by G. M. Ford
could turn on and off like the smile. Hell, by the time they'd signed the contracts she had Chipper there running out for latte and tripping over his dick."
He shook his head and turned to leave.
"At least he didn't have far to fall," I offered to his back.
5
I reached the top of the second tier of concrete stairs in time to watch the forward ranks of a low, leaden fog bank as it rolled swiftly across Elliot Bay and back toward the city like an advancing gray brigade, enveloping any and all in its widespread, opaque arms. Unconsciously pulling my green canvas jacket tighter about me, I headed for the shelter of the car.
I recrossed the Magnolia Bridge and slid north on Fifteenth, toward Ballard, Seattle's Scandinavian enclave. Fighting the car windows back up just in time to dart across both lanes and jump off on the Nickerson exit. Running purely on memory, I wound right, up Emerson, then through the tricky chicane down toward Fisherman's Terminal. Memory failed to suffice as I pulled into the crowded lot. What had once been a greasy spoon and a bait shop had, I supposed predictably, evolved into a fair-sized shopping center and restaurant complex. An art gallery— "Afishionado." Cute. The Wild Salmon Fish Market. A café.
I felt older than my father by the time I wove my way through the commercial claptrap to the Fisherman's Memorial. I'd read about it, but never seen it before. Twin granite blocks, rough on top, framed a central obelisk. The plaque on the right held the dedication—1988.
Dedicated to the men, women, their families and the members of the fishing community who have suffered the loss of life at sea.
On the left, the names. From the turn of the century to the present. Better than five hundred, I estimated. The central granite column was decorated at the bottom with an encasing bronze fish ensemble: a prominently whiskered sturgeon winked benignly at the tourists, while at the top stood the mythic fisherman, seeming even harder and more weathered than the dull metal of his body, inexplicably facing landward as he pulled his resisting bounty from the sea.
The last of the day's tourists hurried toward warmth as I threaded my way down to Dock 7. A maze of masts, booms, supports, antennae, and cables multisected the backdrop into crazed segments, thin against the sky like the lifeless remains of a drowned forest. As I stepped out onto the stout timbers, I felt strangely unbalanced and began walking gingerly as if on the high wire, hoping that no one would notice my discomfort. I could make out the Lady Day's black transom a third of the way down. I eased cautiously down the dock, staying in the middle, feeling the ominous presence of the black water in spite of having five feet to spare on either side.
Berthed now among less impressive craft, some of which were converted pleasure boats, the Lady Day seemed larger than I remembered. Signs of recent work were everywhere. A fresh coat of black covered everything in sight. Four fancy, rectangular crab lights had been mounted halfway up the rigging. Brand-new, bright orange balloon floats hung from the sides, protecting the freshly painted hull. The skiff was tied off on the port bow, making room for the massive purse net that lay heaped in the stern like some captured beast.
Working outward from the boat, I began to look for signs of life along the dock. Out of season, and late in the afternoon, most of the boats were buttoned up tight. Every third craft or so had a For Sale by Owner sign.
Six berths down from the Lady, I came upon another Limit Seiner—the Haida Queen, Ketchikan, Alaska, docked bow in, two crew members straining mightily in opposing directions on a pair of pipe wrenches as they struggled to break loose the threads on a piece of corroded plumbing. The older of the two, gap-toothed,'his matted hair held in place by a red bandanna, explained that they were down in the lower forty-eight only for repairs and knew nothing from nothing. The younger guy, his right eye reduced to a slit by an enormous purple bruise, kept his mouth shut and his one working eye glued on Red Bandanna.
At the far end, out where the dock forms a long T, two yellow-clad figures—a guy and what must have been his son—meticulously wound miles of mended mono-filament onto the gill net drum. Struggling to keep my feet clear of the rapidly disappearing net, I spent five minutes dancing the Highland fling, ascertaining that, as near as I could tell, neither of these two se habla'd any known Indo-European language.
