Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (12 page)

I kept backpedaling until I figured I was out of range. He was still
fingering the money and looking for me when I turned my back and double-timed
it down the walkway.

Floyd joined me right where he'd said he would.

"Three," he said. "Two in the park and one in your
backseat."

We exited the park and crossed the street. I looked in the Mustang. Empty.
Floyd inclined his head slightly toward the bushes behind my car.

Peeking out from among the roots of a massive azalea were a pair of shoe
soles, the right one worn all the way through to the yellow sock.

"I didn't figure you wanted to ride home with him," Floyd said.
Before I could catch my breath, he said, in a voice I'll never forget,
"You gonna hold that auto in your hand all night, or are you gonna pay
me?"

I handed him the automatic and dragged the five grand out from inside my
pants. He didn't so much as look at it. Just put it in his pocket.

"Better do a little cleanup on the interior in the morning."

He turned and walked away. I rode with the windows down. The car smelled of
mushroom soup. A little cleanup turned out to be scraping most of somebody's
medulla oblongata off the backseat, the headliner, and the carpets.

That first encounter with Floyd made a lasting impression on me. The next
morning I bought my first handgun and a new car with no backseat.

    In the intervening years I'd called Floyd
half a dozen times. The routine was always the same. He'd name his price and
meet me there.

He was standing next to the Fiat before I got the motor turned off. I picked
the bag off the seat and popped the lock. He struggled in.

"Jesus Christ, Waterman, get a car."

I dropped the bag in his lap. "For me?" he mocked. "You
shouldn't have."

He pulled the zipper back and peered inside.

"What's that?" I asked, poking the doughy mass.

He took it out of the bag and felt it over with his hands. Then he pulled
off a small piece, rolled it between his fingers and smelled it. Satisfied, he
popped it in his mouth and ate it.

"It doesn't have a name," he said, chewing slowly.

"Everything's got a name."

"Not this shit; it's just your basic accelerant. Been around for years.
It's used to burn up things that won't ordinarily burn. The Russians used their
own version on the Afghans. They were having a hell of a time burning down the
villages. Fuckers live in mud houses. The mud bricks won't burn." He
hefted the blob. "Except with this shit. This shit will burn down a stone
building. Makes Thermite look like a kitchen match. No explosion either. Just
starts burning. Fires up to damn near four thousand degrees. It'll burn
underwater. Once you get it going, it'll burn in a vacuum. Really can't be put
out; mostly, it just has to burn itself out." He tossed it up and caught
it. I winced.

"Totally harmless without the chemical detonators," he said.

I reached over and fished the aluminum test tubes out of the bag.

"The very same," he said. Still handling the material, he looked
over at me for the first time. "Where'd you get this, Waterman?"

"It was under my front seat, wired to the ignition."

He shook his head. "Leave town, Waterman. This is serious shit. It's
not all that easy to get. A Gomer like you is out of his league here."

Before I could respond, he delved back into the bag. He unrolled the blanket
in his lap and whistled. "Nice," he said, hefting the piece.
"Russian. KGB stuff. I forget what they call it. Eight hundred rounds a
minute, incredible muzzle velocity. Great for shooting through solid steel
doors. Nice piece. Not rare though. I can get you fifty. Two thousand a whack.
They're big with the local crack-dealer set."

We sat in silence for a moment while he toyed with the piece.

"Anything else?" he asked.

"That's what I wanted to know."

Floyd rolled the machine gun carefully back up in the blanket with the
loving hands of a man familiar with guns. He put it back in the bag."

"Tell you what, Waterman. I'll take the Silly Putty  and the
detonators in lieu of my grand." He waited.

"Done," I said.

He cached the detonators in his pocket, grabbed the stuff like a loaf of
bread, and got out of the car. He leaned down.

"You better tell whoever you been brawling with to cut her nails."

"I won't dignify that with a response, Floyd."

"Fair enough," he said. "And I won't ask you who won."

