Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (11 page)

"So where are Buddy and the car now?" I asked.

"He's not at our place." Harold.

"The Zoo neither." Ralph. They didn't need to say more. With
Buddy, one you'd looked at the rooming house and the Zoo, that was it.

My guess was that when the crew failed to return, Buddy'd gone looking for
them among the neighborhood dives, probably having a little pick-me-up at every
place he stopped. He was probably sleeping it off in the Buick.

"Okay," I said. "Back to work. You guys get down there and
keep track of things. I'll find Buddy." I stopped them before they could
pummel me with questions. "When Buddy shows up, I want one of you to call
me. Is that understood?" They said it was. They were so relieved that they
didn't even grouse about how they were going to get downtown. I followed them
to the hall. As I'd suspected, they turned left.

"Take the stairs," I hollered. They instantly reversed directions
and disappeared down the hall.

I stood in the shower for a long while, letting the steam wash the smoke
from my pores. It wasn't until I stood naked in front of the mirror that I
realized I had been partially cooked. My face was considerably redder than the
rest of my body, shiny and stretched like after a day of sailing. I took a pair
of nail scissors and clipped the remaining burnt ends from my hair and
eyebrows. The eyebrows came out fine. Even wet, the hair looked a little
ragged. Dry was worse. I opted for a hat.

    After slipping into a fresh pair of
jeans, an old Carlos and Charley's T-shirt, and my Nikes, I threw everything
I'd been wearing last night in the washer. I couldn't imagine how anyone could
connect me with the fire, but better safe than sorry. My face was going to make
it hard enough to claim I was home in bed. I didn't need a pile of cooked
clothes to help anybody out.

The jacket was another matter. The heat had burned the dye in several
places, leaving irregular brown patches all over the front. I threw it to the
floor behind the front door. the jacket was history.

I jammed a Mariners cap on my head and took the elevators downstairs. The
Fiat looked worse than I did. The branches had left myriad scratches all over
the body and had torn a small triangular hole in the convertible top next to
the rear window. Willow leaves clung stubbornly to every nook and cranny. A car
wash was in the offing.

I pulled the bundled sleeping bag from the car and slung it over my
shoulder. Grabbing my gear with the other hand, I went back upstairs. On my way
to the kitchen, I deposited the reeking sleeping bag on the living room. I put
the remaining food and drink into the refrigerator and left the cooler draining
in the sink. Just for drill, I threw the remaining clothes into the washer with
the rest. What the hell. I threw the empty pack in too.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I carefully unwrapped the bundle.
Everything was covered with feathers. I worked slowly so as not to create any
air currents. The loose paperwork I'd yanked from the glove box yielded a name
for the kid. Robert Warren was the registered owner. A Marysville address,
which I assumed must be the cabin. The rest of it was the usual crap. Old
receipts for car parts. A service manual for the truck and a collection of
downtown parking receipts. I kept the registration and the receipts and
shitcanned the rest. That left the bag.

I hadn't noticed it last night, but the bag was heavy. It was long and
narrow, with a zippered compartment for a baseball bat underneath. There seemed
to be a bat inside. I fished around. It turned out to be a three-foot metal
tube, capped with red plastic on both ends. I pried one of the caps off. The
interior was filled with what appeared to be rolled-up posters of some sort.
Carefully, I slid them out. Maps.

Unlabeled topographical maps, marked here and there with yellow highlighter.
Somebody had neatly snipped the border from each of the five maps, removing the
range and section notations in the process. Each of the dozen or so highlighted
areas was accompanied by a series of numeric notations, three numbers to each,
which made no sense to me. I rolled the maps back up and slid them back in the
tube.

A tattered army blanket filled the inside of the bag. The second my hands
began to lift it from the bag, I knew what it was. Nothing feels quite as solid
and compact as a weapon. I unrolled the blanket. I'd never see this model
before. Whatever the hell it was, it was dangerous. It looked like a fancy
water gun. Maybe two feet long. Made to use one-handed or two. Fully automatic.
Short vented snout. One long banana clip in place, several others folded up
carefully in the blanket. They looked to hold about eighty rounds each. The
last fold in the blanket turned up an ugly-looking silencer, machined to screw
on the front of the little gun. With one of these, Custer could have won the
battle by himself.

