“I always thought it was the other way around.”
“Here’s my mother.”
I heard the clinking of the phone being passed and heard Sally say, “Lew?”
“Yes, Michael and I were just bonding philosophically over adolescent pimples.”
“Adele called,” she said. “Not long ago. Michael just went back in his room. I think the pimple talk was a result of talking to Adele. He’s got a crush on her. God, I’m doing more than showing my age. ‘Crush.’ They must have a better word for it now, or at least a more graphic one.”
“Adele has that affect on men and boys,” I said.
“She told me she was all right and that she planned to continue to burn Lonsberg’s manuscripts. She asked me to tell her how much trouble she was really in.”
“And you told her?” I asked.
“Can’t lie to them, Lew. Once they catch me in a lie they never believe me again. I told her Lonsberg wanted the manuscripts back, of course, but I also told her I didn’t think he’d be going to the police about them. She had already figured that one out. I told her she had to go back to Flo’s or she was subject at worst to criminal charges or to placement in another foster home. She asked me if I’d do that.”
“And you said ‘no.’”
“I said ‘no.’ Where could I place a sixteen-year-old former prostitute? The possibilities are few. Flo is perfect for her. So, I asked her about Mickey Merrymen and his grandfather. She said they had gone to his house, found his body, grabbed a few things, and left. She wasn’t lying, Lew.”
“You’re sure?”
“You mean would I put my life on the line for it? No, but I believe her. I told her the police were certainly looking for Mickey.”
“So?”
“She’s angry,” Sally said. “She’s determined. All she would say is ‘He’s going to suffer for every page.’ Then she hung up. Hold it.” Sally put her hand over the mouthpiece but I could hear her call out, “Susan, did you shampoo? That was one quick shower… No, I’m not calling you a liar. It’s a matter of degree and intensity. I’m sure your hair is wet and has just had at least a passing acquaintance with shampoo. I’ll check.” Then back on the phone with me. “Lew, I can cover Adele for a few days, even that’s taking a chance. I’ll file a report that she may be missing. The report will stay buried on my overburdened desk for a few days, no more. Find her.”
“Sunday?” I asked. “Can you get away for a movie?”
“I can get away if I bribe Michael and Susan with a Scream 3 tape from Blockbuster and a sausage pizza.”
“Seven?”
“Check the show times,” she said.
We hung up. That left Dorsey to call. I dialed. The voice came on before the first ring had ended.
“Yes,” he said.
“Lew Fonesca,” I said.
“My wife is out,” he said. “She’ll be back soon. So this has to be fast. I talk to Charlie once or twice a year. He always calls me, never tells me where he is, but…”
“Caller ID,” I guessed.
“Yes,” Clark Dorsey said as if he had just betrayed his brother, which was probably just what he was thinking.
“Vera Lynn is alive?” I asked.
“Yes, but I don’t know much. He just says, ‘Clark, are you okay?’ I say, ‘I’m fine.’ He says he’s fine though he doesn’t sound it. And then he hangs up. That’s it. He sounds worse each time we talk. We’re brothers. We were close. Now… I think he needs help.”
“What number did he call from?” I asked, reaching for an envelope and a blunt pencil.
“I called it back,” he said, giving me the number. “It was a phone booth in a rib house someplace not far from Macon, Georgia, called Vanaloosa. A man with a black accent answered, said there were no white people around that neighborhood. Charles must have picked out the phone so I couldn’t find him. Maybe you can. He sounded like… he sounded like. I can’t explain it. Like he was dead and going through the motions. My brother was tough, Fonesca. Big, tough, smart. I don’t know if you can resurrect the near dead. My wife thinks what happened to Charles is responsible for our… well, responsible for what we are. But he’s my brother.”
“I’ll try to find him. How’s the house coming?”
“I bought new lumber like your friend suggested. I’ll even out the walls, but the house doesn’t seem to care. It just grows, section by section, each room holding less and less.”
“Ever think of seeing a shrink?” I asked.
“I don’t believe in it,” he said.
“I see a shrink,” I said. “Good one. I think she’d see you. You might want to give it a try.”
“My wife would like it,” he said flatly. “But I’m not sure I want to be anything else than I am.”
“I know. You get used to it,” I said. “Then it’s hard to give up the pain.”
“Yes, I guess. How do you know?”
“You build more rooms. I crawl back into smaller ones,” I said. “I don’t like talking about it.”
“I know,” he said. “Give me your shrink’s name. And let me know if you find Charlie and Vera Lynn. I’ll pay whatever…”
“I’ve already got a client,” I said.
“Marvin,” he said.
“What does he want with his sister after all this time?” Dorsey asked.
“Maybe I’ll find out,” I said.
We hung up. That left Marvin Uliaks and Conrad Lonsberg to see in the morning. I checked my face in the mirror of my small back room. The mark of Bubbles Dreemer seemed to be gone. I shaved with the electric so I could be sure. It was gone.
I went out the door. It was raining. The DQ lights were out. All the lights on the street I could see from the railing were out. Cars swooshed and splashed down 301. No one walked the rainy night, not even a floating monk.
Digger had said he was going to get a cot, but I remembered he had a crevice or a stone bench in Bayfront Park. He might be in the washroom thirty feet away. I couldn’t take another conversation with Digger, probably couldn’t take one with anyone else.
I held my cup over the railing into the rain, caught enough to brush my teeth and rinse and spit into the night.
I love the rain. I love heavy rain that isolates, keeps people away, sets up a wall if not of silence at least of steadiness. The sound of rain always helps me to sleep. I went back in, locked the door, moved to my room, got undressed, put on fresh underwear, and popped a tape into the VCR cutting off CNN showing people clinging to the tops of trees in a flood somewhere in Africa.
The movie came on. I’d picked it up for three dollars on the third floor of the Main Street Book Store. It was A Stolen Life with Bette Davis. Made a good double feature with Dead Ringer, both about Davis playing a twin who takes the place of her evil sister. It wasn’t Crawford in Rain but it would do. The problem was that the film, while in English, had subtitles in Spanish. I ignored the subtitles and watched. Dane Clark was an artist saying something to the good Bette Davis. I dozed to the sound of rain and woke up to see two Bette Davises on a small boat in a storm. The rain continued to tell me to sleep. I did.
8
The rain had stopped. That I knew before I opened my eyes in the morning. I also knew I hadn’t turned off the VCR. The sound of static crackled like burning paper. When I opened my eyes, I found a face looking down into mine. I shot up and cracked foreheads with Marvin Uliaks.
“Oww,” he groaned, putting his hand on his forehead and stepping back.
I had a sudden headache from the impact, but no permanent damage.
Was Bubbles Dreemer standing in line in my office to take another crack at me?
“How did you get in?” I asked.
Marvin looked at his hand for signs of blood. There were none.
“Window,” he said. “Lock doesn’t work.”
“How long were you standing there?” I asked, sitting up and holding my head in both hands.
“Awhile,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you. You find Vera Lynn yet?”
“I told you I’d let you know, Marvin,” I said with irritation.