Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (6 page)

Frankie Ortega walked me all the way to my car. I was freezing, shivering
almost uncontrollably inside my topcoat. Frankie didn't notice. He was deep in
thought. As I unlocked the car door, he put his hand on my arm. "Take care
of this for him, huh, Leo? She's family. He's an old man."

I said I'd try. He handed me an envelope. I opened the door.

Frankie held the door as I got in. "Watch out for this kid, Leo. She's
scary," Now he had my attention.

Anything that would scare Frankie Ortega automatically put the fear of God
in me. I started sweating again.

"Why's that, Frankie?"

"Something's loose in that kid," he said.

"Oh," I deadpanned.

"Tim, he wouldn't say so. He's too proud, her being family and all, but
this one's definitely trouble, Leo. Nineteen, going on fifty. A wild child.
Never seen anything quite like it, Leo. This one's a cross between little Miss
Muffet and Debbie Does Dallas. One minute she's stomping her feet, acting like
a baby; next minute she's offering to sit on your face."

He stopped and cast his eyes furtively up and down the street, as if the old
man's tentacles reached everywhere. Satisfied, he continued.

"We couldn't keep regular help. You remember Tim never much liked women
around since the wife died. We always had male help. You remember from when
your dad used to bring you here." I remembered. "I had to let them
all go. If she couldn't get what she wanted out of them one way, she'd get it
another. We had guys threatening to shoot one another over her, for Chrissake.
She'd fuck a snake if somebody'd hold the head still.

"How'd you make out, Frankie?" I asked. He wasn't amused.

"Don't fuck around," he said gravely. "Before this is over,
you may need some help with this one, Leo. You need anything, you can call.
I'll send you the twins, okay?" I said it was okay. I lied. Frankie was
still musing about the dangerous Caroline Nobel. Almost sounded like
professional jealousy.

"She's a pretty package, all right. No doubt about it. There's a
picture in the envelope. You'll see." He still held the door. "You
been around, Leo. You know the score. You spend any time with her, you'll see
what I mean. She plays men like some broads play the piano."

He leaned down and got close to my face. "You know, Leo, years ago I
learned to look in people's eyes. I needed to know right away whether they was
reaching for their wallet or they was reaching for a gun. This one, I don't see
nothin'. Before you leap - take a good look in her eyes. It'll shrivel your
dick up like a roll of dimes." He slammed the door.

"Any of you still have a driver's license?" I asked.

The question brought on another round of head shaking, foot shuffling, and
staring at my living room floor. Buddy, as was his custom, took the lead.

"You might as well ask a fish if he still has his bicycle," Buddy
muttered under his breath.

"Okay. Okay," I said. "For the time being, we'll take the
bus."

While Buddy was generally in charge of the bitching for this group, this
particular suggestion even brought complaints from Harold, Ralph, and George.
"How in hell can we be real operatives from the bus?" said George,
jamming his hands into the pockets of his buttonless tweed overcoat.

"Yeah, Leo, it just ain't right," whined Harold.

"What if we have to follow somebody or something?" asked Ralph.

"If you have to follow anyone, which I doubt," I added, "take
a cab. It's expenses. I'll give it back to you later."

"Won't work," said Buddy.

"Why not?"

"Most of the cabbies won't pick us up."

Buddy had a point. I'd forgotten that once a guy was officially enshrined in
the local Degenerate Hall of Fame, public transport was no longer a viable
option. About the third time a guy puked, pissed, or passed out in a cab or a
bus, the drivers spread the word.

"Wave money at ‘em," I suggested.

"Won't work," Buddy said again, shaking his head. "They'll
just think it's old Ralph here waving his balls at ‘em again."

I'd heard about that particularly sordid little episode.

"They're both green," offered George.

"Yeah, and if you fold the bills enough times, they're about the same
size," Harold added. They yukked it up.

This led to a prolonged round of accusations centering on the legendary
personal hygiene deficiencies of each. I let them have their fun. They were
right. I needed to come up with a car that we could all fit in. Renting one was
out of the question. Anything new and shiny would get these guys arrested for
car theft within four blocks. I decided to handle the problem once I'd gotten
them all staked out.

