“You sing?” I asked.
“That’s what I like about you, Fonesca. You are dribbling down with emotion. I can sing. I can act.”
“What have you done?”
“Nothing yet,” he said. “I just know I’m good. I’ll tell them on the street that I’m going to be the next Will Smith or Denzel or Cuba. Maybe they’ll buy it, you know?”
We went silent and I listened to and watched the green mountain-and-valley machine.
“Get the guy who shot me, Fonesca.”
“I’ll get him,” I said. “Darrell, he was trying to shoot me.”
“I know that. It didn’t hurt less because of that. I’m tired.”
“I’ll be back,” I said.
“I might be out of here first,” he said so softly I could barely hear him.
Darrell’s eyes were closed. He was asleep.
I had people to see and a bicycle parked outside. I made a decision.
There were only two cars parked in the small driveway of the EZ Economy Car Rental. The EZ was a converted gas station, a half-block north of the now-demolished DQ on 301. It wouldn’t last much longer. The banks were moving like relentless giant Japanese movie monsters gobbling up small businesses and looking for more along the strip of 301 from Tamiami Trail to Main Street.
This didn’t matter to Alan, the formerly jovial partner of Fred, who was now dead with one heart attack too many. Alan had been the more likely candidate for heart trouble. In his late forties, Alan was twenty years younger than Fred but fifty pounds heavier. Alan was addicted to strong coffee. Alan had lost the sense of sardonic humor he and Fred had shared. It had kept them both sane between infrequent customers.
“Fonesca, the man from whom there are no secrets,” Alan said when I walked through the door.
He was seated at his wooden swivel chair behind the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand, a cluttered desk drawer lying in front of him. The coffee was in a black thermos. The suit and tie he usually wore had been replaced with slacks and a wrinkled white dress shirt with an open collar.
“You came at the right moment,” he said. “Today is the third and final day of liquidation. No more rentals. Two cars out there to sell. Take your pick.”
“I don’t want to own a car,” I said. “I want to rent one.”
“You don’t want to own anything,” he said. “And until Fred went to automobile nirvana, I wanted to own everything. The price is right. Both cars will be gone by tonight even if I have to give them to Goodwill.”
“How much for the Saturn?” I asked.
I had rented the gray 1996 Saturn before. There had been a little over 110,000 miles on the odometer when last we met. In its favor, it had behaved, though hollow clanks echoed under the glove box. The last car I had owned was the one I escaped from Chicago in and managed to get as far as the DQ parking lot. Cars and I are not friends. One of them had killed my wife. One of my many fears was that I might one day accidentally hit someone and spend the rest of my life like Victor Woo. Perpetual apology. Perpetual shock.
“What do you have in your wallet?” Alan asked after another sip of coffee followed by a face that suggested the coffee or life or both were bitter.
“I’m flush. Two clients.”
“Okay, how does sixty-six dollars sound to you?” he asked.
“For the Saturn? Reasonable.”
“You just bought a car. Congratulations. Enjoy. No, wait. You don’t enjoy anything.”
He picked up a pair of keys on a small metal hoop and threw them in my direction. They arced through the air, tinkling as they flew. I caught them.
“I’ve got the papers right here,” he said, shifting his considerable bulk so that he could dig into the exposed desk drawer.
I took out my wallet, extracted the sixty-six dollars and placed it on the counter. Alan shifted out of the chair, which let out a weary squeak. He placed the papers on the counter, signed them, asked me to sign, and said, “You want another car?”
“No.”
“Gift for a friend?”
“No.”
“We’re having a two-for-one sale.”
“No.”
“You are a tough customer.”
He held out his hand. We shook.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Decidedly not,” he said, “but I am solvent. Fred and I owned this business and the land on which it sits. I have a generous offer, which I have accepted. Fred’s widow and I will share right down the middle. Want to know how much we’re getting?”
“No.”
“A million six. I’m heading back to Grosse Pointe as soon as the papers are signed and the check is in my hand.”
“Good luck,” I said. “All right if I leave the car here for an hour?”
He shrugged, a good shrug that shook his expansive body, and said, “Till the wrecking ball descends.”
Outside, I used the cell phone, called Ames, and asked if he could meet me. I told him where. He said he could and would be right over. I walked across the street and into the Crisp Dollar Bill, where Sammy Davis, Jr., was singing “There’s a Slow Boat Sailing for New York.” The familiar smell of beer reminded me of Mac’s bar, back in Chicago, when I was a kid.
I made out the shape of four people at the bar to my left. No one was in any of the booths across from the bar. I sat in a booth where I could watch the door, looked over at Billy the bartender and owner, and nodded. He knew what I wanted.
Some say that good things come to those who wait. Bad things come, too.
The comedian Steven Wright says, “When worse comes to worse, we’re screwed.”
Blue Berrigan came through the door and sat across from me.
“I followed you again,” he said.
“I figured that out.”
Billy placed an Amstel and a mug in front of me.
“You want a beer?” I asked Blue.
“A beer?” He didn’t seem to understand.
“A beer, to drink.”
“Blue doesn’t drink alcohol. Dr Pepper.”
Billy nodded and moved off. Sammy Davis, Jr., had moved on to “What Kind of Fool Am I.”
“You ready to tell me who hired you?”
“No. Well, maybe.”
Blue was fidgeting, whispering, casting glances at the people at the bar who were not looking in his direction. Billy turned on the television set mounted up near the ceiling. He changed channels until he found what looked like a rerun of a high school football game. He turned off the sound. Blue had watched Billy.
“I think I know who it was,” I said. “I think it was a man who hides in the backseats of Jeeps.”
He started to slide out of the booth, but before he could, Ames sat next to him, blocking his exit.
“Blue Berrigan, this is Ames McKinney. Ames has done time for killing his former partner. Ames is a man of honor who has a fondness for weapons, usually of an older vintage.”
Ames was wearing his very old, very well cared-for tan leather Western jacket. He held it open so Blue could see something against Ames’s waist. I couldn’t see it from where I sat. I didn’t have to.
Berrigan looked frightened, very frightened, and said, “Wait, I have evidence that Ronnie Gerall didn’t kill Horvecki.”
“What evidence?” I asked.
“I’ve got it at my place.”
“Let’s get it,” Ames said.
Billy appeared with a bottle of beer for Ames and said, “Burger’ll be up in a few minutes. One for you?”
“No thanks. Ate at the Texas.”
“Blue Berrigan,” Ames went on when Billy left. “Kids’ singer?”
“Yes,” Blue said, moving farther into the corner.
“ ‘How Many Bunnies in the Hole’?”
“Yes.”
“You believe in coincidence?” Ames asked.
“Yes,” Blue said, growing smaller.
“I just bought a CD of yours for Catherine and Adele.”
“Coincidence,” Blue said. “This whole thing has gone too far.”
“It went too far when someone murdered Philip Horvecki,” I said.
The burger came. It was big. I knew it had grilled onions and tomato on a soft bun.
“I told you the truth. About distracting you, I mean. Listen, Blue needs the bathroom. He needs it bad, real bad,” Blue said.