Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (22 page)

"Me, too," said Wesley, stepping closer.

"We're all agreed then, it's flannel," I said. The big guy ignored
me. Wesley kicked me in the back. I bounced off the fence.

"What you want with something like this?" Frank asked.

"I'm making a quilt."

Wesley was quick. "I think he's lying, Frank."

"Shut up, Wesley," he boomed again. He leaned down to me.
"You better get straight with me, pilgrim," he whispered,
"otherwise we're gonna go inside and let Wesley have his fun with you.
Wesley" - he glanced over - "had a very interesting childhood. When
Wesley works on people, I leave the room. Ain't got the stomach for it. Trust
me, pilgrim, you don't want old Wesley working on you." When I didn't
answer, he shook his head sadly.

He used the hand on my shoulder to pick me up and turn me like a handle back
toward the house. "Let's go inside," he said.

I ducked out from under the hand and got my back on the fence.

"I don't think so," I said.

He nodded toward his partner. "Hurt him, Wesley," he said
offhandedly.

"Heeeeeeeeee." Wesley started for me. There was joy in his
rodentlike eyes and a gravity knife in his right hand. I could smell his sexual
excitement.

The pickup roared to life behind us. Both men turned instinctively toward
the sound. Caroline jammed the rig in gear and shot directly toward us, bouncing
up over the sidewalk, seemingly intent on scraping all of us off the fence. I
climbed like an orangutan. The right front fender passed directly beneath me as
the truck took out the post I'd been leaning on. I vaulted down onto the hood.

Wesley and Frank weren't so lucky. The force of the truck blasted both of
them back into the fence, which, without the support from the mangled post,
collapsed directly on top of them. A raucous alarm siren bleated out into the
night. Automatic floodlights clicked on and lit the street like a sporting
event. The truck backed up, throwing me to the ground as it bounced back over
the curb. The passenger door flew open. I jumped in.

Without so much as a look, Caroline jammed the truck into drive and wheeled
back into the street. My door closed on its own.

"Oh yes," she said. "Very manly. I especially like the way
you didn't even know those two goons were there. If it wasn't for me - "

I was too busy ministering to my badly scraped left knee to pay any
attention. A flap of skin hung out from the tear in my jeans. Gingerly, I
pushed it back in and folded the ripped fabric over it. It was already
beginning to throb. My back was killing me.

Caroline turned left without slowing, throwing me over into her lap.

"Hang on," she grunted and turned left again. I hung on.

When the truck straightened again, I sat up. We were headed back toward
Pioneer Square. Caroline was muttering to herself.

"What's your problem?"

"Problem? Why would I have any problems? Just because I hook up with
the only guys in the world who couldn't sneak up on Stevie Wonder, why should I
have any problems? A simple little thing like - "

I had the urge to make excuses. I had the urge to inform her that I hadn't
been making much noise, that I'd been out of sight from the building, that the
place had some type of motion or sound detectors or something, but I resisted.
"Screw you," I said, probing my knee.

"You wish," she said with a sniff as we cut back under the viaduct
and headed uptown toward her car. "I especially liked the way you just
stood still while the skinny one was trying to puree your kidneys. Very
manly," she repeated, before I could respond. "And you just gave the
other one that piece of Bobby's shirt. You just handed it to him. I mean really,
couldn't you at least have - "

"Have what?" I growled. "Have gotten myself killed? Those
guys were armed. What was I supposed to do?"

She sniffed once and jerked the rig to a stop in front of her car. Leaving
the truck running, she hopped out and walked over, leaned in, and pulled the
keys from the ignition, bouncing them up and down in her hand. As I slid across
the seat, she restarted her monologue.

"If you'd had any balls at all, what you would have done was to -
"

She was still talking as I drove off.

Rebecca Duvall used an oversize slotted spoon to poke gingerly at the
rubbery surface of the casserole.

"By the way, Leo, I'm assuming that it wouldn't be news to you were I
to tell you that a number of seriously annoyed law enforcement officers have
been inquiring as to your whereabouts."

"I've been traveling incognito."

Again, she tried unsuccessfully to pry one of the white geometric cubes
loose, failed, and turned to me. I shrugged.