I'd worked my way halfway back on the other side before I spotted an open hatch on Ocean Spirit, a green-and-white wooden forty-five footer in serious need of work. Checking the deserted dock, I followed boat etiquette and lustily called out to those on board. The two net winders stopped what they were doing and gawked, but there was no response from aboard the Ocean Spirit. When further halfhearted shouts got no results, I stepped on board and found an older guy in a short-brimmed black cap and greasy striped overalls sitting on the top step staring
glumly as a pair of electricians worked below-decks.
"I yelled," I said when he looked my way. "I heard ya."
"I was wondering if you had a minute."
"With these two sons a bitches"—he poked a thick finger down below—"a minute's worth about sixty bucks. If I could find any experienced hands, I'd do it myself. These bloodsuckers—" He interrupted his tirade. "Wadda you want?"
"I'm working for the Sundstroms."
He marinated this message for a minute.
"Damn shame about those kids," he said finally.
"I'm trying to get a line on some young girl who's been hanging around the terminal for the last couple of months."
He rose from his perch, dusting off his palms. He was even wider standing up. He closed most of the distance between us.
"You said you were working for Henry Sundstrom?"
"I am."
"He knows you're down here, then?" I told him about Heck. The bad news seemed to relax him.
"You know Henry was down here a few weeks back,
asking about the same thing." When I didn't respond,
he continued. "I'll tell you the same thing I told
Henry. I usually don't pay no attention to the wharf
rats. They come; they go. They're all the same to me.
Most of 'em ain't worth salt. But little Norma, her I
remember. Never seemed to have enough clothes on,
always shivering, walking around hugging herself,
little nipples looking like they was gonna poke a hole
in her shirt."
He waved her memory away.
"Not enough sense, to get in out of the cold, if you ask me."
"Seen her lately?" "Nope."
He quickly poked his head down the hatch.
"You don't need to replace all that, Abdullah—just redo the connections and junctions and then use the old cable."
"No meet code," came the response.
"Son of a bitch," he fumed. "Got all these damn codes made up by hummers downtown who ain't never sailed anything more than a goddamn rubber ducky. Stuffs so damned complicated it's gotta be installed by an engineer, none of who I understand a friggin' word they're say in'. How the hell do they expect us to stay in business? How in hell do they—"
He ran through a number of rhetorical queries as he raved, waving his stubby arms. When he cooled down, he remembered I was there.
"Go see old Wendy on the Biscuit."
"The what?"
"The Biscuit. It's an old tub out on Dock 10. Low number, one or maybe one-A. Way the hell out the end, anyway. Ask Wendy about the girl, she'll know. She's kinda like the den mother hereabouts. What-ever's goin' on around here, she'd know about."
He directed a stage whisper down the hatch.
"She may not be an engineer, but at least she speaks the goddamn language."
Momentarily satisfied, he turned back to me.
"I shoulda thought of her when Henry asked me, but I was too busy watching my life savings disappear." He checked the sky. "Better hurry, she goes home before dark."
He dismissed me with a pat on the shoulder, turning away. A torrent of gripes and grouses preceded his b
road back down the stairs.
"Goddamn it, fellas—"
The Biscuit was more like a dumpling. a congealed mass of water-soaked dough bobbing listlessly among the flotsam, seemingly held together only by forty coats of white paint. A single bulb glowed yellow in the front window. I banged on the hull with the heel of my hand.
My legendary record for anticipating women remained unblemished. I'd expected something salty, maybe a maritime version of Mammy Yokum. Trim and elegant, she was more like Celeste Holm than Granny Clampett. Her long gray hair in a French braid, she was immaculately clad in a yellow cardigan with wildflowers embroidered on the yoke, freshly pressed jeans, and matching blue Keds. She hopped nimbly out onto the dock.
"Yes?" she said, smiling.
"Are you Wendy?"
"I am. Wendy Kroll. How can I help you?"
"I'm trying to get a line on a young girl who's been hanging around the terminal for the past few weeks. Her name—"
"Norma?" she anticipated me.
"I think so."
"Oh Lord, what happened to that poor thing now?" "You haven't seen her lately then?" "I've been worried to death." "Any particular reason?" She mulled the question over. "I'm afraid Norma just may be one of life's victims, Mr.—" "Waterman. How so?"
