Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (18 page)

"How'd you meet Bobby?"

"I met him out canvassing."

"Panhandling?"

"It's not panhandling when you're trying to save the - "

"Earth," I said. "Save the Earth."

Her eyes narrowed. "How do - "

"So you met him out canvassing. Then what?"

"I noticed him hanging around, you know. I saw him at the Locks one day
and then down at the Kingdome the next, so I figured he must want something, so
I started talking to him." She got more animated as she spoke. "He
was real shy at first, but we got to talking about, the planet, you know, and
how we're strangling it and all and then, like out of nowhere, he started
telling me about this dumping that was going on up on the Indian reservation
and how we could catch them at it and how he knew all these places where they
were supposed to be planting trees but were really dumping waste."

"So you tried to follow one of the trucks?"

"But this train - "

"Why didn't Robert follow the trucks himself?"

"He tried, but it wasn't that simple. We needed two people."

"Why?"

" ‘Cause the truck goes two places." I was hoping that this
sounded as ridiculous to her as it did to me. It did. "After they dump,
they go down to this yard full of trucks and cars."

"A depot?"

"Yeah, it's right down the street here." She pointed back toward
the north. "So they go to the depot and the driver goes inside for a while
and then comes out, gets in his car, and goes home. We know, we followed one of
them over to West Seattle. He just went home and went to bed."

"What happened to the truck?"

"They hook the part the driver's in up to a different trailer, then
they hook the trailer they dumped with up to another - ah - "

"Cab," I inserted.

"Yes, another cab, and then they pull it off."

"Right after the driver leaves."

"Yes - no - well, the cab with the new trailer leaves right away, but
the trailer stays in the yard for a while."

"How long?"

"Sometimes it's gone in the morning. Sometimes it's around for a couple
of days. That's why Bobby needed someone in the city to follow the trailer.
Somebody who had the number and could camp out until it got pulled out. First
time, we followed the cab."

"And?"

"It just went back to work with a different driver. Hauling
lumber."

"So that left the trailer."

"The trailer turned out to be hard to follow. They all look alike. I
mean they're not marked or anything. So Bobby marked one."

"How'd he do that?"

"He climbed over the fence Thursday night and put yellow X's on the
trailer. So I'd be able to identify it once it left."

"How long had this one been there?"

"Since Tuesday."

"Why did you guys wait until Thursday to mark the trailer? What made
you so sure it was going to be around for that long?"

"Because they hadn't cleaned it yet. They wash the trailers before they
go out again. We needed to wait until it was clean before Bobby marked it or
they might have washed it off. I camped out in my car for two days making sure
the trailer didn't leave."

"And then you followed it when it left?'

"And lost it," she said.

"Why didn't Bobby follow the trailer?"

"I wanted to," she said with more emotion than it deserved.

"Why's that?"

She squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin. "It was my chance to
do something to save - "

"The earth." No sense asking her how she convinced Robert Warren
to let her follow the trailer.

"Yes, the earth. Don't you understand?" she whined. "This was
my chance to do something significant, to make a difference, to - " She
noticed that I wasn't listening and waved me off disgustedly. "Besides
that, Bobby said he had something important to do. He was going to take it to
the tribe. He said" - she cocked her head and looked at me - "he said
that he sure hoped he was taking this to the right person, because there was no
telling who was in on this and who wasn't."

I gave it a minute. I suspected that Bobby's choice of a confidant may have
been less than perfect. Only murder held the story together. Bobby and Caroline
had barely made progress in their investigation, and already two people were
dead. Somebody was abnormally nervous.

Caroline sat on the tailgate and massaged the bridge of her nose. The
adrenaline she'd produced while she was being kidnapped had worn off.

"I can't believe Bobby's dead," she said, hugging her abdomen.
"I can't believe they're going to get away with it. Bobby's dead and
they're going to get away with it."

Her voice broke. It was tough to tell whether Bobby's death or the loss of
her big chance bothered her more. My money was on the later. The latter I could
do something about. Bobby was going to stay dead.

