“Ready?” he asked.
“I’ve got-”
The slicker parted; a shotgun I recognized appeared suddenly in Ames’s hands. It was leveled just past me. I turned. Darrell stood there with the derringer in his right hand.
“No,” I said, pushing the shotgun barrel away. “That’s Darrell.”
“Darrell?” asked Ames.
“I’m his… I’m spending some time with him today,” I said. “Sally’s idea.”
Ames understood.
“I’m going home,” Darrell said, handing me the derringer. “Crazy old man comes in with a shotgun. You got a candy-ass little gun. Crack houses in town that don’t carry this much heat.”
Ames returned his shotgun to the sling under his yellow slicker.
“Ames thought you were the person who’s trying to kill me,” I explained.
“Say what? Someone’s trying to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“Who?” he asked, definitely interested.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You don’t know who’s trying to kill you,” said Darrell. “At least where I live you know who’s trying to kill you. And all you got to protect you is that crazy old fool and this cap gun?”
Ames took three steps toward the boy, who took three steps back.
“Apologize,” said Ames.
“I apologize, man,” Darrell said, looking at me for support.
“What are you apologizing for?” Ames asked.
“I dunno,” said Darrell. “Whatever.”
“You called me a crazy old fool,” Ames said evenly. “I don’t take that from men or boys.”
“I’m sorry, hey.”
Ames shook his head and looked at me. “Saturday,” I said. “The college is closed.”
“I know,” said Ames.
“Then why did you come armed for elephants?”
Ames dug into the pocket of his slicker and came out with a folded sheet of newspaper. He handed it to me and I unfolded it.
“Turn it over, bottom of the page on the right,” Ames said.
I found it.
“It’s him,” I said.
“It’s him,” Ames agreed. “Face seemed familiar. When I was stacking the newspapers in the recycle bin back of the Texas I found this. In last week’s Friday section.”
“Hey,” said Darrell, moving toward the door. “It’s been real great, but I’m goin’ home now.”
“Wait,” I said.
Darrell didn’t look at me. He looked at Ames, whose eyes met his. Darrell stopped.
The man in the small picture was the bearded philosopher. His hair wasn’t as white and he was smiling. The small article next to his picture said he was John Wellington Welles, PhD, professor of modern philosophy at Manatee Community College. He had written a book, The Destruction of Moral Definition. He was giving a talk in the Opera House on Main Street at 3 p.m. Admission was free. There would be copies of the book available for sale, which Professor Welles would be happy to sign.
“You guys dealers?” Darrell asked. “Guns?”
“No,” I said. “Sometimes we find people.”
“Like private detectives on those old television shows?” he asked.
“Something like that,” I said.
“You don’t look like it.”
“We fool a lot of bad guys that way,” I said.
I looked at my watch. Plenty of time to do something with Darrell and get him home before three. Maybe there was an early movie.
“Ever been to Selby Gardens?” I asked.
“No, what’s that?” Darrell asked.
“Place where you look at flowers and trees,” I said.
“Forget that,” said Darrell. “You been there?”
“No. But Ames has.”
The boy looked at Ames.
“I been there,” he said.
“Don’t sound like nothing to me,” Darrell said.
“Jungle Gardens,” I tried. “Animals, birds, gators, snakes.”
“You been there?”
“No,” I said.
“You been anywhere?” Darrell asked.
I felt like saying, To hell and back, but said, “A few places.”
“You said DQ and a movie,” Darrell said. “You backing out?”
“No, but Ames and I have to catch a killer.”
“Today?”
“This afternoon.”
“You shittin’ me again, right?”
“No.”
“Kin I go with you?”
“You wouldn’t have fun.”
“More fun than looking at flowers and snakes,” he said.
“We’ve got stops to make. Then you’ll have to hear a white guy with a beard talk about things you won’t understand,” I said.
“Like?”
“The destruction of moral definition,” I said.
“What’s that mean?”
“Things are getting worse,” I said.
“What things?” Darrell asked.
“People don’t care as much as they used to about what’s good and what’s bad,” I said.
“Everybody knows that. Old Wyatt Earp here, he gonna blow the mother away?”
“If I have to,” said Ames.
Darrell smiled and said, “Way cool.”
I made a couple of calls. Before I got back that night, there would be a surprise storm and a golfer at Bobby Jones golf course would be struck by lightning and killed. Before I got back that night, someone would come very close to killing me.
15
Dixie Cruise lived in a two-room apartment in a slightly run-down twelve-flat apartment building on Ringling Boulevard a block from the main post office.
I had called the office of Tycinker, Oliver and Schwartz, but not about their client Nancy Root, not exactly. I wanted to reach Harvey, who had a windowless office in the rear of the law firm next to the washroom. Harvey was the firm’s open secret, a computer hacker who, except for a slight problem, could easily be making as much money as Donald Trump was paying whoever was still standing at the end of a season of The Apprentice.
Harvey was an alcoholic. He would stop for weeks, months, and then disappear. The firm tolerated his crashes from the wagon, encouraged him to seek help through AA or a therapist, but Harvey resisted.
I knew someone would be at the law office even though it was Saturday morning. In fact, Saturday mornings were busy with clients who had full-time jobs during the week.
Oliver’s administrative assistant-who back in the days long past would have been called a secretary-said Harvey was not in, was not expected, could not be reached at home, might never come back or might show up Monday morning.
I went to my second choice, Dixie Cruise. She was home.
Dixie worked at a coffee bar on Main Street. She was slim, trim, with very black hair in a short style. She was no more than twenty-five, pretty face and wore big round glasses.
Dixie had the down-home Florida accent of any Bobby Joe or Billy Bob. Dixie was also a computer whiz second only to Harvey. She had the added advantage of always being sober.
Harvey’s services were free, part of my retainer agreement with the law firm. I had to pay Dixie but her rates were low, very low, fifty dollars an hour, minimum of one hour.
When I knocked at her door, Dixie opened it, a grilled cheese sandwich in one hand. She looked at me, Ames and Darrell. I introduced them.
“I’m finishing my brunch,” she said. “Come in.”
We went into her tiny, neat living room/dining room/bedroom then into a slightly smaller room devoted to two computers with supporting gray metal boxes, stacks and speakers.
“Got to pick up my mom and dad at the Tampa airport at noon,” she said, sitting in front of a computer and pushing a button. The computer hummed.
“This shouldn’t take long,” I said.
She adjusted her glasses, took a bite of her grilled cheese sandwich, placed the sandwich on a paper plate next to the computer and began letting her fingers dance above the keyboard without touching the keys.
“Name?” she asked.
Darrell and Ames stood watching.
“John Wellington Welles,” I said.
“You’re kidding me, right?” she said, turning to look at me.
“No.”
“John Wellington Welles is a character in a Gilbert and Sullivan show, The Sorcerer. My mom was in it when I was a kid. She took me to every darn rehearsal for a month.”