"That poor child wasn't all there, Mr. Waterman, Nowadays they don't call it retarded any more. I don't know what the current term is. You had to talk to her for a while to see it. On the outside, she seemed fine. Always happy and smiling. She made a little money running errands, doing odd jobs. Folks kind of felt sorry for her, invented things for her to do. If you
caught her at the right moment, though, or brought up the right subject, this blank look would come into her eyes. She'd go off somewhere by herself and you could see that she just wasn't all there."
"Any idea what her last name was?"
"Whatever."
She saw my confusion.
"I swear that's what she always said. Whatever. Whenever I'd ask her,' she'd say, 'Whatever. Norma Whatever.' And then she'd laugh and laugh like it was the greatest joke in the world."
"When was the last time you saw her?"
"It was about two weeks after—" She pursed her lips. I waited.
"It wasn't Norma's fault, Mr. Waterman. She was just eager to please. It was that animal. He's the one who should have known better. I wanted to call the authorities, but Norma kept saying it was her fault. All her fault, my fanny," she sputtered.
"What happened?"
When thoroughly confused, ask general questions.
"I made my usual stop at the ladies' room in the terminal office on my way down to the Biscuit. So I won't have to go back before lunch." She gestured toward the boat. "The Biscuit doesn't have a head. She was more of a hobby for my Marty. That's . . . was my husband. Forty-four years. I come down every day to do maintenance. You'd be surprised how much needs to be done on an old scow like this. It's nice and quiet down here, too," she added as an afterthought.
Putting an index finger to her lips, she looked back at the Biscuit with new eyes. "You know, it's funny, Mr. Waterman. I never used to like it down here. It always seemed so cold and damp to me. But now somehow I can feel more of Marty here than anywhere else. I think it's because he sr ent so much
time here in those last years before ..." She looked back to me, surprised, as if I'd been the one speaking.
"Listen to me prattle on. A sign of old age, I'm afraid. Anyway, I heard this sobbing from inside the ladies' room. The door wasn't even locked. There was that poor child sitting there, pants down around her ankles, just bleeding up a storm. At first I thought she had, you know—" I indicated that I did. "But then I could see that it was more than that. She was hurt."
"And?"
"I took her right to my doctor. She didn't want to go, but I insisted. I practically had to drag her." I waited. "She'd been used terribly, Mr. Waterman. She was just raw everywhere down there. Dr. Conger wanted to call the authorities, but Norma simply wouldn't hear of it. Kept saying it was all her fault. That she'd gone on board with him willingly. Dr. Conger said there was no way we could press charges without Norma's testimony,"
She leaned closer, whispering.
"Doctor also said it wasn't the first time, either. Said she was terribly scarred down there. Internally."
"Any idea who—"
"I know exactly who. Norma told me. And don't think I didn't let him hear about it. You know what that pig did, Mr. Waterman? He laughed in my face. Called me a dried-up old hag and laughed in my face. Put me off the boat."
"Which boat?"
"The Haida Queen, It's over on—" "I know the boat."
I described my earlier encounter with the two, deckhands.
"Not those two. They're just the hired help. Buster is his name. He's the mate. He doesn't do anything.
Just sleeps all day while the other two work. A big ox. No, a pig."
"Approximately when was this?"
"I can tell you exactly. I just got the doctor's bill the other day."
She skipped back on board, went below, and reappeared with a white business envelope.
"Tuesday, September twenty-sixth," she said after extracting the contents. "So this happened the night before, the twenty-fifth."
"And you haven't seen her since about two weeks after that?"
"That's right. I'm sure of the time because I brought her a sandwich every day for lunch after that. She came over every day at noontime. We talked. She hardly ate. Always fed most of her sandwich to the gulls. I gave her Marty's old red Pendleton coat to wear. Then"—she shrugged— "one day, she didn't come any more. I've been quite concerned."
"Any idea where she came from?"
"Up north. That's all she'd say. Up north."
"That covers quite a bit of ground."
