by G. M. Ford
I went back to poking around in the remnants of my beloved Fiat when wild laughter erupted from the rear. Earlene, Mary, and Billy-Bob all hid their beads when I turned around.
"Something funny?" I asked.
If it wasn't before, it was now. The three of them burst into beer-spewing torrents of laughter. Billy-Bob lurched over to me again, jabbed a stubby finger at Heck's bag, and then rushed over to whisper into the Speaker's ear. It must have been a doozy. Even the Speaker cracked a smile.
"What? What?" I shouted. "Somebody want to clue me in here or what."
No go. All this produced was more mirth. George missed again.
"Hey, hey," he groused. "How in hell are we supposed to concentrate here?"
The Speaker leaned over and whispered in his ear. George looked my way, leaned his cue against the wall, and walked over.
"They think you're a pervert."
"Why's that?"
"The bag."
I held up the white plastic bag.
"No, the other one. The green one."
I put my finger on it. "This one?"
From across the way, Billy-Bob howled, "Spikee butt plug." The three of them dissolved into a drunken rugby scrum.
"It's from that pervo shop on First Avenue, you know, the one with all the rubber gear on display." He tapped the bag. "See the chains?"
"I thought they were like interlocking rings, you know, like the Olympic symbol."
"Leo been a baaaaad boy," cooed Earlene. Predictably, this produced another round of hysterics.
"Naw. They're chains. They got their windows lined with the same paper. It's like their logo. We all walked past it twenty times a day when we was lookin' for that girl."
"I have to make a call," I said, digging in my pocket for change. "Get the fellas and meet me at the house."
30
One of the twins answered the phone. "Flood residence."
"Mr. Ortega, please."
"Your name?" .
"Leo Waterman."
"Hold on."
Frankie took his sweetass time. "Yeah." "Frankie, it's Leo." "Tell me something I don't know." "I need a favor."
"What makes you think you got one coming?"
"That's for Tim to decide, I guess."
I heard him sigh. "Hold on," he said.
Tim Flood and my old man had started out together working as labor organizers for Dave Beck and the Teamsters. My father had parlayed his local notoriety into eleven terms on the Seattle city council. Tim had gone in another direction. He'd used his Teamster connections to become the Northwest's biggest and most successful fence. Like any good conglomerate, Tim had branched out. If Seattle had anything that could be termed organized crime, Tim was it. These days he was mostly legitimate. Mostly. Old habits die hard.
Last year, I'd bailed Tim's granddaughter, Caroline Nobel, out of a mess. I was hoping he still felt grateful.
Frankie Ortega had worked for Tim Flood for as long as I could remember. Tim liked to call Frankie his arranger. If you got behind in your payments to Tim, Frankie arranged for your furniture to disappear. If you still didn't get your vig paid on time, Frankie arranged some sort of colorful maiming. A broken arm, something like that. Nothing too serious. Nothing fatal. The dead can't pay.
He was back. "So what do you need?"
I told him.
"That shithole belongs to Pinky Taylor. He's got this nephew of his, Marty something, running it. Marty's an asshole of the first order. You're right. They ain't gonna tell you shit. Most likely they'd hit you up for some change, feed you a bunch of crap, then try to sell your ass to whoever it is you're looking for some more. That's how they operate."
"That's what I figured. You think you can convince him?"
"I said he was dumb fuck, Leo. I didn't say nothing about him being suicidal."
Point made, he changed the subject.
"You know, the kid's doing good. She enrolled at the Evergreen State College this year."
"Great."
"Still got that ecology bug up her chimney, though. Tim's got us recycling, for chrissakes."
"Responsible citizenship," I said.
This got what passed for a laugh from Frankie Ortega.
"Yeah, that's right. Okay, Leo. Tim figures we owe you one. You be there at seven-thirty. You're gonna want to get right in there after we leave, while Marty's still got the fear of God in him. He's a dumb fuck. You give him some time to sit around and think about it, he's gonna get stupid again."