Four blocks down from the park, I spotted exactly what I was looking for. I
wheeled the Fiat up next to the orange Dumpster, opened the trunk, and lofted
the bundled-up sleeping bag up through the yawning lid. I walked around to the
driver's side, got the bag with the maps and the automatic, and locked it in
the trunk. A car wash was next.

Between the washing wand the vacuum I went through the better part of ten
bucks before I was satisfied. I spent a tedious half hour with a Popsicle stick
I'd found on the ground, digging willow leaves out of every conceivable nook
and cranny. If you didn't count the scratches in the paint, the missing
antenna, or the rip in the roof, the Fiat looked pretty good.

I checked my watch. Three-thirty. I was already screwed by the afternoon
traffic. Might as well get something done. The paint and the roof would have to
wait. I figured the antenna was easy. I followed California nearly to the north
end, found the Schucks Auto Parts store right where I remembered it, and bought
a replacement antenna and a pair of channel locks.

Forty-five minutes later, my knuckles and forearms now scraped up to match
my face, I understood for the first time why reputable mechanics refuse to work
on Fiats. I'd always assumed that all the Fix-It-Again-Tony and
Failed-Italian-Attempt-at-Transportation jokes had merely been the work of
mediocre minds without enough to do. After all, everybody needs somebody to
look down on. I resolved to reevaluate that assumption.

The little car must have been built by elves. There was absolutely no room
to do anything. Even the final step of unscrewing the old coaxial cable from
the back of the radio and screwing the new one on required that I put the top
down so that my legs could point straight up as I disjointed my arm into the
narrow gap between the back of the dash and the firewall.

At least I had music for the ride. Although the new antenna didn't sit at
quite the same angle as the old one, it worked just fine. Unfortunately, there
wasn't a single thing worth listening to. The oldies channel was stuck in one
of its white-boy sixties grooves, the Dave Clark Five pounding out rock without
the roll. Next came "Sugar Shack," for God's sake. KPLU was engaged
in heady discussion of the merits of recycling, and everything else I could
find either sounded computer-generated or had lyrics having something to do
with the singer's skin clearing up in the immediate future. I rifled through
the glove box until I came up with a suitable Jimmy Buffet tape, rewound, and
eased into traffic to the melodic strains of "Why Don't We Get Drunk and
Screw." Ah, culture.

I was after six by the time I rolled into the small lot next to the Embers.
I let the door swing shut behind me and stood still until I began to make out
shapes in the distance. Carefully, I made my way down to the far end of the
bar, ducked under the little gate, and let myself into the beer locker.

I had already stashed Robert Warren's bag behind a stack of Mickey's
widemouths when Patsy yanked open the door and stuck his head in.

"How long do I stand to do for whatever you're hiding in here?"

"It depends. How's your past record?" I asked.

"So-so," he replied.

"Eighteen months tops."

"Comforting, Leo. Do I want to know what's in there?"

"Absolutely not."

"Comforting. How long?"

"Until I need it." He didn't like that. "Soon," I said.

He turned out the light and slammed the locker door. I groped my way back to
the switch and let myself out. The place was jammed. Patsy was using the speed
gun, a compromise of modern bartending to which he resorted only when he
couldn't keep up any other way. Patsy wasn't big on help, claimed they robbed
him blind. He sneered at my good-bye wave.

My answering machine was full. Three from Jed James, each call offering
progressively more profitable work than its predecessor. Jed was like that.
Taking no for an answer was not his strong suit. Probably not a bad trait for
an attorney.

    Two more were from prospective clients,
neither of whom gave the slightest hint as to what they wanted. They'd have to
wait. The last two were the most interesting.

"Mr. Waterman," the tape hissed, "this is Saasha Kennedy.
From the hotel the other day. I was wondering if you'd give me a call at -
" She rattled off an office and a home number. "I wanted to - never
mind, just give me a call whenever you get the chance." Interesting, I
momentarily felt bad about giving her such a hard time. She'd walked into an
ugly situation without a clue. I got over it. I'd call her, but she could wait
too. The last call was an attention-getter.

"This is Detective Trask of the SPD. Call me the minute you get this
message."

