doesn’t show up, we deadlock. If Trasker dies, we have an election fast, and I have no doubt given the constituency and the inclination of both parties, the new member will probably not vote with us. In addition, Parenelli stands a good chance of being defeated himself in the next open election.”
“You don’t?”
“I’m the token everything with Parenelli gone,” said the Reverend Wilkens. “The token black, the token liberal, the token clergyman. I am the exception that supposedly proves fairness. Every hypocrite in the business community will support me, even those who don’t live in District One, which I represent.”
“How do you know Trasker is missing?”
“I called his office,” said Wilkens. “He hasn’t come in since he came to see me. I called his home. His wife didn’t want to talk, but said Trasker was out of town on a family emergency and she had no idea when he would be coming back. I called the police and they asked me what the crime was?”
“You think he’s in town?” I asked.
“I pray he’s in town,” said Wilkens. “He led me to believe that he didn’t have very much time and that even coming to the meeting Friday would be against his doctor’s recommendation. I find it difficult to believe under the circumstances that he would go out of town for any reason. I want you to find him.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I can’t do it. I can recommend a good private investigator in Bradenton, Wayne Barcomb. He’s in the phone book. I’ve got to go now. I’m late for an appointment.”
I started to rise. He put his hand gently on my arm.
“The money we save can be put to good use to support improvements in the African-American community. My dream is a renovated Newtown with decent housing and safe streets. We’ve started but we’ve got a long way to go, and I don’t want limited resources going to projects that make the rich richer. I’m asking only that you do your best for a few days to find a sick man so he can do one final decent thing.”
“I’ve got some papers to serve and something I’ve got to do that’ll take me out of town for a few days. Today’s Monday. If I go out of town tomorrow and Wednesday, that’ll give me what’s left of today, Thursday, and Friday till midnight. Not much time.”
“But it can be done,” said Wilkens. “You can do it.”
“I don’t know.”
“How can I persuade you?”
I thought about that for about five seconds.
“Can you get someone’s driver’s license back for them?” I asked.
“DUI?”
“Yes, more than a couple, but she’s clean and sober now. Needs her van because she’s taking care of a baby.”
“Her baby?”
“Flo’s in her sixties,” I said. “The baby belongs to an unmarried student at Sarasota High. Girl’s mother was murdered by her father. A prominent member of this community, now in jail, gave her heartbreak and a baby.”
“Girl is black?”
“Girl is white,” I said. “So is Flo.”
“Last name of this Flo lady?” Wilkens said.
“Zink. Florence Zink. Lives in the county.”
“Are you a Catholic, Mr. Fonesca?”
“A lapsed Episcopalian.”
“But I understand your word is good.”
“My word is good,” I said.
My “word,” my few pieces of furniture, a pile of prescreened videotapes, an old television and VCR, and a bicycle were all I had. The only “good” thing in that list was my “word.”
“She will not lapse?” he asked. “If she were to and it was discovered that I had helped her get her license…”
“She will not lapse,” I said.
“It can be done,” he said, sitting back. He had done his best and now his eyes were fixed on me, waiting.
“Let’s say Flo gets her license back, and I get three hundred dollars flat fee for the job plus the cost of car rental,” I said. “I’ve got a deal with the low-cost place down the street so a three-day won’t be much. Give me your card and I’ll have them bill you for the car. The other business I have to do will take care of two days on the rental.”
“That will be satisfactory,” he said, holding out a large right hand and a smile. “Florence Zink?”
“Florence Zink.”
We shook and he immediately reached into his pocket and counted out four fifties and five twenties. He handed the money to me along with his card. On the back in dark ink was his home number.
“Want a receipt?” I asked.
“Under the circumstances, I would prefer as little in writing as possible,” he said, rising. “For a change, if necessary, Parenelli and I will stall on other issues on the agenda on Friday. Members of my congregation will also be present to speak out at the open forum. I would guess that we can keep the meeting going till at least midnight. I would also guess, if they truly don’t know yet, that the block will want to wait for Trasker, assuming he will vote with them. They don’t want a deadlock any more than we do.”
The Reverend Wilkens stood, shading his eyes and looking toward the sun almost overhead, and then grasped my right hand in both of his. I felt as if I had just been baptized again.
“Find him, Lewis,” he said. “I’ll pray for you to find him.”
He got into a clean, dark green, five- or six-year-old Buick about a dozen yards away in the small parking lot and pulled out, waving at me.
This wasn’t going to be easy, but it was probably only a day’s work and I had just pocketed three hundred dollars. If I hurried, I could rent a car and get to my appointment on time instead of pedaling and being late.
Adding the three hundred to the five hundred my other client had given me Friday and the two hundred I had saved, the cash in the toe of my other pair of shoes in my office came to a thousand dollars. I was suddenly a rampant capitalist and I had papers for two summonses to serve.
There was a small flush through the broad gray hush of my existence, trying to lure me toward wanting even more, toward a sense of tomorrows to come. I did not want to think about tomorrows to come.
I brought my bike up to my office, locked it inside, and went down the street to the EZ Economy Car Rental Agency, where Fred, large of belly, nearing retirement, constantly eager, stood talking to his partner, Alan, large, forties, hard to convince. They played good agent and bad agent with their customers. I was used to it and suffered it to keep from hurting their feelings.
“Social call?” asked Fred. “Bring us some donuts and coffee from Gwen’s so we can sit around and talk about the economy.”
“Need a car,” I said. I wanted to add that I had an appointment and was in a hurry, but I knew that would lead to delaying mode to make me easier to manipulate.
“How long?” Alan said, as if I had said something that aroused his suspicion.
“Till Saturday afternoon,” I said.
“Taking it on the road?” asked Fred with a grin. “Get away. Over to Fort Lauderdale, down to Key West?”
“Orlando,” I said.
Alan shook his head as if I had given him the wrong answer.
“Got a good road car,” said Fred. “Olds Cutlass Sierra, ’ninety-five. Special rate, two hundred. You get a full tank of gas.”
“Something newer,” I said.
“The man’s talking serious business here, Alan,” Fred said, moving away from the desk. Alan was still leaning against it.
“The Nissan,” Alan said.
Fred clapped his hands and said, “The Nissan,” as if his partner had just discovered a new moon around Jupiter. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
