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

get me and you have to stop them. I can get a lawyer too.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?” Ames asked.
    “The bitch next door,” Merrymen repeated. “I called to get her to shut up and that’s why the fuck you’re here for Chrissake.”
    “You’re Michael Merrymen?” I asked.
    “Yeah, funny,” he said. “My son and me are the Merrymen of Sherwood Forest.”
    “Your son?” Tasked. “He’s Mickey?”
    “Michael Junior,” he said. “Works for me at the Burger King. I’m the manager. What the hell are you talking about? Did they make an Internet search for the two dumbest deputies in the county and come up with you?”
    Ames looked at me. He had a low boiling point but he didn’t show it. He looked calm. He always looked calm even when he was gun to gun with someone who might want to end his life. This time the someone had a baseball bat, but Ames didn’t care. Loyalty and dignity were important to him above all things and I had the feeling though he was giving away about thirty years and a baseball bat, Michael Merrymen might be in trouble.
    “We’re not deputies,” I said, pleading with my eyes for Ames to stay put. “We’re looking for your son.”
    “My son? What the hell for? And who are you?”
    “Your son is friendly with a girl named Adele Hanford,” I said. “She’s missing. Her foster parent doesn’t want to call the police so she asked us to find her.”
    Merrymen laughed and shook his head.
    “Mickey is among the missing,” he said. “We don’t get along that well. He goes for days at a time. Usually to his idiot grandfather.”
    “Your father?” I asked.
    “My dead wife’s father,” he said. “I don’t know who else he sees or what he does.”
    “Your father-in-law’s name?” I asked.
    “Corsello, Bernard. Why?”
    “You’ve never met Adele?” I asked in return.
    “No, and I don’t give a shit about her or what Mickey is doing with her,” he said.
    “You’d best watch your mouth,” Ames said evenly.
    “I’d best… this is my fucking house,” Merrymen answered, pointing the bat at Ames.
    The fat end of the bat was inches from Ames’s chest. Merrymen’s chin jutted out.
    “If you’ll just let us look at your son’s room, we’ll go quietly,” I said.
    “No,” he said, smiling at Ames who didn’t smile back.
    I got up to leave. Merrymen walked across the room to a door off the kitchen. He opened the door and the dog came running in. He was big for a pit bull though not as big as Jefferson, but this was a pit bull and Jefferson was just a dog.
    The pit bull looked at Merrymen and Merrymen made the mistake of pointing the bat at Ames again. The dog knew what he was supposed to do, but so did Ames and Ames was smarter than the dog. He yanked the bat from Merrymen’s hand and as the dog leaped toward him, Ames flipped the bat and took a full swing at the animal that was in the air flying toward his throat.
    Ames connected. A line drive. The dog flew across the room, hit the wall with a yelp, and turned to attack again. Only now there was something distinctly wrong with his right front leg. He growled and limped forward. Ames readied the bat and then swung it once four feet in front of the dog who squealed, turned, and headed back for the door from which he had come.
    Ames walked slowly over to the door and closed it.
    “You son of a bitch,” Merrymen said, reaching for the bat.
    Ames held out his arm warning the hysterical man to stay back.
    “You break in …”
    “You invited us in,” I reminded him.
    “You attacked my dog. In my house. You bastards. She sent you, didn’t she?”
    Merrymen pointed toward the kitchen again.
    “We’re looking for your son,” I reminded him. “We’re looking for a girl named Adele.”
    “You’re looking for jail time,” he said. “I’m calling the police. What are your names?”
    “Hal Jeffcoat and Glenn Beckert,” I answered. “Now we’re leaving.”
    I moved toward the front door. Ames