"I'll be there."
At seven-thirty sharp, Frankie and the twins came marching up Pike Street, under the red, blinking LOANS sign, parting the regular citizens like a plow through a spring field. Whoever had invented the business suit had never intended it to cover anything as large as the twins. If you'd never seem them in action, their blocky bulk, combined with their remarkably splayfooted stride, could have been comic. If you'd seen them work, suppressing a smile was easy.
All hundred and sixty pounds of Frankie Ortega was resplendent in a light yellow suit, white tie, brown-and-white two-tone shoes. He left one of the twins outside while he and the other went in. As he stepped through the entrance, Frankie flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED.
The place was called the Pleasure Palace. It had occupied this corner of Second and Pike since sometime back in the sixties, a leftover from the sexual revolution. Upstairs they offered peep shows and movie booths. Downstairs it was books, magazines, and equipment. Two mannequins in full rubber gear cavorted in the front window. They were having a handcuff sale. This week only.
George, Ralph, Harold, and I were waiting across the street in front of the Drug Emporium.
"So, what are you guys gonna do when the city takes the house?" I asked casually.
"Big Frank says they got some rooms on his floor down at the Franklin Hotel," offered Harold. "We was thinkin' of movin' in there."
"That way, we could stay together," Ralph said.
"Who else would put up with you two?" George asked.
The door of the Pleasure Palace burst open. A customer, horn-rimmed glasses, was suddenly propelled sideways out the door. He stood blinking on the sidewalk. A green sport coat sailed out the door onto the sidewalk. He picked it up. For a moment, the guy thought about rushing back inside. Then he looked to his right. The sight of the outdoor twin glowering at him was all the motivation he needed to get moving up the street.
The other four customers came out in a knot. All middle-aged white men, they came stumbling out into the street looking dazed. I was watching a little bald guy trying to dislodge his shirttail from his zipper when Harold piped up. "Hey, Leo," he said. "Ain't you related to the guy in the blue suit?"
I shifted my attention to the guy in question. Cousin Paul stood on Second Avenue adjusting his tie. I started across the street. As I approached from the rear, he turned to leave and ran smack into me.
"Howdy cuz," I said. "The businessman's lunch? What's your office—three, maybe four blocks from here? You do this often?"
He was dumbfounded. "Oh . .. Leo . . . I—you— I—it's not what it seems. I—"
I patted his shoulder. "It never is, cuz. It never is."
George's voice came from behind me. "Should we check him, Leo? See if his shorts are on backward?" The crew yukked it up.
Horrified, Paul took me by the shoulder and pulled me aside.
"Now, Leo, you wouldn't, you know how Nancy is—"
"My lips are sealed," I promised with a big grin.
"Come on now, Leo. This isn't funny."
"I'll cut you a deal, Paul. You forget about lunch on Wednesday and all that trust fund shit, and I'll forget about this. How's that?"
His relief was palpable. "You mean it?"
Before I could answer, Frankie and the indoor twin were coming out the door of the Pleasure Palace.
"Duty calls," I said to Paul.
Frankie twitched his perfect little moustache at me
and followed the twins bac
k up Pike. I grabbed the sticky door handle and went inside.
Tony Moldonado would have loved the place. The right-hand wall was dedicated to books and magazines. As nearly as I could tell, no fetish was left unaccounted for. Standup racks ran down the center of the store. Videos of all types adorned the racks. Dickman and Throbbin'. When the West Was Wet. Rumped and Dumped. California Reamin'. Romancing the Bone. Call Me Fido. Jesus.
An orange beaded curtain at the back of the store partially obscured the way upstairs. A long, high counter ran along the left side of the store. Behind the counter, under the wide, watchful eyes of Juanita the Inflatable Senorita, was the equipment collection. Full executioner garb, restraints, gags, hoods, ropes, sprockets, gears, pulleys, studded bustiers, a museum-quality assortment of faux appendages in a variety of textures, styles, shapes, and colors, many of truly epic proportions, some conveniently built for two, others, as the yellowed sign suggested, "for those hard-to-reach areas." Had I but known what I was missing.
