Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) Read Online Free

do.”
    “You haven’t been listening closely . . . Look at that. She’s just leaving it there.”
    This was all said calmly, more with regret than anger.
    “You want an appointment,” I said, “give me a call or just drop by my new office. I’ll give you the address.”
    “No, now,” he said, his smile even more friendly.
    “I don’t think so,” I said.
    He opened his jacket to show a holstered gun.
    “You’re going to shoot me on the street because I don’t want to get in your car?”
    “The car smells like a forest, and I’ve got a small cooler with bottles of water,” he said. “And yes, I could shoot you a little bit.”
    “No,” I said, turning to walk away.
    “You’re a real phenomenon. You’re not afraid, are you?”
    “Worst you could do is kill me. This isn’t a bad place, and it’s a nice day for dying.”
    “You’re a little crazy,” he said.
    “You caught up with me just when I ended a session with my shrink. You know any good jokes?”
    “Jokes?” He looked puzzled now.
    “Jokes,” I repeated.
    “Yes, lots. I did stand-up for a while. The good jokes weren’t in my act, but I remember them from Larry the Cable Guy and Diane Ford.”
    “I’ll go with you if you tell me five good jokes,” I said.
    The old woman with the dog was no longer in sight, but a shirtless black man with sagging slacks, unlaced shoes, and no socks was advancing on us, scratching his belly. I recognized him, had given him coffee and an occasional biscotti. He said his name was Clark, or maybe Cleric, and he claimed that he wasn’t homeless. His home, he said, was under the second bench in Bayfront Park, not far from where the dog had just relieved himself or herself.
    “Five good jokes?”
    “Five.”
    “Deal.”
    “This way.”
    Clark was headed right for us.
    “A friend of yours?”
    “I don’t know,” I said as Clark lifted his chin, reached intohis pants to adjust his testicles, and said, “Too many midgets. Too many.”
    “It’s a problem,” I agreed.
    Clark looked at Augustine and pointed a finger.
    “You shot ol’ Kurt Russell. Some soldier movie.”
    I gave Clark two quarters and said to Augustine, “The scent of the forest in a Buick LeSabre?”
    “That’s right,” said Augustine. “Let’s go.”
    “The Cubs,” said Clark, looking at my cap as if he had suddenly realized it was there. “Andy Pafko.”
    “Who?” asked Augustine.
    “Never mind,” I said. “Tell me jokes on the way.”
     
    The LeSabre did smell like a pine forest. I turned down the offer of Evian water. Augustine drank one as he drove.
    “Five jokes,” I said, index cards and pen in hand.
    “Okay,” he said.
    He told the jokes. I wrote them down. I didn’t laugh or smile.
    “You don’t think they’re funny?” he asked as we headed north on Tamiami Trail.
    “They’re funny,” I said, tucking the cards into my appointment book.
    “I like you,” he said. “Do people generally like you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why? I mean, I like you, but I’m not sure why.”
    “It’s my curse,” I said.
    “That people like you?”
    “They expect to be liked back.”
    “And you can’t?”
    “I don’t want to,” I said. “The cost is too high, and people die.”
    He looked at me, one hand on the wheel, one grasping a bottle of water, which he squeezed, making a cracking sound.
    “So you have no friends?”
    “Too many,” I said.
    The big two-story gray stone house was right on a cul-de-sac on the water a few blocks south of the Ringling Museum. The house had a front lawn that looked as if it had been manicured with a pair of very small scissors. At the top of the house was a turret which probably had a great view across the water to Longboat Key. A blue Porsche was parked in the driveway in front of a three-car garage. The street had no curb. There was no sidewalk.
    Augustine led the way. I followed up the redbrick path to the front door. Gulls were complaining out over the water, and waves