Her hands weren’t steady, but steady enough. Her mouth was slightly open. Tex Ritter sang “High Noon” behind her, one of Flo’s all-time favorites.
“Where’ve you been?” she asked. “I’ve been calling you. Left a message.”
“Out looking for Adele,” I said.
“Asshole tried to kill me,” she said. “I was out driving in the Ford, pulled into the driveway, and he blasted away from the bushes.”
“Someone tried to kill you?”
“I just said that, Lewis.”
“You saw him?”
“No. I heard him. Heard the bullets hit the side of the car. One went through the window not far from my head. I ran in, got the gun, and took a few shots in his direction. Scared him away. While I went for the gun, he had the balls to open the car trunk. Went back inside and found whoever it was had gone through the house didn’t leave much mess but the broken window he came through. Just opened doors, closets, crawl space, didn’t find what he was looking for, and then waited for me to show up.”
“He was looking for some manuscripts Adele took,” I said. “He was looking for Adele. He or she. I don’t think whoever it was will come back.”
I didn’t think this was a good time to tell her that Bernard Corsello had probably been gunned down for the same reason she had been attacked and that she was lucky to be alive.
“You call the police?” I asked.
“I called you,” she said, backing away so I could get inside and she could close and bolt the door. “I don’t want cops here asking about Adele and asking why I was out driving when my license is goddamn suspended.”
“Whoever broke in took nothing?”
“Not that I can tell, but things were moved, drawers were open in Adele’s room, her closet. I’ve got it all cleaned up now. Guy’s coming to fix the window tomorrow.”
“He won’t come back, Flo,” I assured her as Tex sang, “Vowed it would be my life or his’n.”
“You got it wrong, Lewis,” she said. “I want him back. I’m ready now. I want him back so I can blow his legs off and get him to tell me where Adele is.”
“I don’t think whoever shot at you knows where Adele is,” I said. “They’re looking for her.”
She leaned the rifle against the wall.
“I can use that thing,” she said. “Gus taught me when we were just married. He could shoot a hole through a half dollar thrown into the air. Saw him do it. Did it myself a few times, but I was cold sober then. You want a drink?”
“You made a promise as a bride,” Tex sang.
“No, thanks,” I said.
She moved across the large living room to the liquor cabinet next to the CD and record player and poured herself a hefty glass of something white.
“You promised to stay sober, Flo,” I reminded her.
“That was because I had Adele,” she said, taking a drink. “Now I’ve got nothing again but old songs and lots of bottles and, I almost forgot, someone who’s trying to kill me.”
“I’ll find Adele,” I said. “I’ll bring her back. Get sober. Make a deal with yourself, a bet. You’re a gambler.”
She looked old, her sequined green skirt and blowsy white blouse and dark boots belonged on Catherine Zeta-Jones or Charlize Theron or Salma Hayak, but not Flo Zink.
“Okay, I put the bottles away,” she said. “Stay sober, wait for that bastard who tried to kill me to show up, and you deliver Adele with no charges against her by Wednesday. Wednesday at high noon,” she said as Tex sang, “Do not forsake me, oh, my darling.”
“Wednesday, high noon,” I said.
Flo looked at her still half-full glass for an answer and said, “Deal.”
She dumped the remainder of her gin or vodka into a cactus plant next to the sofa and sat looking up at me.
“Lewis, you brought that girl into my life,” she said. “Bring her back. I don’t know how much she needs me, but I sure as hell need her.”
“I’ll find her,” I said.
“Then do it,” she said, scooting me with one hand.
I went out the front door and moved around Flo’s car. There were eight holes in it and the window was broken. I got out my pocket flashlight and dug out a bullet with my pocketknife.
I was on my way home again trying, without much luck, to figure out who had shot at Flo and killed the old man. Lonsberg? I didn’t think it was in him, but his life’s work had been taken. Did it feel as if a kidnapper had broken in and taken his children? I mean, did it feel like that to him?
And his heirs, Laura, Brad, maybe even Brad’s teenage son, afraid Adele would destroy their legacy. Or might it be…
The shot hit the front window turning it into an intricate instant insane spiderweb I couldn’t see through. The shot had come from a vehicle on my left. That I knew. But I hadn’t looked. The vehicle was ahead of me now and I couldn’t see through the windshield. I slowed down, opened my window, and guided the car through an empty lane of traffic on Webber Avenue. I sat for a few seconds watching for a car that might have someone in it who wanted another shot at me. I sat for about a minute more before getting out. I opened the clean, empty trunk, found the tire iron, went back inside the car, and smashed the front windshield. It crackled and splashed, shards fell forward though some did fall onto the dashboard. I pushed a few pieces of glass off the shell Jefferson and Lonsberg had given me and then swept the rest of the glass off the hood of the car trying not to leave scratches.
And then I drove back a block to 41 and up to 301 and the DQ with a blast of warm breeze in my face. It was about dinnertime for me but I didn’t feel like eating. I knew how Flo felt. I was afraid. I didn’t understand my fear. I cared for nothing much besides what was already lost to me. So why should I care about being shot? I didn’t know, but I planned to ask Ann Horowitz on Monday.
I drove to EZ Economy Car Rental Agency and went into the small office where the older Fred with the cheerful smile and belly was standing in front of Alan, a big young man in his forties, whose hands were folded in front of him as he listened to his partner. It was Fred who first spotted me.
“Decide against that place near Macon?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“You have the second-best car on our lot,” Fred said as Alan turned to me.
“Someone shot a hole through the front window,” I said. “It needs a new window.”
“Maybe it needs a new driver too,” Alan said.
“Window that size will run you over a hundred,” Fred said.
“Fine, can you get it done by tomorrow morning?”
“We can get it done,” said Alan. “Any bullet holes, other damage to the vehicle?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Someone tried to kill you in one of our cars,” Alan said.
“Looks that way,” I said.
“We’re going to have to reassess your insurance,” said Fred.
“When I turn the car in,” I said. “Keys are in the car.”
“What happened?” Fred asked. “Mafia catch up with you? That’s what I always thought about you, that the Mafia was after you, that you did something to make them mad so you came here to hide.”
“I’m from Chicago. I don’t know any Mafia. I have enough trouble right here.”
“I can dig your plight,” said Alan.
“So what are you talking about now, ‘Dig your plight,’” said Fred. “Come down to earth and back from the seventies and help me see if we can find Jerry to fix the window.”
Then Fred turned to me and said, “Forgive me, but I’d feel more comfortable with you out of here.”
“Like if two guys with Uzi guns run in here and cut us down, especially after I’ve just had surgery,” Alan said.
I nodded in assent and went out on the street. I walked past the bead shop, the Mexican video store, the Tae Kwon Do Academy, and the abandoned gas station. I was walking up my stairs when I noticed that my office lights were on.
I opened my door slowly and found myself looking at a tall young man in the seat across from my desk. He looked up at me as if he had been called into the assistant principal’s office for smoking pot in the boys washroom. I played the role and calmly sat behind my desk.