Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A
Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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on the floor, his bedroll wrapped neatly in the corner. Ames was wearing black corduroy pants, a red-dominated, plaid shirt, and boots.
“Where this time?” I asked.
“To see a man,” said Ames. “Brought you this.”
He held up a wooden plank about the size of a rolled up newspaper. Burned into its dark, grainy surface were the words
LEWIS FONESCA
.
“So people will know you’re here,” said Ames. “I can mount it outside somewhere.”
“I don’t want any more people to know I’m here,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” he said, placing the plank faceup on my desk. “Let’s go. Victor’ll drive us.”
In response, Victor Woo got up from the floor.
“Where are we going and why?” I asked.
“I found a man who knows all about Philip Horvecki.”
Victor chauffeured. Ames and I sat in back. Ames gave Victor directions. They weren’t easy. We drove up I-75 to the University Parkway exit and headed east. Ames gave clipped driving directions like, “Next right,” and Victor drove without speaking.
“Fella came into the Texas a few hours ago,” said Ames. “Heard him talking. Sheriff’s Deputy. Talking about the murder. Told another fella that the detectives should ask Pertwee about it. I asked him who this Pertwee was. He told me.”
Ames went silent. Long speeches were not his medium.
After telling Victor to go down a narrow dirt road, Ames went on.
“Seems Pertwee knows a lot about old crimes in the county,” said Ames.
Silence again, except for the bumping tires and the
rat-tat
of pebbles against the undercarriage of the car.
“How do you know where to—” I started.
“Came out here on my scooter when the deputy gave me directions,” Ames interrupted.
We had gone almost twenty miles from my apartment. On a scooter, going over this road, one would have to be very determined.
“Look out on the right over ahead. Hardly see it, but there’s a low wooden fence and an open gate.”
Victor turned into a rutted path even narrower than the dirt road. Ahead of us about fifty yards was a mobile home with a small addition. It was a house of aluminum waiting for a hurricane to wash it away.
The closer we got the better it looked. The place was recently painted white. A small, umbrella-covered metal table with three wrought iron chairs sat in front of the mobile home’s door.
Victor parked. We got out as a man lumbered through the door and held the sides of the doorway to keep from slipping on the two steps to the ground. He was short, with a sagging belly. He wore jeans with suspenders over a blue striped polo shirt that was sucked into the folds of his neck. He was about sixty years old.
He looked at the three of us with amusement.
“A visit from a formidable trio,” he said. “A cowboy, a chink, and a gingerbread man. What brings you, and would you like a beer?”
We all said no. Pertwee shrugged and said, “So be it. What brings you here?”
“Deputy I met said you know a lot about Philip Horvecki,” said Ames.
“That I do,” said Pertwee. “And who did you say you were?”
“My name is Lewis Fonesca and I—”
“Lewis Fonesca,” he said. “Formerly an investigator in the state attorney’s office in Cook County, Illinois. You came here four years back after your wife was killed in a hit-and-run on Lake Shore Drive in Chicago. The driver of the red convertible that killed her was an Asian man who has yet to be found by the police.”
“This is the man,” I said, nodding toward Victor.
Pertwee bent forward and looked up at Victor. Not much could happen that would surprise him.
“And this is Ames McKinney,” I went on.
“Four years ago, beach at Lido,” said Pertwee. “You shot your ex-partner. Fonesca was there. You did a little time. I sit out here, keep track. Retired detective, Cincinnati Police. Come on in.”
We followed the wobbling Pertwee into his house. The living room was larger than I had expected. It had the musty but not unpleasant odor of
“Where this time?” I asked.
“To see a man,” said Ames. “Brought you this.”
He held up a wooden plank about the size of a rolled up newspaper. Burned into its dark, grainy surface were the words
LEWIS FONESCA
.
“So people will know you’re here,” said Ames. “I can mount it outside somewhere.”
“I don’t want any more people to know I’m here,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” he said, placing the plank faceup on my desk. “Let’s go. Victor’ll drive us.”
In response, Victor Woo got up from the floor.
“Where are we going and why?” I asked.
“I found a man who knows all about Philip Horvecki.”
Victor chauffeured. Ames and I sat in back. Ames gave Victor directions. They weren’t easy. We drove up I-75 to the University Parkway exit and headed east. Ames gave clipped driving directions like, “Next right,” and Victor drove without speaking.
“Fella came into the Texas a few hours ago,” said Ames. “Heard him talking. Sheriff’s Deputy. Talking about the murder. Told another fella that the detectives should ask Pertwee about it. I asked him who this Pertwee was. He told me.”
Ames went silent. Long speeches were not his medium.
After telling Victor to go down a narrow dirt road, Ames went on.
“Seems Pertwee knows a lot about old crimes in the county,” said Ames.
Silence again, except for the bumping tires and the
rat-tat
of pebbles against the undercarriage of the car.
“How do you know where to—” I started.
“Came out here on my scooter when the deputy gave me directions,” Ames interrupted.
We had gone almost twenty miles from my apartment. On a scooter, going over this road, one would have to be very determined.
“Look out on the right over ahead. Hardly see it, but there’s a low wooden fence and an open gate.”
Victor turned into a rutted path even narrower than the dirt road. Ahead of us about fifty yards was a mobile home with a small addition. It was a house of aluminum waiting for a hurricane to wash it away.
The closer we got the better it looked. The place was recently painted white. A small, umbrella-covered metal table with three wrought iron chairs sat in front of the mobile home’s door.
Victor parked. We got out as a man lumbered through the door and held the sides of the doorway to keep from slipping on the two steps to the ground. He was short, with a sagging belly. He wore jeans with suspenders over a blue striped polo shirt that was sucked into the folds of his neck. He was about sixty years old.
He looked at the three of us with amusement.
“A visit from a formidable trio,” he said. “A cowboy, a chink, and a gingerbread man. What brings you, and would you like a beer?”
We all said no. Pertwee shrugged and said, “So be it. What brings you here?”
“Deputy I met said you know a lot about Philip Horvecki,” said Ames.
“That I do,” said Pertwee. “And who did you say you were?”
“My name is Lewis Fonesca and I—”
“Lewis Fonesca,” he said. “Formerly an investigator in the state attorney’s office in Cook County, Illinois. You came here four years back after your wife was killed in a hit-and-run on Lake Shore Drive in Chicago. The driver of the red convertible that killed her was an Asian man who has yet to be found by the police.”
“This is the man,” I said, nodding toward Victor.
Pertwee bent forward and looked up at Victor. Not much could happen that would surprise him.
“And this is Ames McKinney,” I went on.
“Four years ago, beach at Lido,” said Pertwee. “You shot your ex-partner. Fonesca was there. You did a little time. I sit out here, keep track. Retired detective, Cincinnati Police. Come on in.”
We followed the wobbling Pertwee into his house. The living room was larger than I had expected. It had the musty but not unpleasant odor of
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