"Okay, you guys have got a point. I'll get you a vehicle this
afternoon. Today, though, just this once, we're going to have to take the bus
downtown."

They grumbled but went along with the program.

The bus driver was no rookie. I hid the crusty quartet in a dark doorway
nearby. As the doors hissed open, I inserted myself between them and waved the
crew forward. The driver tried to cut me in half with the doors. It took my
promise that, if necessary, I'd use my leather jacket to clean up any little
surprises the boys might leave, to get us all on board. He opened his little
side window and drove with his nose in the breeze like a spaniel.

As soon as I'd pulled the pictures from the envelope Frankie Ortega had
given me, I'd recognized the building. If I remembered correctly, it used to be
an old shoe factory. The building squatted midway down a long row of degenerate
architecture along the west side of the Kingdome, hard by the side of the
viaduct, occupying nearly the same ground as Tim Flood's beloved Hooverville
had so many years before. What goes around, comes around.

This very building had been part of a discussion that Patsy and I had last
summer. We'd been taking our seventh-inning stretch on the ramp adjacent to the
three-hundred level of the Kingdome. Patsy was sucking down Kools and bemoaning
the fact that smoking was no longer permitted in the Dome.

To the south the gutted hulk of a building, painted bright blue as if to
draw attention to itself, stoop gap-toothed among the surrounding rubble. On
the two lower floors, each and every window had been systematically stoned out
by local rock throwers. Some merely had been holed; others were gone entirely.
I commented to Patsy that they weren't making rock throwers like they used to.
In our day, we'd have gotten the top floor too. He'd agreed.

"It's these goddamn Little League programs with all their pussy rules
about how many innings the kids can throw and all that shit. The kids never
develop any arm strength. They're all like that Blackmore kid in there
tonight." The M's were losing big. Patsy had lost his sense of humor.

"That son of a bitch doesn't' throw hard enough to raise lumps on
anybody. M's ought to have a ticket promotion," he sneered. "Buy one,
get one free. Buy two, you can pitch."

Last year's hideous blue had been painted over with a uniform coat of beige.
The windows had been replaced. I made a note to call a friend of mine in
Planning. It might be interesting to see how Save the Earth had come into
possession of such a property.

The boys and I marched like Caesar and his lesions from the bus stop down to
the far side of the south Kingdome parking lot. The building was a good quarter
mile away across the lots. Close enough to reconnoiter, but far enough for us
to be invisible.

"All right," I started. "I want one of you hanging around at
each corner of the building. I want - "

The bitching started immediately. They all wanted the viaduct side.

"I got friends over there by pillar six," Ralph claimed.

"Me too," chimed George.

Buddy took over. "Screw you guys. You just want to be able to stay out
of the rain, that's all. Harold and George, you guys are the oldest, you get
the viaduct side. Try to stay dry. Ralph and I will work from the street."
He looked to me.

"Great," I said. "Take these." I handed each a small
spiral notebook and a couple of pencils. Their grimy hands clutched the booty
like it was the Holy Grail. It wasn't much, but it was brand-new.

"I wasn't license numbers for every vehicle of any sort that either
enters or leaves." They scribbled away. "I want descriptions, ages,
and anything else you can come up with on any foot traffic." More
scribbling. "If anybody leaves on foot, I want one of you to see where he
goes. But" - I waved a finger in front of their faces - "I want at
least one of you to stay out front and out back at all times. At no time is
either the front or the back to be completely unattended. Got it?" Ralph
raised his hand.

"Could you go over that again, Leo?"

"Which part?" I tried to hide my exasperation.

"All of it," he said sheepishly. I looked over the top of his hand
to see what notes he'd been taking. Stick figures. Either Ralph was taking
notes in Egyptian hieroglyphics, or he was experiencing a serious shortage of
brain cells. I was beginning to worry.

Buddy jumped in again. "I'll fill him in, Leo." He patted Ralph's
arm.

"Okay," I said. "Everybody pay attention." They stopped
scribbling.

