Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (15 page)

"How you guys doing?" I asked.

"Not so good," slurred Harold.

"Me neither," I said. "I'm gonna miss Buddy." They
silently agreed.

"Who did it, Leo?" asked George, his anger returning.

"I don't know, but we're sure as hell going to find out." I looked
for support but didn't get any, so I kept talking, "How'd you guys find
out?"

"A couple of cops, they come in with a picture of Buddy. Jesus, Leo, he
had a - " George said.

"There was a hole in his head, Leo," Harold finished.

"Did the cops talk to you guys?"

"Nope," said George. "They just passed the picture around
until somebody, I think it was old Bill Knowles, recognized the picture. Me, I
had to look again. It didn't look nothin' like Buddy. But it was . . . "
He let it trail off.

"Any idea how they knew to come to the Zoo?"

"The matches," they said together.

"What matches?"

George took the lead. "Buddy was always taking all the matches from the
bowl on the bar. He wasn't supposed to, Terry threatened to eighty-six him, but
he did it anyway."

"Always had pockets full of them," added Harold.

"What for? Buddy didn't smoke."

"Maybe he just liked to collect stuff," Harold replied with a shrug.

"I think he took ‘em ‘cause it pissed Terry off. You know how Buddy is
. . . was." George caught himself. Never speak ill of the dead.

"What happened down at the building today?" I asked.

"Same old shit," said George. "Regular panhandling rounds,
Caroline made the regular trip down to meet the guy, except he didn't
show."

"Somebody followed her?" I asked.

"Ralph." George jerked his thumb at the bundle on the floor.
"I sent Ralph. What with the construction and all, traffic's so damn bad,
even Ralph can keep up. I figured he might as well do something."

"What did he say?"

"He said she drove down like usual. Sat there in her car for almost an
hour and then drove off," answered Harold.

"Did she come back to the building?"

"Nope." Together. I mulled this information over.

"I want the three of you at your posts in the morning."

"You mean we're still gonna . . . " George sounded shocked.

"Without Buddy?" Harold asked.

"How much energy do you figure the cops are going to put into somebody
like Buddy?" I asked. They looked at each other. I kept talking. "The
only way this is going to come out clean is if we do it. Caroline's been
meeting this guy around one in the afternoon, right?"

"Between one and two," answered George.

"I'll be there. You guys just keep track of the building, okay?"

I got a couple of weak okays. "For Buddy," I added. The okays got
stronger, not exactly a chorus of acclaim, but at least they were willing to
try.

I dropped the crew at the rooming house. Ralph first, so Harold could lend a
hand. George last, so I could have a word with him.

I counted out seventy-five bucks. "Here's what I owe you guys. Divvy it
up in the morning." He stared at the money in his hand. "Looks like
you're in charge now, partner." The thought seemed to terrify him.

"I don't know, Leo. I don't - "

"For Buddy, George." He tried to focus on my face.

"For Buddy," he repeated, sticking the money in his pocket.

At seven o'clock on the dot I was awakened by a rapping on the truck door.
no great cause for concern. Short of breaking out one of the side windows,
nobody was getting inside. I'd put the tailgate up, effectively blocking the
door, and then backed the truck right up against the block wall of the parking
area. After locking the truck doors, I'd crawled through the slider and spent a
miserable night freezing my ass off in the overhead bunk. I needed a new
sleeping bag. First thing on the agenda.

I peeked out through a curtains, saw Hector's smiling face, and opened the
driver's door for him. He got behind the wheel. He'd brought a steaming mug of
coffee, and eggs and something green wrapped in a corn tortilla. The coffee was
excellent. The unidentified green substance was so spicy it made my eyes water;
I choked it down anyway. Hector crawled through and sat at the table.

He anticipated me. "Dey been back twice, Leo," he said as I
slurped down coffee. "Once late last night. Again dis morning. Fockers
wake me both times for de key. Dey say dey gonna tow your car off later today."

The sleeping bag slipped to number two on the charts. I poked my head back
out through the curtains. Sure enough, two bright orange SPD tags were attached
to the Fiat, one on the door handle, one on the windshield.

"Hector, does your brother still own that body shop?"

"Chewer. Got two now."

"You think it would be okay if we took the Fiat over there?"

"No problem."