Marty sat behind the counter, his head cradled in his hands. His forehead was beginning to puff and turn purple. The back of his greasy hair stood straight out as if someone had grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed his forehead onto the counter several times. I pushed both pictures under his pitted face.
"You know them?" I asked.
"What the fuck's the matter with you?" he whined. "You didn't have to send those animals in here. All you had to do was ask."
"Yeah. I'm sure you would have been anxious to help."
"Hey, man, I told the other guy. Ain't my fault the dumb fuck walks out and gets his big dumb ass run over."
I hustled down the counter, the lock on the gate was already shattered. I burst through it, ran up the three steps, and started toward Marty, who had evacuated his seat and was cowering against a wall covered with studded dog collars. "Hey. Hey." He held his hands in front of him. "Hey. Hey, man."
"That dumb fuck was a friend of mine," I said quietly.
"Sorry. Okay? Sorry."
"How much did you beat him for?"
"Hey man, I didn't—"
I stepped on his right foot, which instinctively brought his bands down, then punched him in the forehead. He slid down the wall, dragging several leashes and collars down into his lap. The impact shook Jaunita loose from her moorings. She fluttered down from the ceiling, her rubicund apertures coming to rest astride Marty's shoulders.
"How much?" I repeated.
"Five hundred bucks," he whispered up from the floor. "The pictures."
"Yeah. Yeah. I seen 'em both. Him just .once. Her a bunch of times. They was mostly mail order, though." I stepped back to give him room. "The address."
Keeping his eyes on me at all times, he clawed himself to his feet and pulled a small black metal box out from under the counter. He picked through the cards, finally pulling one half-way out. I reached over and pulled it free. "Thanks," I said. Flat on her back now, Juanita seemed to be whistling.
I read the address. I should have known.
31
The interior Of the house was dark, illuminated only by the glowing light switches that flickered from within the darkness like the narrow eyes of forest creatures. I pushed the doorbell. Nothing. I tried again, this time longer. A momentary change in the scant light suggested movement in the back of the house. I knocked.
After a moment, I could feel her presence behind the door. "Mrs. Swogger, it's Leo Waterman," I said. Nothing. "From Seattle. I spoke to you and your husband a while back."
"I remember."
"I know it's kind of late, but I'd like to have a word with you."
"My husband isn't home."
"That's okay. It's you I wanted to talk to."
I thought I heard her breathe. "Please," she said. "You'll have to come back when my husband is at home."
"If I could just have a few words with you—"
"Please," was all she said.
"He's never home when she's around, is he?"
Her next breath I heard for sure. "I don't. .. please don't."
"Help me stop her," I said.
I had my left hand on the front of the house, so I could feel her lean heavily against the wall. "You
don't have to live with this," I said. "Nobody should have to put up with this."
Any response was obliterated by the deep booming of bass notes as a black Mazda pickup truck, windows tinted solid black, its frame nearly dragging the ground, rounded the corner immediately to the north and cruised slowly down the street, away from where I stood. I shifted my weight from foot to foot as I watched the purple taillights recede. The lights disappeared around the corner. I listened as the booming bass notes spread their sonic ripples in ever more distant circles, finally giving way to the rushing sound of the wind high in the fir trees.
I was about to speak again when a rattling chain from inside stopped me. The door opened a foot. Her eyes were wide. Her long hair was unbraided, hanging loose about her like a prayer shawl. She clutched a white terrycloth bathrobe hard at the neck.
"Please go," she said through the crack.
"I can't."
"He's my husband." "Not when she's around." She nodded at the floor. "Where are they?" I asked.
She shook her head slowly. "You mustn't judge him by this, Mr. Waterman. He has needs . . . he . . . he's done so much good."
"I'm sure he has."
