Retribution: A Lew Fonesca Novel (Lew Fonesca Novels) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

drunk who didn’t remember the life he had taken? I looked back at Jesus in the next room expecting no answer or solace.
    “Best be going,” Ames said.
    I looked back at Corsello one last time, wiped the door handle, went into the night, and wiped the outside handle.
    “Now?” asked Ames.
    I looked around. The street was almost empty. Half a block down to our left an old black woman was laboring under the weight of two heavy shopping bags. We got into the car and drove.
    I dropped Ames and his scooter back at the Texas Bar and Grille.
    “We’re looking for Flo Zink’s white minivan,” I said as we maneuvered the scooter out of the trunk. “This kid,” I said, pulling out the photograph of Mickey and Adele, “is probably with her.”
    “I’ll ask around,” Ames said.
    Neither of us said what we were thinking. Adele had killed before. She had killed a man who deserved killing. Adele, in short, knew how to pull a trigger. If something had happened, something … I gave up.
    “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.
    Ames nodded, locked his scooter, and waved as I got into the Cutlass.
    It had been a busy day. And it wasn’t over.
    I called the police from a pay phone on Main Street. If I leaned back I could have seen the downtown police headquarters. I hit 911.
    “How can we help you?” a woman asked calmly.
    I told her, with my best James Mason imitation, that a man was dead. I quickly gave the address and hung up before she could ask for my name.
    When I got to the Bangkok, the place was packed. Sally saw me making my way through the crowd. She was seated at a booth with her two kids, Michael, fourteen, and Susan, eleven. Sally raised a hand and I moved to the booth.
    Sally and Susan sat on one side of the table. I sat next to Michael on the other.
    “Someone hit you,” Susan said, pointing to my cheek.
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “I brought her bad news.”
    “It happens,” Sally said.
    Sally is and will always be a year older than I am. She is solid, ample, and pretty with clear skin, short wavy hair, and a voice that always reminded me of Lauren Bacall.
    “Ready to order now?” asked a beautiful Thai waitress in a yellow and white silk dress.
    “You look terrible,” Michael said, turning toward me.
    Neither of Sally’s kids disliked me. I think I puzzled them. I never made jokes, didn’t work at making them like me. And I’m sure they wondered what their mother found in the soulful, balding man who reached for the tea and said, “You guys?”
    “Crispy duck,” said Sally.
    “The same with a Thai iced tea,” said Michael.
    “Another one. Thai iced tea too.”
    “I’ll have the tofu pad thai,” I said.
    The pretty waitress smiled and walked away.
    “So,” said Sally. “How was your day and how can you afford this?”
    “New clients,” I said. “Two of them.”
    “Your cheek?” she said.
    “Someone slapped me.”
    “You deck him?” Michael asked.
    “It was a woman,” I said.
    “Did you deck her?” asked Susan.
    “She was a lot bigger than I am,” I said.
    “Most people are,” said Susan. “That doesn’t mean you should let them hit you.”
    “It’s part of my job,” I said. “I slap people with a summons. They slap me with their hands.”
    “It’s more than that,” Sally said, looking into my eyes.
    Yes, I thought, I’ve just come from discovering a dead man, almost certainly murdered. I not only found him, Ipounded his head three or four times when I tried to open his door.
    “There’s more,” I said. “Later.”
    During dinner, Susan did most of the talking, mainly about a friend named Jackie who may have decided she no longer wanted to be friends with Susan. Jackie’s transgressions were numerous. I know one was that Jackie had begun sitting at a different table at lunch. I don’t remember the others. I don’t remember eating. I sort of remember paying the check with some of the crumpled bills from Marvin Uliaks. I sort of remember Sally asking the