"If the cops find out - " He waved me off.

"Yeah, yeah, and eef Geeligan was a Cubano, he'd have gotten off that
focking island. Gimme de goddamn key."

I'd offended him. It wasn't hard. Hector was touchy. I'd learned long ago
that there was absolutely no way to predict what was and was not going to piss
him off. A simple greeting like "Nice morning, isn't it?" could very
easily be met with "Waddas chew crazy, chew tink I'm stupid, eets raining
like tree bastards out dere." The good news was that he usually got over
it just as quickly. I hesitated.

"Chew think I'm afraid of the policia?" He spat noisily on the
floor, narrowly missing my shoes. "Chew tink my broder Reuben
afraid?"

"Not for a second," I said hastily.

"The last time the policia pick up my broder Reuben, dey keep him nine
years. Dey donk his head in de toilet ebery day. Reuben be glad to help. Chew
gimme de dey," he demanded. "I take it right over."

I fished the key out of my pocket. Hector crawled back through and let
himself out. By the time I'd gotten myself organized and was back behind the
wheel, Hector had the Fiat started. I jumped out and jogged over to the car.
Hector rolled down the window.

"I'll take de bus back. Chew take care of beesnez, Leo," he said
with a gleaming gold smile.

"Neither of us is going to be taking care of any business, Hector, if I
don't take these tags off the car." I pulled the two I'd seen off and checked
the other side of the car. Sure enough, there was another on the passenger
door. I stuffed the tags in my pocket.

"Gimme your keys," I said.

"Chew best not - "

"I'll use your apartment." He fished for his keys.

"Doan answer de phone or de door. Dey been - " he cautioned.

"Not to worry, Hector." He threw the keys at me.

"Worry, I doan worry. Chew tink I yam - "

"Better get this thing out of here."

Hector didn't require further encouragement. Still muttering, he popped the
clutch and was around the corner, out of sight before I got back to the truck.

What I needed was to have a talk with Caroline Nobel. Caroline's presence at
the waterfront rendezvous on Friday afternoon said that she was unaware of
Robert Warren's fate. I was hoping that she'd keep showing up. Frankie Ortega's
warnings notwithstanding, Caroline and I were about to get up close and
personal.

A shower and change of clothes weren't much help. I had to shave around the
scratches on my face, leaving myself with a swirled appearance. The clean
clothes I pulled out of my pack were, if anything, more wrinkled than the ones
that lay piled by Hector's front door. at least they were clean.

I rummaged through the pile of filthy clothes until I came up with the
Post-it with the phone number that Arnie'd given me.

"Environmental." A gruff male voice.

"Tom Romans, please."

"Speaking."

"My name's Leo Waterman. I'm a friend of Arnie Robbins's."

"Any friend of Arnie's - " He let it hang.

"Arnie says you're a good source on environmental groups."

"Depends on the group."

"Save the Earth."

"Nice choice." Silence, then: "What did you say your name
was?"

"Waterman, Leo Waterman."

"You that detective friend of his?"

"the same."

"And you want info on the Save the Earth movement."

"That's it."

"Not surprising," he muttered. "I'm kind of busy for the next
few days. How about next Monday afternoon?"

"That might be too late." He thought it over at length.

"What are you doing this morning?" he asked finally.

"Not much," I said. Telling him I was presently evading the police
seemed a tad too confessional a response for a budding new relationship.

"You know the symposium is going on this week," he said. "Any
other time - " If this was supposed to be informative, it wasn't. I waited.

He sensed my confusion. "The Northwest Environmental Action Coalition
meets twice a year. A little rhetoric. A little fund-raising. That sort of
thing. Gives them a chance to see how little they actually have in
common," he added bitterly. "Meet me there at nine o'clock. I'll get
you in. We can talk. I'll tell you what I know. It may cost you lunch."

"I can handle it."

"Meet me there."

"Where's there?"

"Seattle Center. The Exhibition Hall."

"See  you."

"Later."

I was ten minutes early. An elderly couple had a little card table set up to
next to the front door. Those with exhibitors' tags were admitted free. Concern
cost the general public six bucks. They were attracting quite a crowd. As
usual, I was amazed.

