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

our left again was a sign that said, “Sherwood Forest, Deed Restricted.”
    We drove down a tree-lined street of well-maintained single-family houses, mostly the two- or three-bedroom variety,no two quite alike. A heavy old woman was walking a tiny white dog. She waved her pooper scooper at me and pointed the scooper at a sign that said, “Maximum Speed 19 MPH.” To remind us of the seriousness of the statement we hit a yellow speed bump that felt as high as a low hurdle. The Cutlass scraped the ground when we hit and I slowed down.
    We found the house of Mickey Merrymen at the end of a cul-de-sac between two other larger houses. There was a late-model blue Chevy in the driveway and the house’s night lights were on.
    Ames and I got out and went to the front door. There didn’t seem to be a bell and there was no knocker. So I did it the old-fashioned way. I knocked.
    The man who opened the door was somewhere in his forties, lean, with recently barbered dark hair. He wore a determined scowl, a red sweatshirt, and a pair of khaki pants. He was barefoot and had a baseball bat in his right hand.
    “We’re looking for Michael Merrymen,” I said as Ames stepped forward.
    “You found him,” the man with the bat said. “I’ve been waiting for you for hours.”
    He stepped back to let us pass. When we were inside he walked ahead of us into a living room with one of those long gray couches that form an “L.” A shorter matching couch faced it and a low coffee table covered with magazines and books sat in the middle of the brick-walled room.
    “You’re the Michael Merrymen from Burger King?” I asked as the man motioned for us to sit on the L-couch. Flo had described him as a kid. This was no kid. Flo’s sense of youth might have been a bit warped.
    I sat. Ames stood. The man with the bat paced.
    “Yes,” he said.
    “You know why we’re here?” I asked.
    “It’s about her,” he said, stopping. “That little bitch.”
    “We’re looking for her,” I said, keeping my eyes on the bat that shifted from hand to hand.
    “She’s not hard to find,” he said angrily, pointing in the general direction of his kitchen. “She’s right next door.”
    “Right now?” I asked.
    “Right now,” he said. “You want to hear my side of this or are you just going to sit there?”
    “Your side,” I said.
    He let out a deep sigh and stopped pacing to lean on the bat and look at me and Ames. Then he looked at Ames again and said, “You two are the best they could get. An old man and a little guy.”
    “Your side of the story,” I repeated.
    “Okay, it started when I moved in,” he said. “I had my land surveyed. The neighbors on both sides were on my land. A few inches on one side. Almost a foot on the other. Hot tub right over the line on one side. Tangelo trees on the other.”
    I looked at Ames who folded his arms and waited to see where this was going.
    “Okay, I thought. Live and let live, but no tangelo tree dropping fruit on my property and no lard ass dipping almost naked in her hot tub and spying on me. Are you following this?”
    “Yes,” I lied. “Go on.”
    “Okay, then came the mailbox,” he said. “Deed restricted community. My mailbox didn’t meet their rules. They turned me in. I was given a written order to move my mailbox back and get it repaired. But that’s not what you want to hear.”
    “No,” I agreed.
    “You want to know about her,” he said, tapping the bat on the floor. He reminded me a little of Fred Astaire tapping a black cane before he went into a dance.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Well, I got the dog,” he said. “No restrictions on dogs. Only have to clean up after them, keep them leashed if you walk them. I got a dog. I got a pit bull. Staked him in the yard so he could reach the property line. He could go right up to that fucking hot tub. So she started the calls. Got a lawyer. Said the dog smelled up the neighborhood even though I cleaned up after him. They are out to