He shrugged and said, “Ones where people get shot and stuff.”
“A concise and well-defined aesthetic,” I said.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I was being a smart-ass.”
“Whatever. You’re bleeding.”
I had folded DQ napkins in my pocket. I took one out and dabbed it on my shaving wound. There wasn’t much blood.
I sat on the cot. Darrell put the tape down and turned to me. There was a knock at the door. It was probably the first time since I had moved into these two small rooms that I welcomed a knock at the door.
I got up and let Ames in. He was wearing his yellow slicker, no hat. The slicker suggested that he was hiding a weapon with considerably more kick than the derringer he had given me.
“Ready?” he asked.
“I’ve got-”
The slicker parted; a shotgun I recognized appeared suddenly in Ames’s hands. It was leveled just past me. I turned. Darrell stood there with the derringer in his right hand.
“No,” I said, pushing the shotgun barrel away. “That’s Darrell.”
“Darrell?” asked Ames.
“I’m his… I’m spending some time with him today,” I said. “Sally’s idea.”
Ames understood.
“I’m going home,” Darrell said, handing me the derringer. “Crazy old man comes in with a shotgun. You got a candy-ass little gun. Crack houses in town that don’t carry this much heat.”
Ames returned his shotgun to the sling under his yellow slicker.
“Ames thought you were the person who’s trying to kill me,” I explained.
“Say what? Someone’s trying to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“Who?” he asked, definitely interested.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You don’t know who’s trying to kill you,” said Darrell. “At least where I live you know who’s trying to kill you. And all you got to protect you is that crazy old fool and this cap gun?”
Ames took three steps toward the boy, who took three steps back.
“Apologize,” said Ames.
“I apologize, man,” Darrell said, looking at me for support.
“What are you apologizing for?” Ames asked.
“I dunno,” said Darrell. “Whatever.”
“You called me a crazy old fool,” Ames said evenly. “I don’t take that from men or boys.”
“I’m sorry, hey.”
Ames shook his head and looked at me. “Saturday,” I said. “The college is closed.”
“I know,” said Ames.
“Then why did you come armed for elephants?”
Ames dug into the pocket of his slicker and came out with a folded sheet of newspaper. He handed it to me and I unfolded it.
“Turn it over, bottom of the page on the right,” Ames said.
I found it.
“It’s him,” I said.
“It’s him,” Ames agreed. “Face seemed familiar. When I was stacking the newspapers in the recycle bin back of the Texas I found this. In last week’s Friday section.”
“Hey,” said Darrell, moving toward the door. “It’s been real great, but I’m goin’ home now.”
“Wait,” I said.
Darrell didn’t look at me. He looked at Ames, whose eyes met his. Darrell stopped.
The man in the small picture was the bearded philosopher. His hair wasn’t as white and he was smiling. The small article next to his picture said he was John Wellington Welles, PhD, professor of modern philosophy at Manatee Community College. He had written a book, The Destruction of Moral Definition. He was giving a talk in the Opera House on Main Street at 3 p.m. Admission was free. There would be copies of the book available for sale, which Professor Welles would be happy to sign.
“You guys dealers?” Darrell asked. “Guns?”
“No,” I said. “Sometimes we find people.”
“Like private detectives on those old television shows?” he asked.
“Something like that,” I said.
“You don’t look like it.”
“We fool a lot of bad guys that way,” I said.
I looked at my watch. Plenty of time to do something with Darrell and get him home before three. Maybe there was an early movie.
“Ever been to Selby Gardens?” I asked.
“No, what’s that?” Darrell asked.
“Place where you look at flowers and trees,” I said.
“Forget that,” said Darrell. “You been there?”
“No. But Ames has.”
The boy looked at Ames.
“I been there,” he said.
“Don’t sound like nothing to me,” Darrell said.
“Jungle Gardens,” I tried. “Animals, birds, gators, snakes.”
“You been there?”
“No,” I said.
“You been anywhere?” Darrell asked.
I felt like saying, To hell and back, but said, “A few places.”
“You said DQ and a movie,” Darrell said. “You backing out?”
“No, but Ames and I have to catch a killer.”
“Today?”
“This afternoon.”
“You shittin’ me again, right?”
“No.”
“Kin I go with you?”
“You wouldn’t have fun.”
“More fun than looking at flowers and snakes,” he said.
“We’ve got stops to make. Then you’ll have to hear a white guy with a beard talk about things you won’t understand,” I said.
“Like?”
“The destruction of moral definition,” I said.
“What’s that mean?”
“Things are getting worse,” I said.
“What things?” Darrell asked.
“People don’t care as much as they used to about what’s good and what’s bad,” I said.
“Everybody knows that. Old Wyatt Earp here, he gonna blow the mother away?”
“If I have to,” said Ames.
Darrell smiled and said, “Way cool.”
I made a couple of calls. Before I got back that night, there would be a surprise storm and a golfer at Bobby Jones golf course would be struck by lightning and killed. Before I got back that night, someone would come very close to killing me.
