I was finally feeling angry about something. I was feeling grimly determined about a whole lot of somethings.
I counted license plates and found out where I was going-at least where I was going right now.
11
Sunnyside Condominiums was on Gulf of Mexico Drive on the bay side of the key about five minutes north of the Beach Tides Resort, where Ames and I had rescued Adele and left a corpse.
There was no gate and there were no guards. The Sunnyside apartments were protected only, by a tall, tight hedge of flowering bushes. The parking lot was crushed shell and just a few steps to the right past the bushes. There were about a dozen cars parked on the lot. There was room for two dozen more.
From Gulf of Mexico Drive, it was impossible to tell how big the Sunnyside was. Once I was inside and walking along the narrow concrete path that curled around the two-story buildings and past a trio of tennis courts, I realized that there were at least a dozen buildings.
I had no trouble finding the docked boats. I just veered toward the bay. I had no trouble finding the Fair Maiden. I just looked for the largest boat. I know nothing of boats. They were a passion of Dave’s. He turned boats into vessels of philosophical speculation as he mixed Blizzards and served burgers and fries. He told tales of the open sea that he felt brought him near a sense of a supreme power.
When I was on a boat, I thought only of how soon the voyage, even an hour into Lake Michigan or on the bay, would be over. I longed for the land. I couldn’t live on a key. The possibility of being trapped on an island when a hurricane went wild filled me with dread. That didn’t, however, stop me from admiring the isolation that a boat promised.
I thought of this as I moved out on the narrow wooden dock toward the Fair Maiden. It was a deep thought. The thought on the surface was images, images of the frightened runaway, images of Beryl Tree. There was right and wrong, and sometimes they were clear.
I stopped at the end of the dock and looked at the clean broad deck in front of me. There was a tower with a steering wheel on my left. The tower was surrounded by glass or see-through plastic and a blue metal roof. There was also a closed door at the base of the tower on the deck. I guessed the length of the power boat at about fifty feet. My second guess was that it could probably take John Pirannes very far away very quickly.
There was a table on the deck with two places set for lunch. A bottle of wine chilled in a silver cooler on the white-clothed table. Another bottle of Perrier water sat ready next to two thin-stemmed glasses.
I stood, waited. Someone was below the deck. I could hear voices.
I closed my eyes. A breeze.
There is in some men a natural ability to kill. My grandfather, my father’s father, had told tales of the gangs in Rome, of the intimidation before the first war and the killing of Nazi sympathizers during and after the second war. He had already left the old country, but most of his family had stayed. They wrote. There were tales of cousins, uncles, distant bandits with the name Fonesca or DeFabrio or Tronzini who carried guns and knives in their belts and needed no reason beyond honor to use them.
I was not born with the ability to kill. I had never developed it. Even standing in front of the Fair Maiden I didn’t want a gun. I realized when I heard the voice that I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but that I would know when I found it.
“Can I help you?” came the voice.
I opened my eyes. A man stood on the deck, legs apart. He had stepped out of an ad in one of the Vanity Fair magazines in my allergist’s office. He was wearing white slacks, white deck shoes and a black shirt with a little white anchor over his heart. His hair was white and blowing with the breeze. His legs were apart, his hands folded in front of him. I knew who he was.
“Permission to come aboard,” I said, remembering The Caine Mutiny and trying to inject a hint of sarcasm into my request.
Pirannes looked at me as if I were some kind of lunatic.
“Manny,” Pirannes called calmly toward the door through which he had no doubt come.
A man in a white sweat suit came on deck. He was a big man, sun-brown and unsmiling. He was dark haired, well shaven and definitely Hispanic. Manny stood in front of the door, hands behind his back. I wondered if he had something in those hidden hands.
“I know you,” said Pirannes, running his tongue over his lower lip, trying to remember.
“The Y,” I said. “I work out there most mornings. You show up with Manny. We’ve said hello a few times.”
Pirannes smiled, a problem solved. He looked at Manny, who looked at me and said nothing.
“I remember,” said Pirannes.
His voice was mellow, his grammar nearly perfect. If he had a lisp, I didn’t hear it.
“Can I come on board?” I asked again.
“Why?”
“To talk,” I said.
“Talk about what? Who are you?”
He was smiling amiably.
“Adele Tree,” I said.
The smile was gone.
“Dwight Handford,” I went on.
Manny took a step toward me.
“Tony Spiltz.”
Manny took another step toward me.
“Tilly the Pimp.”
Manny leaped onto the dock. There was nothing behind his back but thick, dark callused hands. He patted me down, even into my crotch and with a finger in my shoes. Then he turned and shook his head no to let Pirannes know I wasn’t armed.
“What’s your name?”
“Lew Fonesca,” I said.
“What’s your business?”
“I was hired by Beryl Tree to find her daughter.”
“She’s dead,” said Pirannes.
“I’m still working for her,” I said.
“You know who I am. You know about Tony Spiltz and you come here like this? Are you a lunatic, Fonesca? Are you suicidal?”
“Maybe both,” I said. “If Manny will move out of the way, I’ll come on board the Guida Merchant. ”
“Okay. We’ll play games for a few minutes. Come on. You have lunch?”
“No,” I said as Manny stepped to the side, let me pass and step down on the deck in front of Pirannes.
“You want something? I’m having shrimp in the shell, a fresh French baguette.”
“Water,” I said.
Pirannes motioned to table and I sat while Manny, on the dock, looked down at me and folded his hands in front of him. Then Pirannes pulled a small, flat cellular phone from his pocket, hit some buttons and looked at me as he said,
“We’re going to have a late lunch. Come in an hour. No, make that an hour and a half. I’ll have Manny put a deck chair on the dock in case we have to take the Maiden out for a while. Wear your floppy hat. Bring your sunglasses. Sunscreen, and bring a book… Shrimp, tarragon chicken salad, sorbet… raspberry or lemon.”
He pushed a button and put the phone back in his pocket. Then he sat across from me and poured us both a glass of mineral water.
“Now,” he said. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got Adele,” I said.
He didn’t blink. He whipped out the phone again and hit a single button. He said nothing, and then hung up and looked at me.
“Who answered my phone?” he asked, picking up his water.
“Probably the police,” I said.
“What’s going on, Lewis?”
“John, I don’t want to play games,” I said.
He leaned toward me and whispered, “Lewis, you don’t look like the kind of man who can threaten me.”
“I’m a little crazy,” I said. “Remember the question you asked me? My therapist thinks I’m suicidal. A suicidal lunatic on a mission can be a dangerous thing no matter what he looks like.”
“True,” he said, holding his glass of water up so the sun hit it.