"Maybe not," I said under my breath.

"Maybe he's not dead?"

"Maybe they're not going to get away with it."

"Who's going to stop them? The government doesn't - "

"We are."

"We are? How? How are we - "

"Get in the truck."

"I'm not going anywhere with you - you disgusting - "

"Fine," I said. "See you around." I started around to
the driver's side. Caroline followed in hot pursuit. "Where are you
going?" she demanded.

"I'm going to poke my nose around where it's not wanted."

"I'm coming."

"You're not welcome." I got in the truck and started the engine.

"I'll go to the police. I'll say you kidnapped and raped me."

"Feel free," I said. The sex and violence combo had failed again.

"Please. Bobby's dead." She was doing beseeching now. It worked. I
thumbed her around to the other side. Pulling the handle from my pants pocket,
I let her in. I handed her the handle.

"There's an Allen wrench that fits that in the glove box. Do something
useful and put the handle back on while we're riding."

    She rummaged in the glove box.
"Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you to a lovely little bar I know of up north."

"Something romantic?" Hope springs eternal in the young.

"Something Native American," I answered.

Whoever said that a little learning is a dangerous thing must have spent
some time listening to Caroline Nobel. The kid could talk. As a matter of fact,
she never shut up. By the time we were halfway to Everett, I was prepared to
dispense with the sex and get right to the violence. She'd already covered the
spotted owl controversy and downtown land use planning and was regaling me on
the ozone layer, or rather, the lack thereof.

"- and soon we'll all have to stay indoors, either that or we'll all
just turn into one mass melanoma." This last image was too much for me.

I heaved an inward sigh. The sigh must have been more outward than I'd
imagined. She picked up on it. "Does all of this bore you, Mr. - eh - you
know, you never did tell me your name. if I'm going to be kidnapped by someone,
I insist - "

"First of all, you're not being kidnapped."

"I most certainly am."

"You want me to let you out? I'll let you out." I depressed the
brake pedal and angled over toward the shoulder of the interstate.

    "You would, wouldn't you? Right out
there here in the middle of nowhere. In a torrential downpour. You'd leave
me."

"First of all, it's only drizzling. Secondly, this isn't exactly the
middle of nowhere. Something like a million people live within twenty miles of
this very spot. Besides that, you shouldn't have any trouble catching a ride.
The day shift at Boeing lets out in about a half hour. Try that stretching and
bending routine of yours again." I stuck my chest out and wiggled it
around. "I'm willing to bet you get picked up almost immediately."

"You're despicable," she said as I pulled the truck to a stop on
the shoulder of the highway.

"Get out," I said. She screwed herself down in the seat. I reached
over her and opened the door. "Get out," I repeated.

She shook her head violently from side to side. "I won't!" If her
lower lip had been sticking out any farther, I could have used it for a gun
rack. I reached back over and reclosed the door.

"Okay, then, I don't want to hear any more of this kidnapped stuff.
You're along for the ride. That's it. Just do what I tell you and keep your
mouth shut. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly," she said, vivisecting me with her eyes.

Caroline's perfect understanding lasted all the way to the Last Stand.

After wheeling the truck into the gravel lot and pointing it back out toward
the street, I shut down and put the keys in my pocket. The drizzle had turned
to a light rain, darkening the dirt and gravel of the lot. The bar was humming.
Twenty or thirty cars and trucks were randomly strewn throughout the lot. Good,
I thought. The more people, the easier it would be to get lost in the crowd.

"Stay here," I said, slamming the door behind me.

I was halfway to the door when I heard the crunching behind me. She was six
paces back, wearing her aviator sunglasses in the rain.

"I'm coming in," she said defiantly.

Unfortunately, there was no way to lock her in the truck, and although the
prospect of rendering her unconscious held a certain manic appeal, it seemed a
short-term solution at best. Wishing I'd left her on the highway, I gave in. I
crooked a finger at her. She sauntered over, hands in her jacket pockets.