I rolled and folded it all back the way I'd found it and returned both gun
and the maps to he bag. Gently, I lifted the bag from the feathers that now
lined the inside of the sleeping bag and brushed off the bottom. Several missed
the sleeping bag and latched onto my carpet. I retrieved them. I fetched a roll
of duct tape from the kitchen. I threw in the useless paperwork from the truck,
laid the leather jacket on top of the pile, bundled it all back up, and taped
the corners together.

Before putting the bundled-up sleeping bag into the trunk of the car, I
removed the blob of whatever and filled it into the bag with the gun and the
maps. The wires and the aluminum test tubes went in last. The whole package
rode on the passenger seat. I went back upstairs.

I called the restaurant. If you wanted to talk to Floyd, you called the
restaurant. Floyd was never there. They'd never heard of anybody called Floyd.
Some things don't change. Somebody answered on the first ring.

"Windjammer."

"I need to talk to Floyd."

"Nobody here by that name, buddy."

"Well, just in case anybody with that name shows up, tell him Leo
Waterman needs to talk to him."

"Whatever floats your boat, pal." He hung up.

I vacuumed. I dusted. I did everything I could think of to assure that no
remnant of last night's debacle remained in the apartment. I had just
discovered a loose feather at large in the cooler strap when the phone rang.

"What?" was all he said.

"I need some help."

"You sure you can afford it?"

"I need mind, not muscle."

"That you might be able to afford."

"I need to now."

"Don't you always? A grand."

"Where?"

"You remember where it went down with the Jamaicans?"

"How could I forget?" In my little world, cleaning brains off my
car seats was a memorable event. Probably not in Floyd's.

"With you anything's possible. An hour." He was gone.

I'd have to hustle. Floyd was talking about Lincoln Park in West Seattle. It
was ten after eleven, between the rush hours, thirty minutes to Lincoln park. I
headed out. I got to the elevator just as the doors were closing. Neither the
young couple who lived next to the elevator nor the Pakistani gentleman from
the end of the hall made any attempt to reopen the doors. I took the stairs.

Fifteen years ago one of my most prized clients had come to me in a bind.
His teenage son Robin, a thoroughly spoiled little boil on the ass of humanity,
whom I'd already helped extricate from several minor disasters, had finally
gone too far. In a futile attempt to make something of himself, he'd set
himself up as the middleman and somehow managed to end up with both the dope
and the money after a cocaine deal had been interrupted by the DEA. The other
players were not amused.

The mess had come to light when, two mornings later, my client had shuffled
out to pick up the Sunday Times only to find Chuckles, the family Labrador
retriever, eviscerated and nailed to the front door. the handwritten note
tucked under Chuckles's studded collar had been quite explicit. Unless the
drugs and money were returned posthaste to their respective owners, the rest of
the family could expect to meet a similar fate.

My client, having no desire to spend his golden years to Cedar Rapids
looking over his shoulder, wanted me to make contact with the aggrieved parties
and arrange transfers. I'd refused to have anything to do with the dope. I'd
figured this would get me out of it. No such luck.

He wanted me to return the money. Three hundred thousand in large bills. I
balked again. Out of the question. Not my style, I said. The client offered a
five-percent commission. I did some instant arithmetic and went shopping for
professional backup.

I'd heard murmurings about Floyd. Street talk. The kind of larger-than-life
stories that tend to circulate about the truly competent. Nothing solid, just a
few offhand remarks from the right people to the effect that this guy was the
real deal. I'd quietly asked around. Frankie Ortega had told me what number to
call.

Two days later, Floyd returned my call. I explained the situation.

"What do you need?" he'd asked.

"I need to get home safe and sound to the wife and kiddies."

"You don't have a wife and kiddies." He'd done some homework.

"Then, who'll feed my cat?"

"You don't have a cat either. Five grand if we can leave them where
they fall. Ten if I have to do cleanup."

