
It wasnt far to Flo’s place. I took Fruitville to the Trail, then down to Siesta Drive, made a right, crossed Osprey, and then took a left into Flo Zink’s driveway just before the bridge to Siesta Key. I would have preferred to keep going to the beach and just sit on a bench watching the gulls and pelicans.
There was a small black Toyota in the circular driveway. The white minivan wasn’t there. Flo had lost her license twice in Florida for DUI violations. She hadn’t hurt anyone, but that wasn’t the point and she knew it. Flo had her license back but seldom drove even when ice-clear sober and when she did drive it was the white minivan.
The door was opened before I had a chance to knock.
Flo stood there, denim skirt, blue and red checkerboard shirt, and a glass in her hand. Her hair was white, cut short, and looking frizzy. Flo reminded me of Thelma Ritter, even looked a little like the actress. I told her that once. Her answer had been, “Gus always said I looked like Greer Garson.”
Behind Flo I could hear her stereo blasting from the speakers throughout the house. All she played was country and western music, most of it from decades ago. She liked Roy Acuff, Roy Rogers, and The Sons of the Pioneers. Patsy Cline was, however, her favorite and it was Patsy in the background wailing, “If you loved me half as much as I love you…”
“Let’s get it out of the way before you come in,” she said. “I’ve been drinking. I plan to stop again when you find Adele and bring her home.”
“Can I come in?”
She stepped back and lifted her arm. I stepped in.
Patsy sang, “… you wouldn’t do half the things you do.”
“Can we turn the music down?”
“Why not?” Flo said, leading me into the large living room and heading for the stereo against the wall. She turned a knob and Patsy faded into the background.
“Adele worked this out,” she said. “Set up this Internet music thing, found a radio station in Fort Worth that plays my music, and figured out how to pipe it through the stereo. Adele is smart.”
Flo took a drink and pressed her lips together.
Flo’s home, a large sprawling one-story building with no exterior beauty but a great view of Sarasota Bay, was decorated in early Clint Eastwood. The furniture was ranch western and lots of Stickney. There were Navajo rugs on the wood floors and Hopi blankets on the sofas and chairs. Aside from the rugs and blankets, Flo’s house was dark wood and simple furniture. On the table in the center of the room between a sofa and two chairs sat a genuine Remington of a cowboy on a rearing horse. A stag head with massive antlers looked down at us from one wall.
I sat in one of the chairs. Flo sat on the sofa, one arm draped over the back, the other holding the drink that she looked at from time to time to be sure it existed.
“You want a drink?” she asked.
“I’ve already had a beer this morning,” I said.
Her eyebrows went up.
“Careful there, sad eyes,” she said. “Beer can lead to all sorts of things. Let’s get to it. Adele’s gone, took the van. She’s… what happened to your face?”
“Someone hit me,” I said with a small smile to suggest that such things happen.
“Why?”
“I served her papers.”
“Slap the messenger,” she said with an understanding tilt of her head. “You hit her back?”
I didn’t answer.
“Give me her name and I’ll go kick her ass for you,” she said.
“She’s big,” I said. “And kicking her ass won’t make me feel better. Flo, why am I here?”
“To find Adele,” she said. “I told you.”
“Are you sure she ran away?”
“Drove, been gone three days. Took the van. Left a note. Here.”
She reached into the pocket of her flannel shirt, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to me. It was double folded. I opened it and read: “Flo, I don’t know if I’m coming back. I’ll pay you for the van when I have the money or I’ll return it. There’s something I’ve got to do. I’ll call. You know I love you.” It was signed “Adios, Adele.”
“Why?”
“Maybe she couldn’t take me acting like a mother. I don’t think so. She seemed to like it. Maybe she ran away with Mickey what’s-his-name, works at the Burger King right over there on the Trail. She’s been seeing him. But I’m betting on Conrad Lonsberg.”
“The writer?” I asked.
“Not many other people around here named Conrad Lonsberg, are there?” she said, working on her drink. “Yes, the great Conrad Lonsberg.”
