“Intercom,” she said, patting the box as if it were a pet dog. “She makes a peep, I hear her.”
I worked on my Diet Coke.
“So,” she said. “Take off your hat and sit a while.”
Flo had the twang of New York in her voice and the grammar of Oklahoma picked up from more than half a century of listening to western music.
I took off my cap, brushed what remained of my hair back with one hand, and said, “You’re getting your driver’s license back,” I said.
“No shit,” she said, sitting upright.
“None,” I said. “If you get another DUI, you, me, and an influential local politician will wind up on the front page of the paper.”
“It’d have to be a slow news day,” she said.
“No. He’s big enough to make the front page.”
“I’m clean and sober, Lewis,” she said. “On my dead husband Gus’s grave, I swear. Don’t need it anymore. I’ve got Adele. I’ve got the baby.”
“Adele is…?”
“Straight arrow,” Flo said, gliding a flattened hand through the air. “Straight A’s. No boys. No men.”
Adele had been a child prostitute, sold by her father to a pimp. She had straightened herself out and then let herself get involved with a married man, the son of a famous man. The married son of a famous man was Catherine’s father, who was serving life for a pair of murders.
“Getting my license back,” Flo said with a grin, looking at her Diet Coke in a wineglass. “I was about to say ‘fucking license,’ but I’m working on my language. The baby. Adele’s heard everything I can say and more, but Catherine is something else.”
“Gus was on the County Commission,” I said.
“Till he joined the ghost riders,” she said, holding up her glass in a toast to her late husband.
“You know William Trasker?”
“Yep. Two terms on the council. Now he’s on the County Commission. I know Willie Trasker.”
“His wife?”
“Yep again. Known Roberta Trasker for more than twenty years.”
“Friends?”
“Have been. Sort of. Mostly when Gus was alive and he had business with Willie, but Roberta? Not for a while. Why?”
“I’d like you to call her and ask her to let me talk to her.”
“Why don’t you just call her yourself?”
“She won’t see me.”
“You tried?”
“I tried.”
“What did she say?”
“Good-bye.”
I explained why I wanted to talk to Roberta Trasker. Flo nodded her head as I spoke, finished her Diet Coke, and put the glass down.
“I’ll call her now,” she said, getting up and moving to the phone on the wall of the kitchen. A thin, rectangular white board about the size of a small computer screen hung next to the phone with a black marker Velcroed to the top. There was a list on the board but I couldn’t make it out from where I sat.
“Roberta? It’s Flo, Flo Zink. How the hell are you?”
Flo looked at me as she listened. Flo made a face.
“Is Billy okay?…Sure. How about coming over here sometime, the two of you, and see the baby…? No, not ‘sometime soon,’ sometime real…Okay, but you’ll call. Make that a promise…Good. One more thing. I’ve got a friend wants to talk to you, a good friend, name’s Lew Fonesca. I owe him big time, Bobby, big time…How busy can you be? Give him a few minutes…Right. I’ll send him right over. Remember, you’re calling me next week to set up a time to come over. I don’t hear from you and I call back with hell to pay. This is some special baby.”
Flo hung up and turned toward me.
“Something’s wrong,” she said. “Could hear it in her voice.”
“I heard it when I talked to her.”
I told her what the situation was and she told me Roberta Trasker’s address.
“She’s waiting for you,” Flo said. “But don’t expect much, Lewis. Roberta Trasker can be a frozen cod and I get the feeling she doesn’t like kids very much, not even her own.”
Flo told me what she knew about Roberta Trasker. William Trasker did his best to make excuses for the absence of his wife at social and public functions over the years. She was ill or she was touring Europe or visiting her brother in Alaska, Montana, California, or Vermont. The Traskers had two grown sons and a daughter and four grandchildren. Flo had never seen them. One son and his family lived in Seattle. The other in Australia. They didn’t even have an address for the daughter, or so they said when they were backed into a social corner. The rumor was that the daughter was deformed, retarded, behind bars, or living as the fourth wife of a Mormon in Utah.
Roberta and William Trasker were not close to their children.
“Roberta looks like a lady, drinks a little but not too much, can outcuss me if she wants to, and likes being the woman of mystery. Won’t say much about her life before she moved here. Mystery woman. It’s an act. I don’t know who the actress is behind the character. Doubt if you’ll find out. She doesn’t take off the makeup.”
“She get along with her husband?”
“Roberta? She worships the ground he bought her. They get along in public. Times I’ve seen them in private, back when Gus was alive, they looked as if they felt comfortable together. That’s about it.”
“What does she do with her time?”
“Spends it,” said Flo. “And Bill’s money, but he’s got plenty to spend, more even than my Gus.”
I put my cap back on, used the bathroom, washed my face and hands, and moved back to the living room, where Flo had risen.
“When do I get that license back?”
“I think it’ll come in the mail,” I said. “Maybe a day or two.”
“Take care of yourself, Lew,” she said at the open door.
“Take care of Adele and the baby,” I said, opening the Nissan’s door.
“With my life,” she said. “Anything else I can do for you?”
I paused. “You know any jokes?”
Stuart M. Kaminsky
Midnight Pass: A Lew Fonesca Novel (Lew Fonesca Novels)
3
I had to get as much done today as I could and it was already a little after noon. I’d have to devote at least the next day to my other client.
My other client was a very burly two hundred and twenty pounds with a pink round face. His name was Kenneth Severtson. He had been waiting in front of my office when I came back from lunch at the Crisp Dollar Bill on Friday. He was in his late thirties and knew how to dress.
“You’re Fonesca?” he asked, clearly unimpressed by what he was looking at. He was in a neatly pressed, lightweight tan suit complete with a bold red designer tie. I was dressed in contemporary Fonesca, complete with my Cubs cap.
“I am,” I said, opening the door and stepping in, with him behind me.
I flicked on the air conditioner, pulled up the shade to let some light in, and sat behind my desk. He looked around my office clearly as unimpressed with it as he was with me.
My office is a cube about the size of a small Dumpster. One small, scratched desk, a wooden chair-no wheels, no swivel-behind it, and two chairs-simple, wood, secondhand-in front of it.
Thumbtacked on the wall behind my desk was a Touch of Evil poster, a reproduction of the original with Charlton Heston and Orson Welles glaring at each other. The poster was beginning to curl. On the wall across from my desk was a painting about the size of an eight-by-eleven mailing envelope. Flo had given the painting to me as a Christmas gift. The artist worked at the Selby Gardens on the Bay. There was an orchid in my painting. The Selby specializes in orchids, but that didn’t tell you what you needed to know about the painting.
“Looks like you,” she had said when she handed it to me.
And it did. It was a dark, almost ebony jungle with black jagged mountains and dark clouds in the background. The only touch of color was a small yellow orchid on a gnarled tree in the foreground. The dark jungle, night sky, and the gothic mountain was definitely me, and the small touch of living color was about the right size.