“There’s someone in the dark,” I said.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Williams said.
“Me,” came the voice from the door.
Victor Woo had entered while they were doing their best to intimidate me.
Williams and Pepper turned toward the door. Victor flipped on the light switch. He was barefoot, wearing clean jeans and an orange University of Illinois sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up. In his right hand was the old aluminum softball bat I’d found in the closet when I moved in here.
I could see now that Williams was also wearing jeans. His long-sleeve T-shirt was solid blue. Pepper, pale, his straw hair slightly tousled, wore brown slacks and a white shirt and tie. I wore my underpants with the penguins and my Cubs sweatshirt with the cut-off sleeves. No one wore a smile.
“Victor batted leadoff for two Tigers farm teams,” I said.
I might analyze that instant lie sometime later with Ann Hurwitz. Anyway, it didn’t seem to have any effect on my visitors.
“We’ve said what we have to say,” Pepper said calmly.
“You can put the bat down, Jet Li,” said Essau Williams.
Victor moved away from the door so they could pass. Pepper went out first. Williams paused at the door and said, “‘Once upon a time, there were three bears, a papa bear, a momma bear, and a baby bear.’ A favorite first line. My mother used to tell me that one when I was a baby. That was long after Philip Horvecki raped her and my aunt, and long before he came back eight years ago and turned her and my aunt into cowering old women and ended my family’s history.”
He closed the door behind him. Victor followed them out to be sure they left and then returned, bat still in hand.
“Tea?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “You?”
“I don’t like tea,” he said. “But I have Oreo cookies and milk.”
“That’ll work for me.”
We woke Dwight Torcelli, who was sleeping on a blanket in the room next to mine. Victor had been in that room, too, lying on his bedroll in front of the door to keep Torcelli from deciding to wander. There was a strip of white tape across his swollen nose. The skin under both of his eyes had turned purple. I almost apologized, but I wouldn’t have meant it.
“What?” he asked sitting up, blinking, not sure of where he was, and then slowly understanding.
“You had visitors,” I said. “You missed them. Victor and I are going to have Oreo cookies and milk. Want to join us?”
“I guess,” he said, looking at me and then at Victor, who still bore his softball bat.
I was reasonably sure now who was responsible for the death of both Philip Horvecki and Blue Berrigan. When I got up in the morning, I’d share my thoughts with Ames.
I checked the clock when we went back into the room where my desk sat. It was almost three in the morning.
We had cookies and milk.
I was up by six. I showered, shaved, shampooed what little hair I have remaining with a giant container of no-name shampoo-conditioner purchased at a dollar store, and examined the scratches on my face. It didn’t look as bad as I thought it would. I certainly looked better than Jeff Augustine.
I was dressed in my jeans and a fresh green short-sleeve knit shirt with a collar. It didn’t go well with my blue and red Cubs cap, but I had no plans for meeting royalty. If I did run into any, I could tuck my cap away. Lewis Fonesca was prepared for anything except intruders, unbidden emotions, disarming surprises, life’s horrors, and the pain and death of others.
When Ames and Darrell Caton walked in together just before eight, I was eating an Oreo cookie with the full understanding that I would have to brush my teeth again.
“Met him downstairs,” Ames explained.
“Takes me a while to get up the stairs since I got shot with an Uzi,” said Darrell.
“It was a pellet gun,” Ames said.
“Shot is shot,” said Darrell. “I can’t go around telling people I was in the hospital for three days because I was shot in the back with a BB.”
“Guess not,” said Ames.
It was obvious Ames and Darrell liked each other, though I couldn’t quite figure out what the essence of that friendship might be.
“Cookies?” I asked.
Both Darrell and Ames took one.
“He safe?” asked Ames, pointing at the door of the second bedroom.
“Victor’s in there with him,” I said.
“With who?” asked Darrell.
“Visitor,” I said.
“You’re my big brother, big sister, uncle, Santa, whatever,” said Darrell. “You’re supposed to tell me things. Share confidences, you know?”
“You’re getting a bit old to have a big brother,” said Ames. “And what are you doing roaming the streets when you’re supposed to be in bed.”
“Okay,” said Darrell, “we’ll call it even. Then we’re…”
“Friends,” said Ames.
“Friends,” I agreed.
“Sometimes I think my mother would rather have me hang with safer friends, like drug dealers and gangbangers.”
I offered him another cookie. He took it. Ames decided one was enough.
“Let’s get some breakfast,” Ames said. “We can bring something back for Victor and our guest.”
“You two are playing with me,” Darrell said. “That’s it, right?”
“No,” I said. “Let’s go downstairs slowly and walk over to the Waffle Shop and I’ll tell you the story about two night visitors.”
“No,” said Darrell, “I know that one. Amal and camels. I know that shit.”
“This one,” I said, “is about different night visitors. I think you’ll both like it.”
“Okay,” said Darrell. “Let’s get waffles.”
It was Saturday morning, bright, sunny, cloudless, Floridian-winter cool. No one shot at us as we walked down the stairs, Ames in front, Darrell second, me in the rear. Darrell moved slowly, wincing, trying to cover it. We were only two blocks from the Waffle Shop but I suggested we drive. Darrell said no.
When we entered the Waffle Shop it was crowded, but a family of four was just getting up from a table at the front window. We waited, then sat, and I pretended to look at the menu, which both Ames and I had long ago memorized.
Greg Legerman and Winn Graeme came in about two minutes later, looked around, saw us, and headed for our table.
Greg and Winn stood next to our table. Greg’s arms were folded over his chest, his look a demand before he spoke.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“Greg, Winn, this is Darrell Caton,” I said by way of introduction. “He was shot and almost killed on the steps of my office a few days ago.”
For a beat they both looked at Darrell who held out his hand. First Greg, and then Winn, took the extended hand.
“They look kind of shook,” said Darrell first to me and then to Ames. “One of them shoot me?”
“Possible,” said Ames.
“This won’t work,” said Greg. “You are working for everyone in my family and you owe me the information first. We’re worried about Ronnie.”
“We?” I asked.
