Cast in Stone

by G. M. Ford

  "I'll keep that in mind. How about it?"

  "I've got about another hour here," she sighed.

  "I'll pick you up at eight."

  "Sounds good. Where?"

  "No idea. You choose," I said. "Pasta?"

  "No pasta. I've been doing brain sections all day." She thought about it for a moment. "Let's try the Blob. We threaten to stop every time we drive by. Let's finally do it. Hillary said it was surprisingly pleasant inside."

  "This is the same Hillary who epoxied six kinds of macaroni to her apartment walls and then painted over it. Random texture, I believe she called it."

  "Don't start, Leo. She says the interior decor is nice."

  "Okay, okay. Sure, what the hell. Eight."

  "Eight-thirty. And Leo—if you can manage to be less than totally obnoxious, you may get to pick more than my brain. Mom's out of town for the next couple of weeks."

  "Should I consider this to be an offer?" I asked. "You should, at best, consider that to be a possibility, and wear your new clothes." "What for, I—"

  "Remote possibility," she amended before she hung up.

  As was the case with nearly any event, including such things as sunrise, the upcoming search for Norma had proved sufficient occasion for a drink. The Boys passed a bottle of peach schnapps around as they formulated battle plans. If they noticed my departure, they didn't let on.

  7

  I'm Sure at one time it must have had a name, some proper noun to lend substance to the otherwise-ethereal concept floating about the mind of its creator. The Casbah, maybe. Or Shangri-la. Something Eastern and whimsical. Everybody I knew always just referred to it as the Blob.

  Just as every family must have its black sheep, every city must have its architectural monstrosity. This was Seattle's. Somewhere out there, laboring long into the night at some menial task, was the defrocked city employee who'd allowed this to happen. Permits had been granted; inspections had been passed; and, in the end, heads had most surely rolled.

  Attached like a tick to the base of Queen Anne Hill, it looked like a resort swimming pool turned upside down. The white two-story structure meandered aimlessly over nearly half a block. Shapeless, formless, a series of stark stucco humps, bumps, and mounds, punctuated here and there by small porthole-like windows, it was seemingly the product of chance rather than design. Frank Lloyd Wrong on acid.

  The attached lot was half full when Rebecca and I pulled in a little after eight-thirty. For a town where, on a Friday night, you needed a reservation at a Denny's if you wanted to avoid a half-hour wait, this was by no means an encouraging sign.

  "Funny, but I don't see Hillary's car anywhere," I said as I opened the car door and helped Rebecca out.

  Rebecca tried to change the subject.

  "You look great. Is this the first time you've worn it?"

  The it to which she so casually referred was my new Sunday-go-to-meeting suit. Back in August, after months of complaining about my unimaginative taste in clothes, Rebecca had dragged me to the downtown Nordstrom for a complete refitting. The result had been a navy double-breasted Joseph Abboud blazer, a pair of taupe Corbin trousers with a highly mysterious reverse pleat, a John W. Nordstrom Signature Series dress shirt with a Manhattan collar and French cuffs, into which I could fit my new fourteen-carat gold Haan cufflinks, a burgundy-ground woven Facconable tie, and a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo loafers into which I could slip my cashmere-socked feet. It was a hell of a deal. For little more than three months rent and utilities, I was now the proud owner of a completely coordinated ensemble that, until tonight, I had been far too intimidated to wear.

  "Too bad Hillary's not here to see it."

  "Hillary's away this weekend at a Vedic astrology seminar."

  "Of course." I tapped my forehead. "How could I have forgotten?"

  "Hillary's very artistic."

  "Do you by chance remember the last restaurant she recommended?"

  "You mean that—"

  "Right. Up in Wallingford."

  "It was called 'Healthy Pleasures,' as I remember."

  "What I remember most was how my jaws eventually went into vapor lock from the chewing."

  "Roughage is good for you."

  "If you ate at that place twice a week, you could pass wicker furniture."

