A less than confident Commissioner Wrightman, amid grumbling from the crowd, stood and said, “Logic, plain simple logic says that a hasty decision now could cause environmental damage, long-term environmental damage that none of us want. Let’s go over the history of this controversy-”
“Point of order,” said Wilkens. “I get the distinct impression that my colleague plans to filibuster, to talk until Commissioner Trasker, who is obviously unwell, cannot participate in any debate. I move for cloture.”
“You have no reason to think that Commissioner Wrightman plans-” the mayor began.
“Vote cloture,” said Trasker. “Now. Follow the goddamn rules, Bea.”
Reluctantly, clearly defeated, the mayor called for the vote. Wrightman sat down. Most of the audience applauded.
“Call the question,” Parenelli said.
“Call the question,” Wilkens added.
“Call the question,” most of those in the audience repeated.
“All in favor of tabling the Midnight Pass study, respond by saying ‘Aye,’” Beatrice McElveny said reluctantly.
“With all due respect,” said Wilkens, “that was not the motion. The motion was to have no study and to keep the Pass closed. That was my motion.”
The audience applauded again.
The mayor called for the vote.
There were three ayes and one nay. The mayor chose to abstain rather than suffer defeat.
The crowd went wild. The mayor found her gavel and pounded for quiet.
“Quiet, please,” Reverend Wilkens said.
Parenelli the radical was grinning and shaking his head. Wilkens raised his hands. The audience went silent.
“Madame Mayor,” said Parenelli, “I believe we just passed a motion.”
The mayor looked confused.
“You hit the gavel,” said the old man. “And then you say, ‘The motion carries.’ You’ve been doing that for almost a year. It shouldn’t be that hard.”
The mayor tapped the gavel and, voice breaking, said, “The motion carries.”
There was handshaking all around, but a small cluster of well-dressed men and women gathered in the corner with Commissioner Wrightman. Someone called the mayor to join the group. She gathered her papers and bypassed the gathering.
“Bea knows which side her ballot is buttered on,” Parenelli said.
“It’s not over,” said Wilkens. “William, are you all right?”
“No, but thanks to you, I’m conscious and I got to do something for the right reasons for a change. Not enough to get me into heaven, if there is one, but maybe I’ll get a cushy job in hell making cold stale coffee when the damned come off of their one-minute break every millennium.”
“Mr. Fonesca,” Wilkens said, taking my hand, “thank you. If there is ever anything…”
“You know Jerry Robins?”
“Downtown Association, yes,” said Wilkens.
“You know the Texas Bar and Grill on Second?”
“Yes,” he said. “There’s a connection?”
“Robins and some others want the Texas to go upscale or move out,” I said. “A friend of mine owns it, another friend who helped me get Trasker here tonight lives and works there.”
“And you want me to…”
“Talk to Robins,” I said.
“He doesn’t necessarily represent the feelings of the majority of members of the association,” Wilkens said. “I’ll discuss it with him. I’m sure reason will prevail.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’ll have to excuse me now,” Wilkens said, touching my shoulder.
John Rubin was at my side, notepad out.
“What happened here tonight?” he said. “I mean, what really happened?”
“Someone’s been shot at Kevin Hoffmann’s house.”
“Who?” Rubin asked.
“A man named Stanley LaPrince,” I said.
“Is he dead?”
“He’s dead,” I said.
“This have something to do with the vote here?”
“Might,” I said.
“Details?” asked Rubin.
“Ask the police,” I said.
“Thanks, Fonesca.”
He tapped his notebook with his pen, looked at Wilkens and Trasker, and I could see that he had decided that a murder in the home of a rich citizen was more important news than the aftermath of the outcome of a commission vote. Besides, he had his notes. He’d probably be up the rest of the night.
It was almost one in the morning when I got back to my office. The sky had cleared. The moon was full.
I had a breakfast in the morning I wasn’t looking forward to.
15
“Spanish omelet here is great,” said Kenneth Severtson Sr., digging into the Saturday morning special at First Watch.
The place was bright, crowded, and noisy.
I had bacon and eggs. Janice Severtson, sitting next to her husband, was working on a ham-and-cheese omelet. All three of us had coffee.
Janice’s hand rested on the table. Her husband touched it.
“How are the kids?” I asked, pouring myself a second cup of coffee.
“Fine,” Janice said with a solemn smile. “My sister flew down from Charleston yesterday to help out. She’s watching them.”
“How do we thank you, Mr. Fonesca?” Severtson asked.
“You said you had a bonus,” I said.
“Name it,” said Severtson.
“One thousand, cash,” I said. “You have it with you?”
“One thou-No, but I think I have about four hundred. I stopped at the bank yesterday. Janice, you have any cash?”
She reached for her purse on the bench next to her, found her wallet, and came up with almost two hundred. Between the two of them they came up with a little over six hundred dollars.
“I’ll settle for that,” I said, accepting Ken and Janice’s money across the table.
“I can get the rest on Monday or from an ATM if you really need it soon,” Severtson said.
“No,” I said, pocketing the cash. “This will do it.”
“Is there anything else we can do for you? We owe you so much,” Janice said, squeezing her husband’s hand.
“Three things,” I said, drinking some more coffee.
“Name them,” said Ken.
“First, stop shooting at me.”
No one spoke. A woman at the table behind us said to whoever was sitting with her, “Who knows about Virginia? She blows hot and cold. Today’s a cold day. Don’t ask.”
“What?” asked Severtson.
“Stop shooting at me,” I said. “Trying to kill me. You know. Midnight Pass. The Laundromat.”
“You’re crazy,” said Severtson.
“Extremely depressed,” I said. “Close to suicidal a few times, but my therapist assures me I’m not psychotic. Dealing with people like you can bring me close to the line, but then there are people who can pull me back.”
“Why would I want to kill you?” asked Ken Severtson with a laugh, looking at his wife, who wasn’t laughing.
“Because you know I’ve been asking questions about you and Stark, that I’d found out he has a two-million-dollar insurance policy with you as beneficiary and that the business, which grossed over a million and a half last year, is all yours now. It wasn’t hard to find.”
“This is crazy,” Severtson said.
I wasn’t looking at him anymore. I was looking at his wife. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“When you knocked at my door in Orlando,” I said. “You told me you knew who I was because you called some friends in Sarasota who knew me. Then you said your husband must have hired me.”
Janice Severtson didn’t look up.
“Who did you call at three in the morning who knows me?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
“And I told you I was in Orlando with my wife and kids,” I went on. “When you came into my room you didn’t look around for anyone else. You didn’t ask where my wife and kids were.”
“I was…I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“You did know,” I said. “You knew.”
I turned to her husband.
“There was a little girl in that Laundromat,” I told him. “She was standing a few feet away from me. Her name is Alaska Dreamer. She’s got a toy monster with a big eye that lights up. She could have been killed.”