I called. They patched me right through. "Trask."

"Leo Waterman."

"You home?"

"Such as it is."

"Stay there. I'll be right over." I didn't like the sound of it. I
wanted one last chance to go through the apartment.

"Listen, Trask, I was on my way - "

"Stay there." He hung up in my ear.

I spent ten minutes crawling around the floor looking for any type of
forensic evidence that could connect me with Robert Warren. Nothing. I'd spent
the night alone, watching television. That was my story. I checked last night's
listings so I could be specific, even reading the little blurbs so I'd have
some idea of what the shows were about. Trask barged in without knocking.

He stood in the hall with his hands crammed in the pockets of his trench
coat. He reached in, grabbed my orange parka from the hook next to the door,
and held it out to me.

"You're wanted, Waterman."

"Always nice to feel wanted," I said.

"A guy named Buddy Knox been working for you?"

My stomach rose up and fluttered within my body. My extremities got
instantly cold. In that instant, I experienced the same feeling that I'd had
when each of my parents had the same feeling that I'd had when each of my parents
had passed away. A feeling of moving one step closer to being absolutely alone.
One more of the illusions of connectedness was gone. It didn't matter that
Buddy was just as old drunk who worked for me. He was part of the complicated
superstructure of relationships which gave me a sense of time and place and
kept me getting out of bed every morning. Getting up tomorrow was going to be
harder than it had been today.

I remembered standing by my father's bedside that snowy December morning.
He'd shrunk down into the covers like a puppet of himself. The cancer was
eating him away.

"School closed?" he asked, turning his head slowly toward the
snowy windowsill and squinting at the bright reflected light.

"No," I said. "I wanted to be here with you." He smiled.

"We're born alone. We die alone, son. Got to school."

I cut the last two classes, but he was gone when I got home.

Trask interrupted my thoughts.

"Well, Waterman, was Knox working for you?"

"Yeah, why?" I already knew the answer.

"I'm sorry," was all Trask said.

"Where?" I don't know why. How or when would probably have been
better questions. Where just came out.

"I'm sorry for the old guy," Trask said again. "But you got
no goddamn right to be putting people like that on the street. Goddammit -
"

"Tell me," I said.

"The Tacoma PD pulled him out of the bay this morning. He was behind
the wheel of a station wagon."

"What happened?"

"Coroner's doing a post mortem right now."

"Duvall?" I asked. He eyed me closely.

"How do you know, Ms. Duvall?"

"We went to school together," I said. "Just friends," I
added.

"TPD says he took one from a large bore in the forehead." Trask
ready my mind. "He had a notebook in his pocket with your phone number in
it in several places. That and thirty-seven dollars was all they found on
him."

"How long before Duvall's finished?"

"A couple of hours."

Before I could speak again, "Let's go," he said. We headed to the
elevator.

"Where are we going?" I asked on our way down the hall.

"TPD wants to have a few words with you."

"Am I under arrest?" I asked in the elevator.

"Shut the fuck up, Waterman," was the reply.

I tried again when we got to the car. "If I'm under arrest - "

"Get in the fucking car. Twice in one week with you is more than I can
bear."

Using the diamond lane and siren, we made it to Tacoma in a little over half
an hour. I told Trask the story, leaving out Robert Warren. In order to exclude
Robert Warren, I had to exclude the rest of the crew. The boys were unlikely to
hold up under questioning. I stuck to the story that it was just me and Buddy.
Trask didn't buy it. I could tell. He was doing his impression of polite.

We pulled off the Fife exit an wound our way through the heavy industrial
district of chemical plants, paper mills, sawmills, and a montage of the filthy
industries that formed the economic backbone of Tacoma.

Everything Seattle didn't want in its own backyard had been gleefully passed
down the road to Tacoma. Much like San Francisco and Oakland, Seattle and
Tacoma share the same bedroom, but not as equals. More like the favored son
versus the stepchild. All it took was pricing a major portion of the population
out of the local housing market. And take the garbage with you when you go.