My prejudices had expected mostly the granola-and-Birkenstock crowd. I guess
that's why they call them prejudices. This crowd was a mixed lot. From
well-heeled yuppie couples, kids in tow, to groups of senior citizens, arriving
en masse, they filed into the Exhibition Hall.

"You Waterman?" A voice from behind me.

He was tall. Maybe six-six, and remarkably skinny. No more than one-eighty,
with the stooped, apologetic posture so often seen in people that tall.
Balding, with big expressive brown eyes, he looked more like a retired
basketball player than an environmentalist.

I stuck out my hand. He wrapped it with his tendrillike fingers.

"Tom Romans." His badge was a press pass. He handed me one, my
name neatly typed under the plastic. I pinned it on.

"What paper do I work for? Just in case anybody should ask."

"Magazine. Northwest Outdoors," he said, checking the crowd.

"This happens twice a year?" I asked, trying to get his attention.

"Like clockwork," he said, still scanning the crowd above my head.
"Gives them a chance to see if they can separate the general public from a
little folding money, raise consciousness a little, check out new products,
work out their aggressions, that sort of thing. It's good business."

"Will Save the Earth be here?"

"No way. They think they're commandos, terrorists. They wouldn't be
caught dead at one of these. Listen - ah - . . . "

"Leo."

"Listen, Leo. I can see you're not familiar with the movement, so let
me give you a brief primer. The environmental movement is very wide and scattered.
That's a big part of the problem. You understand?"

"No," I said truthfully.

"Okay," he said, looking around. "Ah. You see those three
guys over there talking to the woman in the red dress?"

It took a second, but I found the group, backed up to one of the planters on
the far side of the mall area, across from the entranceway. Three nondescript
guys were engaged in animated conversation with an elderly woman in an
ankle-length red wool dress. I pointed. "There?"

"The three guys are with the Foundation for the Homeless. Good group.
Provide meals. Do what they can about shelter and medical care. They're here
today because there's a rat problem down in Pioneer Square. What with all the
people living in the streets, there's been an enormous increase in the food
supply and hence in the number of rats. Over thirty people have suffered bites
in the last couple of months. Right? So, what's the solution?"

"Kill the rats," I suggested.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" he grinned.

"Makes sense to me."

"Not to Mrs. Causey there. She's with SETA. The Society for the Ethical
Treatment of Animals. They got an injunction preventing the Parks Department
from spreading their little cyanide baits."

"She sides with the rats?"

"Can't bear the idea of the little critters rolling around in their
death throes. Says it's inhumane."

"Of course it's inhumane; they're rats."

"Not to Mrs. Causey and her constituency they're not."

I mulled this over. He pulled me back from my reverie on rats' rights.

"Listen, Leo, I'm going to trot over and see if I can't rustle up a
little copy. Why don't you wander around inside for a while. I'll catch up to
you."

The elderly couple at the door ushered me in with a smile and a flourish.

As usual, it wasn't what I expected. It was a trade show. Booths and
banners. The public milling around, filling the aisles. I joined in.

It didn't take long for the full scope of my ignorance to become apparent.
The first little booth at the bottom of the stairs seemed innocuous enough.
Bumper stickers. An American tradition. "Developers Go Build in
Hell," seemed to the point, if maybe a bit strident. I was okay with
"Rescue the Rainforests." "Muir Power to You" was cute.
Things started to get fuzzy at "Pregnancy: Another Sexually Transmitted
Disease" and "I'll Take My Beef Poached, Thanks." If
"Subvert the Dominant Paradigm" left me scratching my head, it was
"Dream Back the Bison, Sing Back the Swan" that turned out the
lights. I moved on.

Circling clockwise around the edge of the building, keeping clear of the
crowded center aisles, I was awed by the number and diversity of
environmentally conscious products being flogged. Organic toothpaste from
India. An ayurvedic secret formula of over thirty herbs and extracts.
Earthtimes, the environmental game. Fun for the whole family. Made, of course,
from entirely recycled materials. Magnometers, low-cost magnetic survey
instruments that allow the user to detect the slightest fluctuations of deadly
low-frequency electromagnetic radiation, which, according to the instruments'
inventor, was slowly but inexorably devolving the entire civilized world to
primordial jelly. Supplements, vitamins, oils, unguents, books, magazines,
records, tapes. Hell, there were environmental rock groups. It was all there. I
kept moving.