"Here's the important part." I brought out four copies of
Caroline's photo that I'd made that morning.

As Frankie Ortega had promised, she was indeed one slick package. Blond,
blue-eyed, high cheekbones, solid chiseled features. Definite cover girl
potential. The picture only showed her from the neck up, wearing a square-necked
peasant blouse, but, presuming she was still in possession of all of her
appendages, the rest of her held great promise. I gave each guy a copy.

They made noises like a pack of feeding hyenas, elbowing one another and
trying lamely to look down the front of the blouse.

"This is who we're looking for." They weren't paying attention.
Ralph was sniffing the picture. "Hey," I shouted. They snapped to.
Contrite.

"This," I said, shaking the picture, "is what we're here
about. This young lady is the one exception to the
two-guys-have-to-stay-here-at-all-times rule. If any of you see her leaving,
follow her. Use as many guys as it takes but keep track of her. Do whatever it
takes. Understood?"

"What if she leaves by car?"

"Follow on foot as far as you can. As bad as traffic is, you can
probably stay ahead of them. Try for a taxi. I'll work on getting you guys a
car for this afternoon. In the meantime, fake it. Okay?"

It was okay. "You've each got the twenty-five I gave you this morning.
If you spend any of it in the line of duty, I'll replace it. Get receipts. You
hear me? This isn't the honor system. If you want to be reimbursed, get a
receipt." En masse scribbling. "I'm going to dig up a car for you
now. I don't know how long it'll take. I might be back to pick you guys up this
afternoon or I might not. If I miss any of you between now and then, be at my
place again at eight A.M. sharp tomorrow." They nodded in unison. I headed
off in search of a cab.

The job had seemed like a natural. I had an extra hundred a day coming in
from Tim Flood. Buddy and the boys could blend into the surroundings like so
much refuse. It seemed like a hell of a lot better idea than staking the place
out myself. Three or four days and we ought to have a pretty good picture of
the activities originating at the building.

In the meantime, I knew a place I could probably come up with a car and some
information on Save the Earth all at the same time.

I had the cabbie drop me in front of the University Bookstore. The Ave was
humming. An elderly black man played solo sax in the doorway to the bookstore.
A bebop version of "For All We Know" buzz-sawed its way along the
street. Across the street in front of Tower Records, a dobro player had
attracted a small crowd.

The sidewalks were jammed with the usual eclectic sampling of life's rich
pageant that clung to the belly of any major university. Students, would-be
students, used-to-be students, hawkers, hustlers, hangers-on, punkers, and a
whole new generation of bums all flowed and eddied about, forming a meandering
stream of partially washed plurality.

I shouldered my way through the melee and headed downhill toward the
Cucumber Castle. In its present manifestation, it was a combination head shop,
clothing store, and CD exchange. Arnie Robbins had a knack for keeping up with
the times.

Thirty years ago, in the back row of the balcony of the Varsity Theatre,
Arnie'd slipped me my first joint. We'd found Charlton Heston's antics in The
Ten Commandments so inexplicably funny that we'd eventually been escorted out.

While for most of us the tribal fantasy of the sixties had been merely a
brief respite along life's highway, a welcome excuse to avoid the imagined
terrors of responsibility for just one more endless summer, for Arnie it had
become a permanent way of life.

Arnie was on his usual stool behind the counter. A tie-dyed Dorian Gray,
seemingly impervious to the ravages of time, he looked exactly like he had back
in the early seventies. His frizzy red hair and walrus mustache showed no signs
of gray. Unlike the rest of us, he seemed to lose a few pounds every year. As
one by one we'd trudged off toward serious jobs and serious responsibilities,
I'd initially been saddened by what I'd perceived to be Arnie's arrested
development. The last few times I'd seen him, however, I'd experienced
something a great deal more akin to envy.

The store was full. He glanced up briefly as I walked in, handed the blue
ceramic bong he'd been holding over to a leather-clad kid with an orange
Mohawk, and walked down to the display of vintage horror comics at the far end
of the counter. I followed.

We engaged in the old hippie thumbs-only handshake and checked one another
out.

"Looking good, Leo," he said with a smile.