He looked at me and took the box back.
“Makes no sense, does it?” he said.
“So she took them to hurt you,” I pushed, knowing I could push only a little further, but I decided the moment was right. He looked just a bit bewildered by the emptiness of the vault. “Did you and Adele ever?”
“Sex?” he asked. “No. Would I have liked to? Yes, I’m old but I’m not dead. I also know what statutory rape is. I never touched her, never even kissed her. I have a grandson older than Adele. I turn seventy in two weeks. Letting my ancient libido go at the risk of losing Adele’s talent would have been stupid. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“You’re not stupid. Then…?” I asked.
“You’ll have to ask her,” he said. “Well?”
“One short story,” I said.
“What?”
“If I find her,” I said, “and you get your manuscripts back, you give me one short story, any one.”
“No. I’ll give you the five thousand dollars,” he said.
“One short story,” I answered. “Full rights.”
Lonsberg looked at me. So did Jefferson.
“I can’t do that,” he said.
“You keep any copies of those stolen manuscripts?” I asked
“You know I didn’t.”
“Adele, or whoever took them, could be taking your name off now and sending them out under their name to agents, publishers, Internet sites.”
“They’d be worth nothing,” he said. “Or at least not very much. Their value has nothing to do with whatever quality they may have. Their value lies in the fact that they were written by Conrad Lonsberg. Find me some scribbles and stick figures, junk by Picasso on a sheet of paper, and I’ll get you half a million dollars as long as it’s signed and authenticated. No, it’s more likely they could all be getting shredded or thrown into a bonfire right now,” he said.
He shook his head.
“Okay, someone doesn’t like you, Lonsberg,” I said.
“And her name is Adele. Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “I’ll pay you ten thousand to get them back.”
“What does money mean to you?” I asked.
“Food, shelter, paper, postage, a few clothes, security for my family,” he said.
“What does your writing mean to you?”
“I get your point. You want me to give up something important to me,” he said.
“Something that means something to you. Adele means something to me. Not money.”
“You’re a remarkable man, Fonesca,” he said, smiling again. “You may also be a stupid one or you’ve read too many romantic novels.”
“Movies,” I said. “I got it from movies.”
He looked at me for a long time and came to a decision. “And from life. All right. You can have the rights to a story if you get all my manuscripts back.”
“Plus one thousand dollars for expenses, in advance.”
“I pick the story,” he said. “Adele said you’re a good man. She thought I was a good man. She was wrong about me. Her judgment does not match her talent.”
“One of her problems,” I said. “We have a deal?”
“We do,” said Lonsberg.
“Tell me again, how many people know about your vault and the manuscripts?”
“My son, daughter, Adele, me, and you,” he said. “I bought the place because it was isolated and because it had the vault. The last owner was a drug dealer. He had to leave the country quickly.”
“Your son or daughter may have told someone about your manuscripts,” I said. “Maybe Adele mentioned it.”
“Fonesca,” he said evenly. “Whoever took them knew when I was going to be out. Whoever took them got past Jefferson who wouldn’t let a stranger in. Both of my children know they get the manuscripts when I die. And they are quite aware that no one can sell or publish those stories, certainly not with my name on them, while I’m alive. My will is clear.”
“Did your son and daughter meet Adele?”
“Yes.”
“They get along?”
“With Adele or each other?” he asked.
“Both.”
“I think they liked Adele,” he said and then paused. “As for each other, it’s on and off. And in anticipation of your next question, I think my children respect me. I think they don’t like me. I’m not a tender man, Fonesca.”
“I’ve noticed. I’ll need their addresses and phone numbers,” I said, turning and walking out of the vault. “Anyone else Adele might have met through you?”
“There is nobody else,” he said, moving into the kitchen with the box of money in his arms. Jefferson ambling behind us. “Wait.”
He put down the box, pulled a small, battered black notebook out of his back pocket and a click pen from a front pocket, tore out a page, and quickly wrote the names and addresses of his two children. Then he opened the wooden box and counted out a thousand dollars in bills of various denominations.
“I’ll be in touch,” I said, taking the cash and the small sheet and heading toward the front of the house. “You want a receipt?”
“You get nothing with my name signed and I want nothing with yours,” he said behind me. “I have one last question.”
“Go on,” I said.
“Who slapped you?” he said, looking at my cheek. “And don’t tell me you fell. I know what a slap looks like. I’ve had them. Good ones. Solid ones. Usually I deserved them.”
“I served papers on a woman named Bubbles Dreemer this morning,” I said. “She took exception.”
“Great name, Bubbles Dreemer,” he said.
“It doesn’t belong to a great lady.”
“Makes it even better,” he said. “Mind if I use it?”
“It’s not mine to give,” I said.
I went out the door.
Jefferson’s claws tapped behind me along with Lonsberg’s soft footsteps.
Outside he said, “I have a button inside. When you get to the gate, I’ll buzz you out.”
I took a last look at Lonsberg with Jefferson at his side. Lonsberg had one hand in his pocket and the other on the dog’s huge head. I walked down the dirt trail to the gate. I heard the gentle buzz, pushed at the door, went out, and watched the door close behind me with a metallic slap.
4
I was thirsty. Lonsberg hadn’t asked me to stick around for lunch or have a glass of beer or a Coke. I headed for the Texas Bar and Grille on Second Street.
The late-afternoon crowd was just beginning to fill the place that was meant to look like an authentic Old West bar and eatery but looked more like a set from a John Ford western. Round wooden tables and simple wooden chairs. Wooden pillars of no distinction. A bar without stools. There was a buffalo head on one wall, authentic western weapons mounted all over the place. The prize displays were a carbine authenticated as the fifth ever made and a shotgun with a butt plate saying it was the official property of Buffalo Bill Cody. It was dated 1877. This had also been authenticated by Ed Fairing who served the best burgers in town, no competition. His specialty was a one-pounder with onions and mushrooms grilled inside the burger. His steaks were all served the same, rare in the middle, burnt on top, and his chili dared all but the most adventurous. The Texas was a success. It might well survive the onslaught of what passed for this year’s Sarasota culture quickly surrounding it. My guess was that it would gradually change from a hangout for hard hats, nearby CPAs, and lawyers who wanted to sit back, eat food that would kill them, and swap stories. It would fill with tourists. It would become “the place you’ve just got to see.” There was already some of that. Ed would even make money, but it wouldn’t make him happy. He had moved south from an office job to become a western barkeep, not the proprietor of a chic luncheonette or a tourist attraction.
And so, Ed greeted me glumly as I moved to a space at the bar, which even sported a rail for the rare booted foot. Ed was big, heavy, with a head of bushy black hair with long sideburns, deep black eyes, and the face of a world-weary barkeep.