"Okay, but stay close to me," I said. "This place isn't the
Ritz, you understand me?" She said she did. "I'll handle this. You
keep out of it." I reached for the door. "And for God's sake, keep
your mouth shut," I added as I pulled the door open. The doorway was full.

Most of the patrons were backed up against the front door. Only the click of
pool balls rose above the eerie silence.

What appeared to be four construction workers lounged around the pool table
at the far end of the room. A staring contest was in progress. Most of the
crowd was way past middle age, a fairly even mix of men and women, all of whom
were giving the guys at the pool table a wide berth. A wide-body holding a cue
stick spoke to somebody beyond my line of sight.

"You want the table, you put up your quarter. That's how it works,
Hiawatha. This here's America. We can come in any place we want. You don't like
it, that's tough shit."

He was dangerous-looking specimen, one of those guys you could mistake for
fat if you didn't look closely. Five-eleven, maybe two-twenty-five or so,
almost as wide as he was tall. Rapidly thinning brown, curly hair, narrow eye
slits over a pug nose, wearing a blue work shirt, red suspenders, and muddy
jeans. He chalked his cue so hard it bent, leaned over, and delicately banked
the eight ball into the side pocket.

"Next victim," he declared loudly. His three buddies passed smug
looks back and forth. His last victim, an older Indian wearing a battered black
cowboy hat, returned his cue to the wall rack and slowly walked back to the
bar. He was the older of the two guys I'd seen before. A muffled buzz passed
through the crowd.

"Who's next?" the guy demanded.

The pockmarked kid I'd seen talking to Robert Warren detached himself from
the bar and ambled over to the table. He flipped a quarter out from under the
far rail and squatted down, retrieving the balls.

From the far end of the bar, a wavering voice rose above the rest.
"You're not wanted here. Why don't you go?"

"We ain't going nowhere, grandma. Your brave here just had his chance.
What, you want to try next? The way you people shoot, it's no wonder the
cavalry kept kicking your ass."

Encouraged by the guffaws of his three-man audience, he waddled over to the
older man whom he'd just defeated. Standing in far too close, he said,
"Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. You beat me and we'll get the hell
out of here. I beat, I get that hat. What do you say?"

The older man stood his ground. "I don't gamble," he said evenly.

"Well then, just what do you do? Can't get none of these so-called
women to dance. Can't get nobody to play a little friendly game."

The kid, who had racked the balls and selected a cue, interrupted the
byplay. "You gonna play or what?" he asked to the guy's back.

"I'll play when I'm ready, Tonto. It's my table. Right?" he said,
without ever taking his eyes off the old man. He showed a collection of short,
worn teeth to the old man.

"You know what you get if you put six of these Indian women together in
the same room at the same time?" he asked.

"No, what's that?" said the old guy, still holding his ground.

"A full set of teeth." He swiveled his head toward his pals for
more approval and got it. They grinned and nudged one another. He turned his
attention back to the old man.

    "We played that last game for ten,
right, old-timer? Where's my money?" With one meaty finger, he idly played
with the pearl button on the old man's faded blue cowboy shirt.

"I told you before we started, I don't gamble," he said.

"It's my table. You want to play on my table, you play by my rules. I
want my money," he insisted, now using both hands to unsnap the buttons
one at a time, exposing the old man's bony chest.

Before I could react, Caroline skittered across the floor and forced herself
between the two men. She got nose to nose with the pool shark. She slowly ran
her palms up over the guy's chest and rested her arms on his shoulders.

"If you want to pick on somebody, big fella," she said in her
Lauren Bacall voice, "why don't you pick on me." The pool shooter
slowly smiled and turned again toward his pals.

I began to nonchalantly wander down the length of the bar toward the back of
the room.

"Well, look what we got here, fellas." More grinning and nudging.
He leaned the cue against the bar, wrapped both arms around Caroline, and
pulled her in close. "Well," he said, "now ain't you a hell of
an improvement on these other sows."