“You know who killed them,” I said.
“I’ll give you both a Corkle Mini-Multi Mixer Dispenser when you leave,” he said. “Parting gift. Much as D. Elliot Corkle enjoys your company, he doesn’t think we can be friends. Are you owed more money for your troubles?”
“No,” I said.
“If there’s nothing else…”
“Nothing else.”
Augustine had placed his empty glass on the table and folded his arms in front of him.
At the front door, we waited while Corkle got us each a boxed Corkle Mini-Multi Mixer Dispenser. Ames handed his to me. They were lighter than they looked.
When we cleared the door, Ames said, “I’ll take that now.” He took his Corkle Mini-Multi Mixer Dispenser and added, “He was armed. Augustine.”
“I know,” I said.
“I think it best if I keep my hands free till we’re away. Where to now?” Ames asked.
“To see a baby and get something to eat.”
“I’ll watch for snipers,” he said.
About a block from Corkle’s I said, “Victor’s gone.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
“Good.”
“He saved my life when the shooting started.”
“He was waiting for something like that.”
“You knew?”
“I figured,” said Ames.
“I should have,” I said.
Flo was home alone with Catherine who toddled toward us, arms out for Ames to pick her up, which he did.
“Gifts for you,” I said, handing her both Pulp-O-Matics.
“Those are the things I saw on television years ago,” she said. “Almost bought one then. My friend Molly Sternheiser had one. Said it was a piece of shit. Tried to get her money back. Never did. Now, for some reason, I’ve got one and a backup.”
Flo had given up her flow of curse words when Adele and Catherine came into her life. Every once in a while, however, a small colorful noun bursts out unbidden.
“Don’t try to understand,” I said. “Just mix.”
She reached up, took my cap from my head and handed it to me. I pocketed it.
The music throughout the house wasn’t blaring, but it was as present as always.
“That’s Hank Snow,” she said. “ ‘Moving On.’ ”
Flo was wearing one of her leather skirts and a white blouse. She only had six or seven rings on her fingers. She was dressing down.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, watching Catherine and Ames, who were almost face to face and both very serious.
The baby reached up and touched his nose with pudgy fingers.
“I’ll find something to eat,” said Flo.
“Adele?”
“School,” she said. “How about chili? Got a lot left over from dinner yesterday.”
“Fine,” I said.
She went to the kitchen while I sat and listened to Hank Snow and watched Catherine and Ames. After a minute or so he handed the baby to me and went toward the kitchen to help Flo.
Catherine was pink and pretty, like her mother. She sat on my lap and started gently bumping her head against my chest until Flo called, “Come and get it!”
The chili was good, not too spicy. We drank Diet Cokes and talked.
Catherine in her high chair worked on crackers. I watched her. I was here for a few minutes of sanity.
I told Flo that Ames and I were now officially partners.
“That a fact?” she said.
“Fact,” Ames confirmed.
“How’s the new place working out?”
“Fine,” I said.
Ames ate his chili straight. I filled mine with crumbled crackers.
I had been aware for some time that if Ames indicated something beyond friendship in his relationship with Flo, she would be receptive. Flo was somewhere around sixty-five years old. Ames was over seventy. Flo had a built-in family to offer-herself, Adele, and the baby, plus the money her husband Gus had left her.
I didn’t think Ames was in the market, but the door was open.
Adele called. She was going to be late. Flo told her we were there. Adele said she was sorry.
Catherine was in Flo’s arms and George Jones was singing “He Stopped Loving Her Today” when we left. Ames went out first and looked around to be sure no one was about to shoot at me. There was no real cover around the houses in the area, which was almost without trees and bushes. The trees that did exist were, like the houses, only five or six years old.
“Next stop?” asked Ames, riding shotgun again as I drove.
“I’ve got dinner with Sally,” I said.
“Best be looking for whoever’s shooting at you.”
“I think I know.”
I told him. He nodded.
“So,” he said. “I keep an eye on the shooter.”
“Yes.”
We met at Miss Saigon just across 301 from the Greyhound bus station. The restaurant was in a small, downscale mall with mostly Hispanic businesses: a tienda, a travel agency, a beauty shop, a check-cashing service. One of the shops in the mall was, according to Ettiene Viviase, a legitimate business and a front for a neighborhood mom-and-pop numbers racket.
I arrived first, putting my Cubs cap in my pocket. I didn’t want it stolen through the broken window of my car. I wore a clean pair of tan wash-and-wear pants and a white shirt with a button-down collar. The cap didn’t really go with the dressed-up version of Lewis Fonesca.
I ordered Viet nam ese iced tea. Sally arrived ten minutes later, touched my shoulder as she passed, and sat across from me. Coming separately had been Sally’s idea.
“I don’t want any front door good-byes,” she had said.
“I understand,” I had said.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said.
“Not very.”
“Not very sorry or not very late?” she asked with a smile that could have used more enthusiasm.
She ordered an unsweetened iced tea.
When the waiter returned, I ordered noodles with short ribs. Sally ordered duck soup.
We ate in silence. The restaurant was small and busy, with mostly Viet nam ese customers. Vaguely Asian music was playing in the background. Voices were low.
“Did you…?” she began, pausing with chopsticks raised. She stopped, question unanswered but understood.
“He’ll go away soon,” I said.
“Soon?”
“Maybe the next few days.”
“Far?”
“Far,” I said.
“How do you plan to persuade him?”
“You’ll know in a few days.”
I didn’t use chopsticks, though I could have. My wife had taught me how to use them. At first I had been a poor student, but I caught on. Now, I couldn’t bring myself to use them. It was something I did only with Catherine, a small thing but a fine silkscreen for memories.
“Lewis,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You drifted off somewhere.”
“Sorry,” I said. “With Ronnie gone, you won’t have to leave.”
“It was hard for me to come here tonight,” she said, looking down at the bowl in front of her. “Hard for me to face you. I can’t imagine seeing you day after day.”
“You won’t get any accusations from me,” I said.
“I know, but you don’t need any more pain from man or woman.”
“Don’t leave,” I said.
“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, but where do we go if I stay?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“You answered a question with a question,” she said. “I do that all the time with clients.”
“So?”
“You don’t even know how I look nude and we’ve never been to bed together,” she said. “Almost four years, Lewis.”
I tried to stop it, but the image of Sally and Dwight Torcelli in bed came to me. It would come back to me, too. I was sure.
“We can work on it,” I said.
“You, me, Ronnie, and Catherine in bed together,” she said. “You don’t forget anything, Lew. I’ll bet you even know the name of your grade school gym teacher and exactly how he looked.”
“She,” I said, remembering. “Shirley Ann Stoffey. Her husband was Jerry Stoffey, a staff writer for the Chicago Tribune. Mrs. Stoffey had a small purple birthmark above her left wrist. She had a Baltimore accent and a tarnished tin whistle she always wore around her neck.”