“Where?”
“He has a boat, the Fair Maiden, docked at the Sunnyside Condos on Longboat.”
Vivaise was taking notes now.
“Why did you go to see him?”
“You said you had a daughter about Adele’s age. Maybe you’ll understand. I was angry.”
“You had a plan?”
“No,” I admitted. “I wanted to warn him, tell him to stay away from Adele. Maybe he’d tell me that Dwight Handford killed Tony Spiltz.”
“Brilliant,” said Vivaise, having some more coffee. “Of course, he agreed to stay away from Adele and confessed to either killing Spiltz himself or being present when Dwight Handford did it.”
“No,” I said, hiding in my cup of coffee.
Vivaise was right. The coffee wasn’t bad.
“You found out fast that Pirannes is smarter than you are,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And that he has a very short fuse.”
“Yes.”
“Confession time here, Lewis,” he said in a stage whisper. “Pirannes is smarter than I am. He is slick. He had great lawyers. We’ve got nothing on him. We’ll look for him, find him or maybe he’ll come to us. He’ll have a great story to cover where he was when Spiltz was killed and an even better one to cover why Spiltz was in his apartment. We know what Pirannes does, who he does it with. But nothing to crucify him with. And so far you’ve given me nothing.”
“He tried to kill me or, at least, he planned to kill me,” I said.
Vivaise shook his head in a way that said, What did you expect, you moron?
“He told me to put on a bathing suit, made it clear that he was going to dump me in the bay. I can’t swim.”
“You annoyed him. We have it on good authority that he doesn’t like to be annoyed, that others have annoyed him and have gone swimming in the gulf or the bay and never made it to shore. He told you straight out that he was going to kill you?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Vivaise said. “All we’d have is your word. What else do you have?”
“Pirannes told me he had an alibi for Spiltz’s murder, that he hadn’t been back to his apartment last night, that he could prove it.”
“He could prove he hadn’t been there whether he had been there or not,” Vivaise said. “What else?”
“He was on his boat with a big man named Manny.”
Vivaise wrote and said, “Manny Guzman. And?”
“He was waiting for a woman. She was coming for lunch.”
“Very helpful, Lewis. How did you get away from Pirannes?”
“Luck,” I said.
Vivaise thought for a while. We both drank coffee. I was feeling a little better.
“How’s your headache?”
“Better,” he said. “Okay. We’ve been looking for Pirannes all day. You find a body in someone’s apartment. You look for him. Pirannes is probably still on the boat. Maybe he even went back to the apartment. It’s sealed, but he has a key and he can claim he doesn’t know what this is all about. Maybe the girl’s lying. Maybe she saw her father or Pirannes or Manny kill Spiltz, for who knows what reason, and she’s afraid to talk?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
“Hell, I’ll talk to her. In the morning. I’m going home, kiss my wife, probably have an argument with my kids.”
“And me?”
“Leaving the scene of a crime. Withholding evidence,” he said, standing up and finishing his coffee. Then he looked at me for a long time and added, “You were trying to protect the kid. Go home. Stay out of trouble. No charges on this one. If I find out you’re lying, you’ll get those charges and some I’ll invent.”
“I’m not lying,” I said.
I hadn’t finished my coffee.
“I don’t think you are, but I’ve seen liars who believed their lies and convinced me. Go home.”
I didn’t go home.
“Kentucky Fried,” Susan Porovsky said when she opened the door and saw the two bags on my arms.
“Is that good?” I asked.
“It is if there’s corn and mashed potatoes with gravy. Is it extra crispy?”
“Half and half,” I said as she pulled one of the bags toward her to peek into it.
“Can I come in?”
She took the bag she had been peeking in and led me into the apartment.
“Your mom home?”
“Coleslaw?” she asked, leading me through the living room to the dining room table.
“Coleslaw,” I said.
“I hate coleslaw.”
We started to unpack the bags. Susan seemed to be searching for something.
“What’s this?” she asked, holding up a bag.
“Roasted chicken, for your mother. She doesn’t eat fried chicken.”
“I know,” she said. “But she takes the crispy off and eats it when we get it fried.”
We had it reasonably laid out and ready now, right down to the paper plates, paper napkins and paper cups. A bottle of Coke and another of Diet 7UP stood next to each other.
“Your mother’s not home?”
“No,” she said. “She called. Said if you got here first to wait ten minutes and then eat without her.”
“Your brother?”
“Michael lives in the bathroom.”
“He’s in the bathroom.”
“Confirmed,” she said, nodding her head. “When he isn’t in the bathroom, he watches TV, reads, goes out with friends to R-rated movies he shouldn’t see and he plays basketball. I play basketball. I play the recorder too. Want to hear?”
I sat at the table and said,
“After dinner maybe.”
“You don’t think I can really play, do you?”
“I think you can really play. I just don’t know how well. I play a harmonica. It sounds all right to me. Other people think I stink.”
“You have a harmonica with you?”
“No, I haven’t played since… for a while.”
She sat across from me.
“That’s because you’re not happy.”
“You are very wise for a child who has not even lived one lifetime,” I said.
“What?”
“That’s from Dracula.”
“I don’t remember that part. I can’t think of anything else to entertain you. Mom said I should entertain you.”
“You’re doing a great job.”
Michael emerged from the bathroom and said, “Kentucky Fried, great.”
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” he answered, reaching into a bucket for a chicken leg.
“Wait for mom,” Susan said.
“I’m starving,” he said. “I’ll just eat one and then I’ll wait.”
“Do Borgs eat?” I asked.
He sat and thought about it, drumming the chicken leg against a finger.
“What are Borgs?” Susan asked.
“Borgs are like zombies in Star Trek,” Michael explained.
“I don’t like Star Trek,” she said to me. “My father was big. Mom thinks Michael looks like him and is going to be big. He’s already pretty big.”
“I think Borgs don’t eat because they’re mostly machines,” he concluded. “It’s a good question.”
“I don’t like mashed potatoes when they get cold,” Susan said.
“We can microwave them,” Michael said, looking at me. “Mind if I ask you a question? I’m not trying to offend you or anything.”
“Ask,” I said.
“Are you making moves on my mother?”
“Michael,” Susan shouted.
“It’s okay,” I said. “No, I’m not. I won’t lie to you. If I keep seeing her, I probably will, but now we’re friends. I lost my wife about four years ago. Car accident. I haven’t… you understand?”
He said he did and took a bite of the chicken leg as the door in the living room opened and Sally stepped in, a black canvas bag in one hand and a briefcase in the other.
“Sorry,” she said.
She came to the table, kissed Susan on the cheek and Michael on top of his head, and then she looked at the table.
“Looks great. I’m hungry.”
“He got you roasted,” Susan said.
Sally sat and said,
“Then what are we waiting for.”
We ate. We talked. Mostly about nothing much. Kids feeling me out. Me playing. Sally listening, watching. I was having a good time. I didn’t forget what was outside and what was deep inside me, but I enjoyed myself.
“Easy cleanup,” Sally said when we were clearly finished.