Read Online Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) by Stuart M. Kaminsky - Free Book Online Page B

thing that struck me was that everything looked immaculately clean. The furniture looked Arts & Crafts and the many framed photos on the walls were crisp, clear, and signed by Major League Baseball players. The other thing that struck me was that not one piece of furniture was a concession to Zo Hirsch’s size.
    “Sit or look around,” he said pointing to the living room.
    I examined some of the photographs while Zo Hirsch moved down the short corridor.
    There were photographs of Bobby Bonds, Deon Sanders, Andre Dawson, and even Sammy Sosa. All of the players on Zo Hirsch’s walls were black. He returned quickly with a can of Diet Pepsi in one hand and an Amstel Light in the other. He handed me the Pepsi. We sat.
    “You meet my wife?” he asked, after taking a long drink.
    “No.”
    He reached into his pocket awkwardly, took out his wallet, flipped it open, and handed it to me. The woman in the photograph looked of normal size, darkly Hispanic, and quite pretty. She was smiling. Her left arm was draped over the shoulder of Zo Hirsch, who was also smiling.
    “Pretty,” I said, handing back the wallet.
    “Fucking beautiful,” he said, accepting the wallet and stuffing it back in his pocket.
    “Cubs fan?” I said.
    He seemed puzzled and then got it. He touched the brim of his cap and pointed to mine.
    “Not especially,” he said. “Billy Williams gave me this one.”
    “Vintage,” I said.
    He shrugged and drank some more.
    “What happened to your face?” he asked.
    “Flying glass. Someone shot at me.”
    “Why?”
    “I’ll ask when I find him. Nice collection,” I said looking around.
    “I make my living writing about baseball,” he said. “Mostly for Spanish language newspapers, magazines, and websites. My mother is Haitian. My father was a Jew from Cuba, a fisherman. He’s gone. They were both normal-sized, if you were wondering.”
    I had been wondering, but I said, “No.”
    He looked at the photos on the wall and said, “I’d rather be playing right field anywhere for half of what Emilio Vezquez is getting.”
    “Emilio Vezquez?”
    “The Double-D level pitcher my wife walked off with who will never, never make it to the majors. You want to know why?”
    He finished his beer and looked at the empty bottle as if it had betrayed him.
    “His fastball never hits ninety and he is scared shitless of line drives.”
    He sat back and took off his cap, a look of satisfaction on his face. He looked around the room at the photos of the men whose photographs surrounded him as if they had just applauded his observation.
    “I’ve got to go,” I said, rising and placing my empty can on a coaster on the table between us. The coaster had a Cincinnati Reds logo on it.
    “Think you might forget I was home?” he said, holding up the papers I had served him. “I’ll have a check from a Dominican newspaper coming in a few days and I’ll be able to hire a lawyer.”
    “I don’t—” I began, but was cut off by the ringing of Zo Hirsch’s phone.
    “Hold on,” he said and moved to the library, where I heard him pick up the phone and say, “Yeah. Okay. Hold on.”
    He came back into the living room carrying a black phone, which he handed to me.
    “It’s for you,” he said.
    I took the phone and moved to the window, being careful that someone parked and watching wouldn’t be able to see me. No one knew I was at Zo Hirsch’s, not even the lawyer I was serving papers for. Conclusion: I had been followed here.
    “Fonesca,” I said.
    “You’re supposed to be working on the Horvecki murder.”
    The car parked across the street was familiar—a red Buick LeSabre. The window blown out by the BB had been replaced, but the left fender definitely needed work and the left front headlight was missing. Jeff Augustine’s right eye wasn’t missing but it sported a black eye patch. He held a cell phone to his ear.
    “You should be in bed,” I said.
    Zo Hirsch held up his empty beer bottle, inviting me to