"I guess it does. But Norma had a way of not answering questions."
"Did she share anything else personal?"
"She said she'd recently found her momma and that her momma was better now and had a real important job. She also said that a ship was coming to take them all to the promised land."
"You have any idea what she meant by that?" I asked.
"Just what she said, I guess. That she'd seen her mother and they were all going away on a ship." "Nothing more specific?" "Norma tended to be a bit vague." I was beginning to feel rather vague myself.
"Did she live down here somewhere?"
"Oh, no. There's no living on board anymore. She had a room in the city. Rode the Metro bus down here every morning."
"Any idea where in the city?"
She shook her head. "You might ask that pig, Buster. Norma said he drove her home . . . afterward. A real gentleman, that Buster."
She drew the collar of her sweater close around her throat.
"You wouldn't by chance have a picture of her?" She shook her head sadly.
"Any obvious identifying marks?" I asked, trying not to lead her.
"Just that big smile," she said wistfully.
I collected a full description, wrote it in my notebook.
"Thanks," I said.
"You will let me know if you find out anything, won't you? I've been so concerned about her."
I said I would. It was a lie. I'd come back only if the news was good, and with the Norma's of this world, the news was never good.
Red Bandanna and Shiner had wrestled the pipe apart and were in the process of installing new stainless steel fittings.
"Buster around?" I asked.
"Told you, we don't know nothing about no girl," Bandanna said.
"Mind if I ask Buster personally?"
"No, but Buster sure as hell will," he smirked.
"Why don't you rustle him up, and we'll ask him."
"Listen Bub, you don't want no parta Buster. On a good day he's mean as a shark, and right now he's sleeping one off. I was you, I'd get up the road. He gave Rob here that eye for just whuppin' him at pool last night. Do yourself a big favor and take a h
ike."
"Still need to talk to Buster, I'm afraid."
The picket-fence smirk got bigger.
"Afraid's what you oughta be. But since you ain't, you just stay right there. I'll fetch him for you. I surely will. Don't go anywhere now."
Bandanna headed below decks. Shiner fixed me with his one good eye. "Mister," he said.
I looked up. He underhanded the pipe wrench my way. End over end. I stepped back and let it hit the dock at my feet, then retrieved it, stashing it in my jacket pocket, handle out.
Bandanna reappeared. His yellow teeth jack-o'-lanterned as he eased back against the rail, lighting a cigarette, folding his arms. Might as well get comfortable for the show.
Buster burst out of the hatch, his head swiveling to find me. Moving quickly around the skiff in my direction, he exhibited amazing dexterity for a man of such proportions as he stepped deftly over a maze of pipe, wire, and fittings. Wendy Kroll had been wrong. Buster was neither an ox nor a pig. Buster was a buffalo. One of those genetically obese men whose fifty-pound layer of fat belied the two hundred pounds of rock-hard muscle beneath. The chilli-bowl haircut and ruddy cheeks lent almost a cherubic quality to his face, as long as you didn't look at the eyes. Squeezed nearly shut by his cheeks, red with sleep and alcohol, his eyes showed all the humanity of rusted ball bearings.
Insisting on an audience with Buster had been a major miscalculation. Pumping adrenaline began to give me that lighter-than-air feeling. I cured my stupidity and reckoned how having such an easy time with the Bo Peeps and Chippers of this world must have given me delusions of grandeur ... I should have known better.
I silently thanked the kid for the comforting weight of the wrench tugging at my pocket. My reading of Buster said that, without the wrench and the element of surprise, my best chance would probably be to assume the fetal position and hope that Buster either lost interest or ran out of gas sometime before he pureed my kidneys. While the prospect of hitting another human being with a four-pound pipe wrench was repugnant to me, this alternative was even less attractive. I took a firm grip on the handle.
Buster hit the dock at a lope. The front panel of his bib overalls hung down in front, the buckles banging off his massive thighs. No shoes. Curled yellow toenails. I spread my feet for balance. Unless I was mistaken, Buster was going to turn out to be a man of few words; there wasn't going to be any prefight chitchat.