  "Stop it, Leo. If you don't want to eat here—"

  I stopped. With Mom out of town, I wasn't about to be drawn further into another round of the great Hillary debate. Hillary was Rebecca's childhood friend, who since her most recent divorce had rocketed into the New Age. Each new week brought a fresh incarnation of Hillary. Hakomi therapy, rebirthing, Rolling, Voice Dialogue, Wildwoman workshops, hypnotherapy. You name it, Hillary was spending Bill's money on it. I'd always figured that a woman who was working so hard at finding herself could at least have the common decency to first get lost.

  Using Rebecca's elbow for leverage, I mumbled an apology and steered her toward the nearest ground-level swirl, which I presumed to be the entrance. I pulled open the ornately steel-strapped door and followed Rebecca in.

  The interior was a pleasant surprise. Red terracotta tiles led off in all directions. Here and there the walls had been professionally painted with grape arbors, palm trees, and desert scenes. A series of cleverly placed dividers had been used to divide the hodgepodge interior into a series of connected but intimate dining areas.

  The reservations kiosk was personed by a swarthy guy with a Zapata mustache. His black hair gleamed. He looked like the short dark half of Hall and Oates. I'd never gotten them straight. He was wearing a stiff formal shirt with a pattern woven in, no collar.

  "Two?" he asked.

  I looked around. We were alone in the lobby. "Two," I confirmed. "You hab reservations?" "Yes, but we're going to eat here anyway." Smiling broadly, Duvall hip-checked me. "Smoking or nonsmoking?" Guys I knew had enlisted with fewer questions than this.

  "Nonsmoking, please."

  He came out from behind his pulpit.

  "Right this way," he said with an elaborate flourish.

  His black pants were too tight. The little black zip up boots replete with four-inch Cuban heels made him wobble as if on ice skates. He led us on a circuitous path through most of the sparsely peopled restaurant, finally coming to a halt at an isolated little table in the back bar.

  Either he'd taken offense at my reservations joke or these people were taking the concept of a nonsmoking section to a whole new level. With its stunning view of the back wall, this table would have been perfect for Bartleby the Scrivener. I, on the other hand, had been thrown into better places.

  Figuring I'd used up my obnoxious coupons picking on Hillary, I was, however, prepared to be agreeable about it.

  "I think you better handle this," I whispered to Rebecca. "I seem to be having one of those days."

  Duvall could always be counted on in a pinch. Like myself, she dined out alone quite a bit. Astute single diners quickly come to realize that table allocation is a highly relative business. Left to their own devices, headwaiters will generally try to make it seem as if they've been holding this lovely table next to the garbage chute just for you.

  Without a word, she turned on her heel and went back into the main dining area. "How about this one?" she asked as nicely as possible, indicating a table beneath the northernmost porthole.

  "You would be very happy with this table," our host reiterated, gesturing back toward the isolation chamber. "Is no smoking."

  "We would definitely be happier with this one. We'll take our chances with the smoking," she said firmly.

  He wasn't a bit happy about it, but for want of an alternative, went along with the program.

  Before he could skate off, we ordered cocktails. An unblended Margarita, no salt, for Duvall, a Jack Black on the rocks for me.

  "I don't think he liked you," she said.

  "Today, he'll have to take a number."

  I quickly changed the subject.

  "Is this your mom's yea
rly pilgrimage down to her sister's?"

  "Two fabulous weeks with Aunt Rhetta in beautiful Lincoln City," she confirmed. "I put her on the bus this morning."

  "Didn't say she was never going back down there?" I asked.

  "That happens every year. They'll be threatening to murder one another by Wednesday. As I understand it, it's all part of being sisters."

  Rebecca was an only child, the product of an alcoholic, short-lived relationship between her Mom, Letha, and an abusive merchant marine. Throughout grammar school, Rebecca had always been the ragged little girl who knew the answers to everything but wasn't a pain in the ass about it. Her mother had worked three jobs to get Rebecca through medical school. As if in penance, Rebecca had never married, choosing instead to see her mother through old age. Letha, for her part, was taking full advantage of the fealty. She was older than mud but healthy as a horse.

  "What did you want to pick my brain about?" Rebecca asked.

