“I don’t know.”
And I didn’t
Flo had sat on the sofa, diet drink in hand, watching the baby.
“Yolanda’s two years older than me,” Adele said. “She just graduated. No, I take that back. She wasn’t graduated. She was ushered out after an extra year to make up the courses she had flunked. Haven’t really been in touch with her much since they handed her the diploma and probably asked her not to come back for reunions.”
Bob Nolan and the Sons of the Pioneers sang about someone who was a devil and not a man.
“Yolanda was trouble?” I said.
“Name it,” said Adele, gently rubbing her forehead against the top of the baby’s head. “Drugs, maybe even a little low-level dealing, men, boys, maybe even girls. She tried to come on to me back when I was with… you know. But she wasn’t good at it. She was just playing bad girl. You know? Diamond in her tongue, triple rings in one ear and makeup that said put up or shut up. This Goth is watching you. Tolstoy said you play a role long enough, you start becoming the character.”
“That’s what happened to Yolanda?”
Adele nodded.
“Possibility,” I said. “You think maybe someone might try to get back at her by going after her brother? Or maybe she got Kyle into something?”
“No,” she said. “She liked the kid, wanted to protect him, be big sister, which didn’t play well being who she was. Haven’t talked to Yola in, I don’t know, maybe a year.”
“Andrew Goines?”
“Who?”
“Friend of Kyle,” I said.
She shook her head. The name meant nothing to her.
At the door, Flo handed me what looked like a candy bar.
“PowerBar,” she said. “Super-high protein.”
I put it in my pocket.
“Thanks.”
“You don’t need an excuse, Lewis,” she said.
“Excuse?”
“For dropping in just to see Adele and the baby and, if I can flatter my old ass, to see me. You didn’t really need what you got from Adele. Lots of better ways you could have got it.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do need an excuse.”
She put a firm hand on my right arm and said, “Fooling God?” she said. “If he sees you getting too close to someone, he may play another one of his tricks on you?”
That wasn’t quite it, but it was close enough.
“Here,” she said, handing me something in a small white tube. “Rub it on your knee and shoulder. Hell, rub it on your ass if you’ve a mind to.”
“Thanks,” I said, putting the tube in my pocket.
“Happy trails,” she said and closed the door after me.
I made some turns, a right onto Webber, a left at Beneva, a U-turn and up to Bee Ridge to be sure no one was following me.
Maybe the guy who had tried to run me down had a life outside the one related to trying to kill me. Maybe he had a job, a family, places he was expected. Maybe he just went after me on his lunch hour. Then again, maybe not.
I drove back down Beneva, stopped at Shaner’s and picked up a pair of large pizzas, one with double onions and one with mushrooms and double sausage.
It was past seven. I drove to Sally’s apartment in the Alhambra. I took off my Cubs cap, tucked it into my back pocket and pushed the button. Susan opened the door.
Sally’s daughter was eleven, wore glasses, was dark like her mother, and spoke her mind, which at this moment told her to call over her shoulder, “Mr. Smiley Face is here.”
Michael appeared, tall, gangly, a head of curly hair and blue eyes, which he definitely got from his father.
“I thought we were going out,” Susan said.
“Something came up.”
“At least he comes bearing gifts,” Michael said.
“Mushroom and double sausage,” I said, holding out the pizzas.
Michael took both pizza boxes and with a hand on his sister’s shoulder, stepped back to let me in.
Sally came out of the tiny kitchen just off the dining room area. She had changed into a loose-fitting green dress. Michael and Susan had both boxes open on the dining room table and were reaching for pizza slices.
“You’re late,” Sally said quietly.
“Someone tried to kill me,” I said, low enough so the kids couldn’t hear me.
“Well,” she said. “I just got here a few minutes ago myself and I don’t have as good an excuse as you.”
“I’m not making a joke,” I said.
“I know,” said Sally with a sigh. “What’s it about?”
“Kyle McClory,” I said.
“Tell me about it later,” she said, touching my cheek. “I’ll get drinks out of the fridge. You grab some plates and napkins.”
I had plenty of time. I had almost seven hours before I had to pick up Ames to break into the Seaside Assisted Living Facility.
There was no point in asking Michael if he knew Kyle McClory. They were the same age, but a culture and school apart. Michael went to Riverview. Kyle had gone to Sarasota High. The schools were ten minutes, endless space and a meaningless rivalry apart.
After the pizza was gone and crumbs cleared away, Susan said she wanted to play a card game called B.S. Sally said she was tired. I said I didn’t want to learn anything new. Michael said he would play if Susan did the after-dinner cleaning up by herself. She agreed.
“Please,” Susan said, looking first at Sally and then at me. “I’ll teach you. It’s real easy.”
Sally said, “Well…”
“I beseech, supplicate, implore and plead,” Susan said.
I couldn’t resist the display of vocabulary.
We played three games. I won two of them. Susan finally said, “I can’t tell when you’re lying. You always look the same.”
“I’ll try to be more obvious when I lie,” I said. “Look for twitches, eye movement, finger movements, scratches.”
“You have those?” Michael asked.
“No,” I said. “Tone of voice helps.”
“You always talk the same,” Susan said.
She put her cards down and stepped in front of me. There was determination in her eyes.
“Susan,” Sally said with what may have been a gentle warning.
“I said I’d do it,” Susan said, meeting my eyes.
“Do it,” said Michael.
Susan reached over with both hands and began to tickle me under my arms. I forced a smile; at least I thought it was a smile.
“You’re not ticklish,” Susan said after about fifteen seconds of trying.
“No,” I said.
Susan stepped back.
“You are strange,” she said.
I shrugged.
Michael collected the cards and put them away and went to the bedroom to watch the end of an Orlando Magic game. Susan hung around a few minutes longer and then followed her brother.
When they were gone, Sally got up from the table, saying, “Who tried to kill you?”
I told her about the threatening telephone call and the car that almost hit me in the parking lot at the mall.
“I’m not going to say it,” she said.
“What?”
“That you have to do a better job of taking care of yourself,” she said, moving into the kitchen.
“You just said it.”
“Let’s call it a night. I’ve got a report to write,” she said. “In addition to which, I’m tired and cranky.”
“I’ve got something to do too,” I said, rising.
“Besides going to your room and watching an old movie?”
“Yes. I’m going to a friend’s house and we’re going to bake a pineapple upside-down cake,” I said.
“No.”
“I was lying.”
“I could tell,” she said.
“How?”
“You looked me in the eye and said it without blinking or smiling. Besides, I can’t come up with an image of you in a kitchen at night mixing batter.”
“I don’t think you want to know what I’m going to do,” I said.
“Help somebody,” she said. “That’s what you do.”
“It’s what you do too,” I said.