Always Say Goodbye: A Lew Fonesca Mystery by Stuart M. Kaminsky
Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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sidewalk, facing each other. He was talking again, arguing over whether Mahler was superior to Bruckner.
“You said something about Posno,” Lew said.
“Yes,” the woman said. “You think Posno was right?”
The man looked at Franco and plunged his right hand into his pocket.
“Who is Posno?” Lew asked.
“You don’t know?”
“No, enlighten me.”
“Posno,” she said, “is a maniacally ambitious, talented economics professor at Sanahee University, a self-proclaimed expert on not only micro-and macroeconomics, but politics, philosophy and astrophysics.”
“Andrej Posnitki,” the young man said, eyes on Franco. “Grad students and faculty call him Posno to evoke a name that suggests a mythical monster.”
“Grendel, Cronos, Scylla,” she said.
“Where can we find him?” Lew asked.
“Library,” said the man.
“Which library?” Lew asked.
“Almost any library,” said the woman. “Andrej Posnitki, Posno, is a character in Campbell Restin’s novel More Fool That .”
“Won the Ledge Award, the Millman Award and was a
strong contender for the National Book Award in 1978,” the woman said.
The man and woman moved down the sidewalk. His voice rose with animation with the name Bruckner.
“What the hell’s going on, Lewis?” asked Franco.
“We’re looking for someone who borrowed a name,” Lew said. “Or a mythical monster.”
The corridor on the eighth floor smelled of Lysol and gardenias. The carpeting was gray, the walls muted white. They moved to Rebecca Strum’s door.
“I don’t believe this, Lewie. Anyone can just go up an elevator and knock at Rebecca Strum’s door. She’s …”
“Famous,” Lew said, using the brass door knocker and stepping back. The door opened almost instantly.
Rebecca Strum, no more than five feet tall, hair thin and white, skin clear, a thin book in her left hand, stood looking at them with a smile that made Lew think she knew why they had come to her door.
“Yes?”
“My name is Lewis Fonesca. This is Franco Massaccio. You had a car accident four years ago, a car bumped into you on Lake Shore Drive.”
“I remember,” she said, pulling up the drooping sleeve of her olive-colored sweater.
“About ten minutes before that my wife was killed on Lake Shore by a hit-and-run driver in a red sports car.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said. “Red sports car?”
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
They followed her into the living room. The windows
looked out toward downtown Chicago. The room was neat, uncluttered, only one picture on the wall, a large blown-up photograph of a harbor surrounded by tree-covered hills. The rest of the wall space was lined with shelves filled with books evenly lined up, most of them hardcovered. Facing the window was a desk nestled between two bookcases. On the desk was a pad of yellow lined paper, about half the pages tucked under it, and an open laptop computer. Nothing else.
They sat on three identical chairs padded with green pillows and matching arms. Rebecca Strum kept the thin book in her lap and said, “Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“No,” echoed Franco, looking at the shelves of books.
“Can you tell me again what happened?” Lew asked.
“It was more than four years ago,” she said. “Why now?”
“I’ve been asleep,” Lew said.
She nodded in understanding and said, “The driver was a man, Asian, probably Chinese, about forty-five. His eyes were moist. I think he had been crying. He may have been drinking, taking drugs or suffering from a mental disorder or possibly a trauma. His driving was erratic, weaving back and forth. He … never mind.”
“What?” Lew asked.
“The look on his face was very much like yours right now, the same look of grief and mourning of people who have had their pretenses, illusions, masks, torn from their faces. Gaunt, haunted in despair, a legion of brothers marching to hell.”
“You wrote that,” Franco said.
“Yes.”
“
“You said something about Posno,” Lew said.
“Yes,” the woman said. “You think Posno was right?”
The man looked at Franco and plunged his right hand into his pocket.
“Who is Posno?” Lew asked.
“You don’t know?”
“No, enlighten me.”
“Posno,” she said, “is a maniacally ambitious, talented economics professor at Sanahee University, a self-proclaimed expert on not only micro-and macroeconomics, but politics, philosophy and astrophysics.”
“Andrej Posnitki,” the young man said, eyes on Franco. “Grad students and faculty call him Posno to evoke a name that suggests a mythical monster.”
“Grendel, Cronos, Scylla,” she said.
“Where can we find him?” Lew asked.
“Library,” said the man.
“Which library?” Lew asked.
“Almost any library,” said the woman. “Andrej Posnitki, Posno, is a character in Campbell Restin’s novel More Fool That .”
“Won the Ledge Award, the Millman Award and was a
strong contender for the National Book Award in 1978,” the woman said.
The man and woman moved down the sidewalk. His voice rose with animation with the name Bruckner.
“What the hell’s going on, Lewis?” asked Franco.
“We’re looking for someone who borrowed a name,” Lew said. “Or a mythical monster.”
The corridor on the eighth floor smelled of Lysol and gardenias. The carpeting was gray, the walls muted white. They moved to Rebecca Strum’s door.
“I don’t believe this, Lewie. Anyone can just go up an elevator and knock at Rebecca Strum’s door. She’s …”
“Famous,” Lew said, using the brass door knocker and stepping back. The door opened almost instantly.
Rebecca Strum, no more than five feet tall, hair thin and white, skin clear, a thin book in her left hand, stood looking at them with a smile that made Lew think she knew why they had come to her door.
“Yes?”
“My name is Lewis Fonesca. This is Franco Massaccio. You had a car accident four years ago, a car bumped into you on Lake Shore Drive.”
“I remember,” she said, pulling up the drooping sleeve of her olive-colored sweater.
“About ten minutes before that my wife was killed on Lake Shore by a hit-and-run driver in a red sports car.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said. “Red sports car?”
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
They followed her into the living room. The windows
looked out toward downtown Chicago. The room was neat, uncluttered, only one picture on the wall, a large blown-up photograph of a harbor surrounded by tree-covered hills. The rest of the wall space was lined with shelves filled with books evenly lined up, most of them hardcovered. Facing the window was a desk nestled between two bookcases. On the desk was a pad of yellow lined paper, about half the pages tucked under it, and an open laptop computer. Nothing else.
They sat on three identical chairs padded with green pillows and matching arms. Rebecca Strum kept the thin book in her lap and said, “Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“No,” echoed Franco, looking at the shelves of books.
“Can you tell me again what happened?” Lew asked.
“It was more than four years ago,” she said. “Why now?”
“I’ve been asleep,” Lew said.
She nodded in understanding and said, “The driver was a man, Asian, probably Chinese, about forty-five. His eyes were moist. I think he had been crying. He may have been drinking, taking drugs or suffering from a mental disorder or possibly a trauma. His driving was erratic, weaving back and forth. He … never mind.”
“What?” Lew asked.
“The look on his face was very much like yours right now, the same look of grief and mourning of people who have had their pretenses, illusions, masks, torn from their faces. Gaunt, haunted in despair, a legion of brothers marching to hell.”
“You wrote that,” Franco said.
“Yes.”
“
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