  "Nick Sundstrom."

  "Are you sure, Leo? Before dinner? You tend to get a bit queasy."

  "Nothing graphic. Just the basics."

  "What's it to you?" she asked.

  I told her about it. Rebecca listened in such a way that I always felt I was the only one on her desert island at that moment. When I'd finished, she reached over and patted the back of my hand as it rested on my glass.

  "I remember when you got fired from the boat. You were so sad. It was like somebody shot your dog. Except you didn't have a dog."

  "I wanted one, though."

  "I know you did," she sympathized.

  As if on cue, our drinks arrived. We sipped and twirled. Rebecca picked up the slack. "I didn't do the work personally, but I oversaw. Andy Tsukahara did the actual work, such as it was."

  "Such as it was?"

  "There wasn't much to work on. Less than ten percent of either of them. Virtually no soft tissue. What there was had been burned and contaminated by seawater. It was pretty much either dental records or throw the I Ching."

  "No doubt that it was the Sundstrom kid though."

  "None. The family had a lifetime of Rental records."

  "And the other one?"

  She shrugged.

  "Female. Under thirty. Childbearing years, but never had children. Malnourished at an early age. Between five-two and five-four, about a hundred pounds or so. A little thing."

  "How can you tell all that from so little?"

  "We recovered the pelvis. In a woman, you can tell a lot from the pelvis. Age, size, whether or not she's given birth, all of that."

  "I've always had great respect for the pelvis."

  "I know you have, Leo. It's one of the things I've always most admired about you."

  "But no way to confirm an identity on her."

  "Compared to what? Show me a history, and I'll tell you if it matches. Give me a couple of blood samples, and in two days I can tell you whether they

  were related. Give me something for comparison. With this one, we had nothing. We ran the wife's social security number through the national database and got nothing." "Nothing?"

  "Zilch. Not so much as a flu shot." "Isn't that a bit strange?"

  "Not really. The database isn't complete. Lots of rural areas aren't on-line yet. She could have just fallen thought the cracks."

  The waiter arrived with our menus. We took our time picking out a couple of esoteric Greek dishes that we thought we might be able to share.

  "What about where she worked before she got married?" I asked after the waiter had left with our order.

  "You'd have to ask the cops about that." "Fat chance," I said, downing the remains of my drink.

  Most private operatives can count on minimal support on those cases that the authorities deem to be dead ends. I, however, was the exception to this rule. My ex-wife, Annette, was presently married to Captain Harry Monroe of the SPD, who, I'd been given to understand, had issued a standing directive to the effect that anyone assisting me in any way could expect to spend long periods on the aptly named graveyard shift in South Seattle. I suspected it was probably a result of my failure to provide Annette with an appropriate warning label. As a result of Harry Monroe's unceasing efforts, my niche in the formal investigative hierarchy was only slightly lower than whale shit.

  "I'll make some calls on Monday for you, see what the boys in blue have come up with. What would you do without me, Leo?"

  I ignored her.

  "Any idea who's handling it for the police?"

  "None," she said. "They probably handled it the same way we did. Somebody junior doing the actual work, somebody senior covering their asses. The Sundstroms being as prominent as they are, SPD will want to have their ducks in a row."

  I caught the waiter's eye and ordered another round. The drinks arrived with our dinners.

  "What we need to discuss now, Mr. Waterman, is how you're going to make all this information gathering up to me."

  "You mean dinner isn't going to do it?" I asked innocently, never looking up from my plate.

  "Hardly."

  "What about my undying gratitude?"

  "That and a buck will get you on the bus."

  "Have I told you what a pretty dress that is?"

  "It's a Donna Karan."

  "Stunning."

  "Stop changing the subject."

  "No. I mean it."

  "If you play your cards right, you can wear it later."

  "Promises, promises."

  "You owe me big time."

  "I don't know if I can perform under such pressure."

  She gathered up her purse.

  "Look at it this way, Leo, you're the first live one I've seen all day."

  I mulled this over as I threw bills onto the table.

  "I'm pretty certain I can compete with the dead."

