“Will I need it?” I asked.
Alan and Fred shrugged.
“One thirty, and we’re losing money,” the older said.
“We like you,” said the younger one.
“You’re a regular. You send us business.”
This amused the hell out of the younger one.
“I’ll take it,” I said.
“You want to give him the keys and papers, Fred?” asked the young one.
I had them now. Fred was the older one. He had stopped crying.
I not only had their names straight, I also had a car that smelled as if a heavy smoker had lived in it. The car also had thirty-four thousand miles on it. I could have probably negotiated a deal to buy it from them for about three weeks’ worth of rental fees, but I didn’t want a car. I tore open the plastic bag, took out the pine tree, set it on the dashboard, turned on the air-conditioning and opened the windows.
I drove the half-block to the DQ parking lot, which was less than half full-not bad for late afternoon. There was a line and people were seated at the two umbrella-covered tables, eating and laughing. At least the three teenaged boys at one table were laughing. A pair of thin women in their fifties wearing thin sweaters, which they didn’t need, sat at the other table eating silently.
I was suddenly hungry, very hungry. I got in line, ordered two burgers and a Coke from Dave and gave him the article on John Marshall. He thanked me and said he would read it as soon as he had a break.
The teens were laughing louder and throwing bread from their burgers at each other. One of the boys heaved a chunk of sandwich. It sailed into the back of one of the two women.
“Sorry,” said the kid who had thrown the burger. He was grinning.
The thin woman didn’t turn.
“Give me a second, Lew,” Dave said when I got to the window.
He moved back into the DQ, past the sink and out the side door, throwing his white apron on a table as the door closed. He appeared in front of the table where the teens were still hurling food. At first they didn’t see him. The boys were big. Football types.
“Pick up what you threw and give the lady a real good apology,” Dave said. “Then leave and don’t come back for at least a week. And if you come back, come back docile. You know what that means?”
All three boys stood up. Dave didn’t back down.
The boys were no longer laughing.
“We didn’t mean nothing,” the biggest boy said.
There was defiance in his chunky face.
Another boy stepped in front of his friend and put a hand on his chest.
“We’re sorry,” said the second boy with some sincerity. “We was just celebrating. My friend Jason here, he just found out that he doesn’t have HIV. Just got the report from the hospital. He was sure he-”
“None of this guy’s business,” said Jason.
“Let’s just go, Jace,” said the mediator, looking at the third boy, who nodded in agreement.
“Clean up first and apologize,” said Dave.
“No way,” said Jason, looking my way to be sure it would be three against one if it came to throwing punches.
“Any of you know a girl named Adele Tree?” I asked.
“No,” said the mediator. The answer was wary. Something about the name had hit home.
“How about Adele Handford?”
All three of them turned toward me. The name Adele had hit home. They looked at each other. The thin women got up and left, carrying what remained of their meal.
“Her friend Ellen. I almost got the HIV from Ellen,” said Jason.
“Easy Adele,” said the mediator. “Must be talkin’ about Easy Adele.”
“Where can I find her?”
They looked at each other again.
“I’ll clean up the mess you made. It’s too late for the apology.”
“They’ll clean it up,” Dave said. “It’s their mess, Lew.”
I shrugged.
“Then how about I give you each five bucks.”
“Why not?” said the mediator, moving between Dave and Jason and heading for me.
I pulled out my wallet and give him five singles. I would charge the payoff to Carl Sebastian. There was no point in asking them about Melanie Sebastian. She was in a different league.
“Sarasota High,” said the kid, who was blond and reasonably good-looking except for some much-needed dental work.
“She goes to Sarasota High School?”
“She did,” he said. “I haven’t seen her around the last three, four weeks, somethin’, you know?”
“Not enough,” I said, though it was a start.
“That’s what I know. You guys know what happened to Easy Adele?” he asked.
Jason smirked. The third kid said, “She said she was living with her father. I don’t know where. She was whorin’ on North Trail. I seen her. By the motels, you know?”
“I know,” I said.
The kid in front of me backed away and Dave repeated calmly,
“Pick up your mess.”
Jason was the last to bend over and start the job.
After the three had driven off, taking time to screech the brakes and throw Dave and me the finger, I got a fish sandwich, a burger and a cherry Blizzard. There was no one waiting in line behind me. A couple with a small girl had disappeared when Dave came out of the DQ.
“They’re not bad,” he said. “Just stupid. I don’t like that kind of stupid.”
Dave got my sandwiches and cherry Blizzard and started to read the article.
I went across the parking lot and up the stairs to my laundry basket-sized two rooms with a view of 301 from each.
I turned on the lights, looked at the whirling air conditioner and sat down at the desk in the outer office to check the Sarasota and Bradenton phone book for Dwight Handford. There was nothing. I didn’t expect there would be. I tried Dwight Tree. Nothing.
While I worked on my dinner and watched the ice cream melt in my float, I called the Best Western and asked for Beryl Tree’s room, 204. She answered on the second ring.
“Yes,” she said.
I could hear a television in the background. I thought I recognized the Hollywood Squares music.
“Lew Fonesca,” I said.
“Yes?”
“I haven’t found her yet but I have a lead. It looks like you might be right. I think she was is or was staying with her father.”
“Oh.”
“She did go to a high school here, at least for a while. I’ll go over there in the morning. They may not want to give me any information so I might have to get you to talk to them.”
“I’ll be here all day,” she said. “I’ll just get something to eat and bring it back to the room.”
“I’ll call tomorrow,” I said. “Good night.”
I took off my clothes, touched the stubble on my face, put on my YMCA shorts and a University of Illinois T-shirt and moved into my back room. I had what was left of my food and my Blizzard. I had the folder on Melanie Sebastian and I had a tape of Charade I’d bought two days before for two dollars at Vic’s Pawn Shop on Main Street.
While I watched Cary Grant searching for Carson Dyle, I started a folder on Adele Tree. So far there wasn’t much in it, a photograph and the few notes I was now writing. I had a feeling the folder would grow.
I was working. Two cases. Lots of questions. My grandfather, my mother’s father, played the mandolin. He used to say that the mandolin held the answers. He never made it clear what the questions were. I liked listening to him play old Italian folk songs, songs he made up, even an Elvis tune. He particularly liked “Love Me Tender.” He lost himself in the mandolin. Closed his eyes and listened to the answers.
“It all ties together,” he would say, eyes closed, mind who knows where.
I heard the mandolin in my head. It asked questions. I had two clients who had lost someone close to them. Carl Sebastian, who had chosen me on a chance recommendation, had lost his wife. I had lost my wife. Maybe I could find his. Beryl Tree had lost a daughter. My wife hadn’t lived long enough to have a daughter. So, I had lost a daughter or son.
Fonesca, I told myself, you can be a morbid son-of-a-bitch. Think of something you like, something that makes you happy, or at least content. Think of movies with William Powell and Cary Grant and Jean Arthur. Think of an order of ribs from Luny’s back on Division Street in Chicago. Think of mountains with white caps. You like mountains with white caps.