“Fine and dandy,” I said.
Augustine would have known I was quoting Earl Holliman in The Rainmaker.
“You were serving papers?” he asked.
I didn’t answer.
“Lewis is confused,” said Ames. “Trauma.”
Viviase nodded and said, “What’s it all about?”
“How is Augustine?” I asked.
“He’ll live,” said Viviase. “Maybe they can save his sight. He had a. 177 caliber pellet lodged in his right eye.”
“A pellet? Someone shot Augustine with Ralphie’s Red Ryder you’ll-shoot-your-eye-out BB gun?” I asked.
“And came close to shooting his eye out. Something like that,” said Viviase. “Any idea who shot at you?”
“Me? What makes you think they were shooting at me?” I said. “They could have been shooting at Augustine, or maybe it was just kids shooting at a car.”
“Ronnie Gerall,” Viviase said.
I closed my eyes and started to lean back, and then I remembered. I touched the top of my head. The hair was definitely thinner with each passing crime. Ames reached back into his pocket and came up with my Cubs cap. He handed it to me. I clutched it like a teddy bear.
“You had Gerall’s name and the words Greg and Winn in your notebook.”
He held up my notebook and handed it to Ames.
“Think it might have something to do with your getting shot at?”
“No.”
“Doc says you can go when you’re up to it,” said Ames.
“In a minute,” said Viviase, eyes fixed on me. “Are you getting involved with the Philip Horvecki murder?”
“I promised a friend I’d drop in and see Gerall, talk to him.”
“Need I remind you that you don’t have a private investigator’s license?”
“I tell people that all the time. I’m just doing a friend a favor,” I said.
“The Gerall kid did it,” said Viviase. “Caught inside the victim’s house kneeling by the corpse. Kid had motive. Kid’s a hothead. Only thing the kid said when he was arrested was, and I quote, ‘I’m glad the son-of-a-bitch is dead.’ Who’s the friend who asked you to stop in and see Gerall?”
I hesitated. Viviase’s daughter Elisabeth had told Greg and Winn about me. A few more questions and I’d have to lie or tell her father that she was the one who got me involved.
“I’d like to talk to Augustine,” I said.
“Jeff Augustine, onetime actor, minor arrests in California, looks tough, maybe. I know he’s working for D. Elliot Corkle. It’s not clear in what capacity, and he is too narcotized to explain or talk to you. You happen to know what he does for Corkle?”
“I think he’s a kind of companion,” I said.
“We talked to Corkle,” Viviase said.
“What did Corkle tell you?” I asked Viviase, making another effort to get up. Ames reached for my arm.
“Lie down, partner,” he said.
I did. The thin pillow felt just right behind my head, and I wanted to go to sleep. I was sure I had been given something to ease the pain.
“Corkle had nothing much to say,” said Viviase. “He did refer to himself in the third person and compared life to a game of poker twice. He tried to give me a box with a Wonder Chopper inside. I told him I couldn’t take it. Your mini CD player and the CDs are being held as possible evidence.”
“Of what?” Ames asked.
“I don’t know,” said Viviase. “I have a headache and I don’t know. Just answer the questions, Fonesca, and don’t ask any. I have places to go and things to do, and my wife promised me that she would have chicken in duck sauce for dinner tonight. I plan to be there for it.”
I nodded. Ames stood straight and silent.
“You moved to a new place,” Viviase said.
“Yes. Had to. DQ is gone. My office building goes down tomorrow. I’m right around the corner, off of Laurel.”
“Life goes on,” Viviase said.
“Even when we don’t care.”
“The Chinese guy?” said Viviase.
“He’s moving with me, I think.”
“You’re nuts,” said Viviase.
“No… Maybe. It doesn’t matter.”
“Get better. Come and see me,” he said taking a deep breath. Then he turned his head toward Ames and added, “Take care of him.”
“I aim to,” said Ames.
When Viviase was gone, I stood again, this time without Ames’s help.
“We going to look for whoever took the shot?” he asked.
“We are,” I said. “Either that or I buy a car and head out of town forever.”
“That won’t work.”
“I guess.”
“Where do we start?”
“In juvenile detention,” I said, adjusting my Cubs cap and noticing that it had a slight but real tear on the right side. “First we talk to Augustine.”
I didn’t fall on my face as we moved to the elevator to go up to the private fourth floor room where Jeff Augustine was lying on his back. He wore a white hospital gown with a thin white blanket pulled up to his chest. An IV was going. His left eye was closed. His right eye was covered by a taped-down gauze pad. His hands were folded in front of him. He looked like a one-eyed saint.
“Jeff?” I tried.
Augustine made a sound but didn’t open his eye. I tried again.
“Augustine.”
This time his left eye popped open and he let out a pained groan as he reached up with his right hand to touch the injured eye.
“Hurts,” he said.
“I know,” I said.
“How would you know?”
“I have a natural empathy. Besides I got caught by flying glass.”
“We get a medal or something?” Augustine asked, closing his eye again and explaining, “Hurts less when both eyes are closed. I may lose the eye.”
“Maybe so,” said Ames.
“Who is he?” Augustine said, being careful not to turn his head.
“My friend,” I said. “Ames McKinney.”
“Weren’t we both in an episode of The Yellow Rose?”
“Not an actor,” said Ames.
“I could have sworn, but… Damn, what if this killed me? My obit would make a single line in Variety, ‘Bit Player Killed by BB Gun.’ Bitter irony.”
Alana Legerman walked in. She wafted perfume and looked sleek, dark, and beautiful.
“What happened?” she asked, moving to the side of the bed next to Augustine.
She was as tranquil as her offspring Greg was wired.
“Someone shot BBs at us,” said Augustine. “Hit me in the eye.”
“Who did it?” she asked.