  "I love a confident man."

  8

  "I might have to agree with your mark," Carl said. "Client," I corrected.

  "Whatever," he sneered. "Either the shooter is the Stevie Wonder of point-and-shoot photography or Little Miss Tasty Trim here really didn't want to have her mug immortalized."

  His opinion tendered, he sat back and fired up a fresh Winston. Since I'd arrived a half hour ago, he'd smoked half a pack without ever stubbing one out. The glowing embers of butts smoldering in the bottom of the oily crystal ashtray could have barbecued a pork chop. A pall of dense, drifting smoke that by now filled the upper half of the small room was slipping steadily into my pores, glazing me like-carcinogenic ham.

  I fanned the air around me in a pathetic attempt to see better. Predictably, my discomfort cheered Carl considerably.

  "Smoke bothering you?" he asked.

  "Perish the thought, Carl. Not me. I try to suck up as much secondhand smoke as I can. Especially right after breakfast."

  "Tsk tsk," he chided. "Wadda you want, to live forever, Leo? You becoming one of these fucking yuppies, joggin' all the time? Livin' on nothin' but ginseng root and no-fat yogurt. Pushin' out these little turds look like rabbit pellets."

  Carl's laugh honked like an air horn.

  "Is that it, Bud? Have they finally worn you down? And here I had you figured for the last of the old-time hard-livin', hard-drinkin' Damon Runyon characters. This is quite a disappointment." He finished with an exaggerated shrug. "I guess I'll have to write it off as another blow to my already shattered idealism."

  I wasn't going to let Carl get me going. Carl liked nothing better than a good argument first thing in the morning, or any other time of the day or night for that matter. Carl Cradduck made casual conversation a contact sport—as if he were on stage, playing to the very last row, always exaggerated, larger than life, challenging the unwary to jump into the scene with him. I stayed put. If I humored him even the slightest bit, we'd be here squabbling indefinitely. No matter. He started in on me anyway.

  "And will you look at these threads," he said,

  twisting the sleeve of my blazer between his thumb

  an
d forefinger.

  'Ooooh. Nice material," he said in a thick Central European accent. He looked down at my feet and clicked his tongue again.

  "And will you get a load of the little Eye-talian ballet slippers. Gotta be three hundred if they're a fuckin' dime. And what have we got here?" He showed me his palm. "No, No. Don't tell me."

  He motored over, pulling up my pant leg, and pawed at my left sock.

  "Ho, ho, ho," he chuckled. "Really—you shouldn't have. No need to dress for me, Sherlock. Although I do appreciate the thought. We're strictly informal around here, or have you forgotten?"

  I hadn't known him when he'd had legs. I'd only met him afterward—the summer after that ill-timed Christmas dinner at his sister's. After the accident. That white instant when a couple of drunken teeny

  boppers failed to negotiate a hard left-hand turn, putting themselves under the ground and him into the chair forever.

  He'd been running a little photo lab in South Seattle when I blundered in one morning looking for an instant development job on some grounds-for-divorce shots I'd just taken over in West Seattle. His New York accent and caustic manner had quickly gotten my attention. He'd made no move to take the roll of film I'd proffered. He'd sat there in the chair and looked at the little yellow role as if I'd been trying to hand him a dog turd.

  "It's a Saturday," he'd said, as if I'd insulted him.

  "I'll pay extra," I stammered.

  "Goddamn right you will," he agreed, motoring over, snatching the film from my hand, humming toward the darkroom in the rear, leaving me to stand alone in the small deserted shop.

  My bored gaze was stopped cold by a picture high over the counter. A Vietnamese grandmother in full stride, ancient arms and legs made limber, fear-infused with sudden strength, pumping desperate for escape, a full yard from the building, connected only by the single greedy tongue of fire that now consumed both the thatched roof of the hut and the last remains of her long white hair. In that moment, as I stood in the store, the old woman's deeply furrowed face took its place among the gallery of deathbed, funeral-parlor images the I unwillingly drag behind me like the rusted remains of wrecked cars. I looked away.