We'd managed to avoid talking about Buddy. Instead, we shook hands, patted
backs, and reshaped old times until we were certain we'd be the last people to
make a pass at the table. Everyone was spread throughout the house, eating off
their laps. The party was in remission.

Bettina's esoteric entrees remained untouched; Rebecca was concerned.
"Somebody has to at least take some of this stuff," she whispered
from behind her plate. "Her feelings will be hurt."

"Go for it," I suggested.

Dispiritedly, she gouged the casserole, which this time broke apart. A
quivering blob came loose with a wet sucking sound. Shaken loose from the
spoon, it vibrated obscenely on her plate.

"I hope the boys in blue didn't give you a hard time," I said.

"No, no. They're always the soul of discretion. Dr. Duvall this, Dr.
Duvall that. They always act like it's a clerical mistake for me to be listed
among our known associates."

Ed and Tina Reynolds passed us on the right and headed directly for the
easily recognizable food on the far side of the table. This was all the
encouragement Rebecca needed. We hustled over, absconded with the last mortal
remains of the real food, and found a couple of seats on a battered brown
leather sofa. We munched Maryland crab cakes and peeled shrimp.

"Arniie." Bettina. Knickknacks wobbled on the shelves. No response.
"Arniiiiie," again.

"Where is the birthday boy anyway?" Duvall asked between bites.

"Probably out having his stomach pumped."

"Seriously."

"He's out on the back porch getting people who haven't been stoned in
years wasted out of their minds."

"We better leave before they come back and start to talk."

I silently agreed. Bettina spotted me and clanked over, spilling white wine
all the way.

"Where's Arnie?" she demanded.

"He's out back trading recipes," I said.

"Whatsamatter, Leo? You got a problem? Did we wake up on the wrong side
of the futon today or what?"

"If we woke up on the wrong side of anything together, Bettina, trust
me, it wouldn't be a problem. I'd immediately kill myself. No problem."

Duvall elbowed me viciously.

"You should get so lucky, Waterman. You don't have what it takes."

"You're right, Bettina. I'm missing both a lobotomy and a
bookmark." Another pistonlike elbow threatened to break the skin.

"Fuck you, Leo," was the best Bettina could manage before stumbling
off on her search for Arnie. Rebecca shook her head sadly.

"What I can't figure, Leo, is why you came. I thought for sure I'd have
to do this one alone. You and that woman" - her eyes followed Bettina -
"and believe me, I use the term loosely, have always detested one another.
Why bother?"

"I was already here," I said.

Duvall arched an eyebrow. I told her the story.

I'd spent the night in Arnie's backyard. After unloading Caroline Nobel, I'd
swung by Kmart, picked up a cheap sleeping bag, and rolled over to Arnie's
place. Deserted. Then I remembered the Eugene trip. Even better. I let myself
into the backyard, closing the gate behind me, and backed the truck against the
fence. The house was locked.

As I stood on the back steps deciding what to do next, the wind suddenly
shifted out of the south, and a hint of salt joined the air. The thunderheads
that had stood at attention all day slid across the sky from the Sound, filling
the air like cannon smoke, blotting out the last of the sun. the trees took on
a strange green cast as though I was looking at the world from underwater. I
sprinted back to the truck.

It rained hard, blistering the truck and the camper with a deafening
ten-minute drum solo. I checked for leaks. Everything shipshape. Just as
quickly, the rain ended. The truck looked clean. The backyard had been
transformed; the once-dusty thatch now had a black sheen. I walked up to the
Avenue and gorged myself on Ezell's chicken, picking up a sixer of Portland Ale
on the way back. Somewhere between ale number three and four, I slipped into my
new bag and slid off the end of the world.

I slept in. Around ten, when I poked my head out of the camper door, music
was wafting from the windows of the house. Arnie was back. I dug out some fresh
clothes, located my dop kit, and headed for the shower. Thank God I knocked.

Bettina opened the door. I'd forgotten all about Bettina. Barefoot, she was
wrapped in a flowing blue robe whose thirty-odd yards of material were covered
with crescent moons, stars, and assorted mystical symbols. With her barbed-wire
hair sticking straight out from her head, she could have been used to repel
boarders.

