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

exception.”
    “Yes?”
    “I don’t care if you find evidence to clear Ronnie Gerall or get him locked up till he is ready for Social Security.”
    “I’ll think about it,” I said.
    “D. Elliot Corkle doesn’t work that way. The offer is going fast. Just fifteen seconds to decide. I’ll make it a cash offer, payable right here on my doorstep. Two thousand dollars.”
    “Your grandson is still my client.”
    “Now you’ve got two clients. You just have to report to me and keep a protective eye on Greg.”
    I looked at Augustine, who gave me no help, and then back at Corkle.
    “Why not?” I said.
    Corkle reached into his pocket and came out with an envelope and folded sheet of paper.
    “Two thousand in hundreds and fifties in the envelope. Just sign the receipt. It’s made out ‘for consulting fees.’ ”
    “You were sure I’d agree.”
    “Reasonably,” he said. “D. Elliot Corkle could always put the cash away and tear up the unsigned receipt. One should always be prepared for contingencies.”
    I took the envelope without checking the contents and said, “I can’t sign this receipt.”
    Corkle smiled in understanding.
    “I’m a process server, not a consultant.”
    “Then,” said Corkle, “we’ll just have to trust each other. Call when you have information.”
    He closed the door behind us as Augustine and I walked down the path.
    “I think he likes you,” said Augustine. “He’s never invited me in on that poker game, not that I could afford it.”
    “I’m glad,” I said, putting the envelope in my pocket.
    “He’s a good guy. You don’t know him.”
    “And you do?” I asked.
    “He sells gadgets, has millions of dollars, and refers to himself in the third person,” said Augustine. “Also, he loves his grandson and he never leaves the house.”
    “Never?”
    “For the last four years at least, I’ve been told. I don’t know what his reasons are.”
    I shifted my gifts and got in the car.
    “Corkle produced the only movie I ever starred in.”
    “
Shoot-out On a Silent Street
,” I said, closing the car door. “You and Tim Holt.”
    He started the car. I put on my Cubs cap.
    “Who was the woman who ran out of the house?” I asked.
    “Alana Legerman.”
    “Greg’s . . . ?”
    “Mother. D. Elliot’s daughter. If you ask me . . .”
    I never found out what he wanted me to ask him. The front window exploded. Glass shot toward my face. I covered up. Augustine lost control. We spun around three times, skidded onto the freshly cut lawn of a large ranch-style house and came to a stop against a row of trimmed bushes.
    I looked at Augustine. He was silent. Blood dripped like a redtear from the corner of his right eye and made its way down his nose. I was fascinated. Then I passed out.
     
    Ames McKinney looked down at me. He was tall, lean, a little over seventy years old with tousled gray hair and an accent that came from the West. He always wore jeans with a big buckled belt and a flannel shirt, even when the temperature hit a humid one hundred. He never sweated. Ames was the closest thing I had to a best friend.
    “You’re lookin’ tempered,” he said.
    My face was scratched in four or five places, and my shirt was torn. Nothing was broken.
    “I feel fine,” I said trying to stand. “Augustine?”
    “Other fella in the car? He’s a bit chiseled down but he’ll survive.”
    “Envelope? Money?”
    “Right here,” said Ames, holding up the bulging envelope.
    I tried to stand.
    My legs didn’t cooperate. I started to sink back on the bed. I had been taken to Sarasota Memorial Hospital by ambulance, treated and asked if there was anyone I wanted the people in the ER to call. I came up with Ames, who I knew would be at the Texas Bar, where he worked as a handyman, cleanup man, occasional short-order cook, and bartender. Big Ed, who owned the place, had been taking more time off to visit his children and grandchildren back in New Jersey. The only person Ed