"He just can't break free. She .. . she won't—" "She never lets anything go. With her, nobody gets out alive."
Katherine Swogger's eyes were full now. She released the door and stepped back into the room. I followed her in, closing the door behind me. I reached over and switched on the floor lamp to the right of the door. Her face was all lines and shadows and sorrow. These weren't her first tears of the evening. She turned her back on me. We stood that way for a long time.
The furnace kicked on, sending warm air up my right pant leg. I moved oif the heat register, across the room, intending to put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"Don't," she said, before I got there.
"How long?" I said. "How long are you going to let this thing tear your life apart? It's time for it to stop. Help me, and I'll stop it."
"God, how I've wanted to. They wouldn't let me stop," she said in a very small voice. "They made me . . . do . . . things. Things I—"
"Her father got what he deserved. It's time the rest of them paid."
She gave me a dismissive wave of her hand. "Wayne Hasu had nothing to do with it. He was just a fool. It was always Claire. Claire's a monster. He was going to the police. She—" She stopped, shaking her head in some silent conversation. "Never mind."
"Tell me where they are."
"I can't."
"You know Claire's loose, don't you?" Her eyes opened wide. "No. You're lying. How can that be?"
"It's a long story. Trust me. Terra managed it. Wherever Terra and your husband are, she's there too."
She turned away again, flexing her toes in the carpet, tugging at her twisted lower lip. "Oh God," she said. "I can't stand the thought that she's there watching, giving directions."
"Don't you ever get tired of being a victim? How can you sit here while your husband is out doing God knows what with her?"
She turned back toward me now, squaring her shoulders, pulling the hair out of her face. I thought for a moment she was going to strike out at me. "Better with her than with me," she said.
"It needs to stop," I said again. "It has to stop for him too." "I can't."
"Right now, as far as the law is concerned, the worst your husband is looking at is harboring a fugitive, and that's only if they can prove he knew she was on the run."
"She called him last night."
"You listen in, don't you?"
"If you want to survive, it's a habit you learn."
"I wondered how come you were surprised I was there with your husband, but at the same time seemed to have the tea set up for three."
"You're not ly
ing to me. Claire is out."
"I swear," I said. "Just about every police department in the Northwest is looking for them right now. It's just a matter of time. This is the only chance you're going to get. Do the right thing here, and you can buy a lot of goodwill for your husband."
She thought it over.
"I have to be there," she said after a minute.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"I think so. I need to see this end." .
"Where are they?" I said again.
She told me.
"I need to use the phone." "In the kitchen." "It'll be all right," I said lamely. "No, it won't," she said.
32
The high breeze had worked its way down to ground level, pulling with it a thin, insistent rain that swirled unpredictably up sleeves and down shirtfronts. Katherine Swogger, Marge Sundstrom, and I had been standing in the meager shelter of a barren oak tree across the street from the duplex for the better part of an hour when the Statie with the stripes crossed the street to us.
His plastic hat cover had collected a pint of water, which rolled off the wide brim as he walked. "The warrants are in order," he announced.
I felt Katherine shudder on my left. The cop addressed himself to her.
The duplex was a shabby prefab affair, mirror images, left and right. Looked like two bedrooms and maybe a loft. Brown plywood siding, three concrete steps leading up to bright yellow doors. Wrought-iron railings. Both units were dark behind heavy curtains.
"The church owns both units?"
"Yes," she said. "They're used sometimes as safe houses for battered women. Sometimes as temporary shelter for homeless families."
Behind him, two black-clad entry teams moved into position in front, while two more quickstepped around back. Each team carried a heavy fabricated battering ram up the short flight of steps that separated the front doors from the street. "I'm way out of
line letting the three of you be here," he said. "Anything breaks down, Waterman, you get these ladies the hell out of the way in a New York minute, you got it?" I said I did.
He turned to leave. Katherine Swogger reached out and put a hand on his arm. "Please, officer," she said. "Don't hurt him,"