I tried to look humble. I was prepared to be nice. I was, after all,
uninvited. She started it. She took me in from head to toe, slowly working her
small lips.

"Very stylish, Leo," nodding slightly. Bettina had a way of
squeezing words out through her lips without moving them. The sound came from
somewhere deep within her cheeks and angled down toward her angelic lips to be
finally extruded through her pastry bag of a mouth.

"Sorry," I said. If she'd closed the door, I'd have gone gently
into that good morning. But no. No, she had to start. More nodding.

"Very chic. I especially like the rip in the knee of the jeans. Very
trendy. It's all the rage with the kids, you know. But, Leo" - she leaned
in perilously close - "the crusty stuff around the tear is definitely
optional, and that flap of skin hanging out could, in some circles, be
considered overkill, if you know what I mean."

Like the rest of the known world, I couldn't get a word in edgewise. Bettina
filled silence the way air fills a vacuum.

"The scratches on your face and the three-days' growth are a nice touch
though. Definitely lends a plebeian touch." I started to speak. She held up
a chubby hand. "No, no, let me guess. You went out looking for cigarettes,
and somebody stepped on your face."

She gave me her most unctuous smile, the one I hated most. It looked a lot
like the grille on a fifty-seven Chevy. If you missed the feral little eyes,
you could easily mistake this particular grimace for genuine warmth. I knew
better.

I barged past her into the small foyer. "Arnie up?"

"The party isn't till two, you moron."

"I'm going to take a shower," I said, heading for the stairs.

"Wait a minute," she bleated. "You can't just - " I was
gone. Arnie was rolled up, cocoonlike, in the bedroom at the top of the stairs.
He raised his head. I waved.

"Gonna hit the shower," I announced. He weakly waved back. Two
fingers. The peace sign.

"Have at it, old pal," he croaked, sagging back into the covers.

I stayed in the bathroom for hours. I stayed until she had long since given
up banging on the door and was threatening to call the fire department. Arnie's
insane laughter was a constant source of strength. I hung around for the rest
of the day, just to piss her off. Just like old times.

"That, and I figured Wendy was sure to show up for the party," I
finished.

"Wendy, eh. And what would you be needing from Wendy?"

Wendy Harris, former cheerleading captain and present real estate mogul, was
engaged in animated conversation with a bald guy who looked vaguely familiar.

"Who's that guy she came with?" I asked, pointing to the far side
of the living room. "Is he the one that works for the EPA?"

"That's her new husband. Ed or Ted or something, and no, the EPA guy
was that short guy with the good hair. He was number three, I think." I
remembered. "Ed or Ted is a bond broker of some sort," she added.

"What number is this?" I asked. Wendy got married the way some
people changed underwear.

"Four, maybe five, but who's counting?"

While my attention had been diverted, Duvall had slipped her plate down
under the sofa. I shook my head sadly.

"What if one of Arnie's cats finds that stuff?" I asked.

"We have a pet overpopulation problem, Leo, or don't you read the
papers? Just doing my part. What say we go meet Wendy's new hubby while we
still have the chance."

"Great idea," I said.

She started to rise. I stopped her. "Listen. When we get over there, be
charming. Talk about cadavers or something. Keep the hubby busy long enough for
me to get the number of the EPA guy from Wendy."

We smiled, backpatted, and handshook our way across the room. The party was
thinning out. The eat-and-run types had done so. Those with small children had
made the appropriate baby-sitter excuses. I hadn't seen Arnie in two hours.
Wendy and Ted or Ed were more or less keeping to themselves over by the front
windows. It took Rebecca and me ten minutes to cross the thirty feet. Wendy
pulled us the last eight.

"Leo, Rebecca, come here, I want you to meet Ted." She handled the
introductions. Within a minute, Rebecca had managed to separate Ted from Wendy.
I made my move.

"Wendy," I said.

"Yes, Leo." She twinkled. Flirting was a way of life with this
woman.

"Before Ed - "

"Ted," she corrected, moving in closer.

I searched for a delicate phrase. "Before Ted, there was that guy who
worked for the EPA - "