"I'm hoping we don't have to do either," I said.

"Five grand either way."

We settled on five grand. He was there when I got out of my Mustang in front
of Lincoln Park. A big guy, six-four or so, curly hair, little close-set eyes.
Big wet lips under a nose that had seen a lot of wear and was flat at the tip.
All that was left of his right ear was a withered flap of skin that stuck
straight out from his head like a dried apricot. Miss Congeniality this was
not.

Without the benefit of an introduction, he started right in.

"This is supposed to be a one-on-one?"

"Supposedly."

"They'll try to make it look that way, then. They'll send somebody
harmless-looking. You're responsible for the one you meet. He's your problem.
I'll take care of the rest. What are you packing?"

"I'm not," I said. He was disgusted.

"Not very often it get to meet anybody who's actually as dumb as he
looks. Just because this is a park don't mean this is just a walk,
asshole."

He pulled up his right pant leg and liberated an automatic from a spring
holster strapped to his ankle. "Take this."

I dropped the gun in my overcoat pocket. The coat sagged. He shook his head
again. His damaged ear quivered. He held out his hand.

"Gimme it back." The gun snagged several times as I fished it out.
He set it on the ground at his feet, reached into his left sleeve, pulled out a
combat knife, and in one smooth motion yanked up my coat and cut the right-hand
pocket out. He retrieved the automatic, thumbed off the safety, and gave it
back to me.

"Now just stick your hand down through the pocket and carry it along
your leg. Anything happens, shoot right through the coat. You need to get rid
of it, just drop it and keep walking. Got it?" I said I did.

We wound our way down the walkway toward the far baseball diamond where the
meet was scheduled to take place. Just as we came out of the trees into the
field area, he stepped off into the bushes.

    "Where are you going, partner?: I
asked. Wrong move.

"First of all, Waterman, don't pump yourself, I'm not your partner.
Second of all, you just go make the meet. I'll be around. I'll meet you back
here when it's over." He stopped. "Remember, the safety's off. Don't
shoot yourself. I'm not cleaning up your ass either."

He was gone. I stood for a moment and watched him slither through the
shrubbery without making a sound. Impressive.

Floyd was right. There was only one guy waiting for me. He stood right out
in plain sight, leaning against the backstop of the distant baseball diamond. I
stayed in the trees, skirting the fields until I was behind the first-base
dugout. My head was filled with the sound of my own heartbeat.

He was old. Seventy. Maybe. Black. Immaculately attired in a brown cashmere
overcoat and highly polished loafers.

I stepped hurriedly from the bushes, strode across the diamond. And set the
briefcase on home plate. Without the weight of the case, my free hand vibrated
uncontrollably. I stuffed it in my other pocket.

"It's all there," I said, backing away in the direction Floyd had
gone.

"I'm sure it is, my boy, but what say we just have a peek." He had
a strange, lilting English accent.

"This is the end of it," I said.

"No hurry now, it's a fine night, is it not?" he said quickly as I
started to leave. I had my right hand strangling the automatic inside the
cutout pocket of my coat. I kept on backing up until I had the dugout screen
between us.

"Tell your people my client did his end. He's righteous in this. From here
on, it's not our problem. There's your money. It's over."

"We'll need to - "

From the woods on our left, the sounds of breaking branches echoed across
the diamond. The old man waited. Nothing happened. Silence.

"I'll need to count to it," he said, trying to buy time.

Before I could answer, a sound like a muffled cough rose out of the thicket
directly behind home plate. The old man flinched. His impassive face broke for
just an instant. He knew something was wrong.

"Feel free," I said. "Just sit right down there on home plate
and count yourself a home run. I'm out of here."

"Wait now," he said, picking up the briefcase and popping the
latches.

I stood my ground. He pawed through the contents. A couple of minutes
passed. Another cough seeped from the woods.

The old guy kept pawing at the money, sneaking looks around. Silence. He
started to speak but had lost sight of me in the darkness. The wind of the
Sound suddenly picked up, turning the leaves inside out, filling the air with
the smell of pine, drowning out any sounds from the nearby thicket.