Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca?

by G. M. Ford

  Chapter 6

  By Thursday morning we'd worked up a preliminary picture of how Save the Earth spent his day and were formulating a plan for getting a line on the elusive Caroline Nobel.

  The boys had been thrilled by the Buick. A Bentley couldn't have pleased them more. They'd spent a full twenty minutes kicking the tires, slapping the roof, and reminiscing about the days when Detroit made real cars like this one. I led them on a run-through of checking the oil and extracted a promise that they'd check it twice a day. I'd burned another half quart getting downtown. They'd christened it "The Drunk Tank." Buddy, by default, had been appointed designated driver.

  Last I'd seen them, Monday afternoon, Buddy, his eyes barely above the wheel, was tooling up Occidental with George riding shotgun. Harold and Ralph had appropriated the rear seat and rode facing backward like a pair of those spring-loaded hula dolls. They disappeared in a carbon monoxide fog as Buddy eased her away from the light. Tailgaters beware.

  "They're just fancy panhandlers, Leo. That's all," said Buddy. Buddy was holding down my recliner, contentedly flossing with a matchbook cover. The rest of the crew were lined up on the couch. To George's never-ending chagrin, Buddy fancied himself management. Harold and Ralph always sided with whoever was winning at the moment.

  "Those vans take them around to whatever events are going on in town. They stand out front and panhandle with those little cans they carry." He consulted his notes. "So far, we been to a couple of ball games, the Opera. They make regular rounds over at the locks and down on the waterfront."

  "How do they do?" I asked.

  "No more than twenty a day each," said George, who was deemed to be the resident on panhandling. "They're too pushy."

  "How many of them?"

  "Twelve out at a time. Two vans." Buddy again.

  "How many people live in the building?"

  "We figure twenty total. Give or take a few." Harold.

  "It's hard to tell, there's a lot of traffic in and out." George.

  "These kids all look alike to me." Ralph.

  "What they all look is dumb." Buddy.

  "Specially the hairdo on the kid who seems to be I charge." Ralph laughed. "Leo, you ought to see - " We were getting way off track. I pulled them back.

  "Tell me about Caroline." This produced the usual round of snorting, elbowing, and rude remarks. Buddy broke it up.

  "She don't panhandle, Leo. She's got something else going on."

  "Tell me about it." Buddy checked his notes again.

  "She keeps meeting this guy down by Pier Fifty-seven. Around two in the afternoon. They both drive up, find a parking space, and just sit there for a while, looking all around."

  "In the same car?" I asked.

  "Nope." Harold.

  "In the cars they come in. She drives this little blue Toyota. He drives this big old Ford pickup. Big tires. Real muddy."

  "And they just sit there in their cars?"

  "For a while," said Buddy.

  "Then what?"

  "Well, on Monday he got out and walked over and got in her car. On Wednesday she go out and went over and sat in his car."

  "For how long?"

  George fanned his notes. "Half hour or so on Monday. Forty minutes on Wednesday."

  "Boyfriend?" I asked.

  "No way," said Buddy quickly.

  "Could be," offered George. Harold and Ralph shrugged and waited.

  "Looked like they were arguing to me," insisted Buddy.

  "They was sitting' right on top of one another, for Chrissake," said George. Harold and Ralph nodded in agreement.

  "He's an Eskimo," said Harold.

  "Mexican," mumbled Ralph.

  George held out for some sort of Indian. East, West, American, he wasn't sure.

  "What then?"

  "They get back in their own cars and take off." Buddy.

  "Where to?" I asked.

  "She goes right back to headquarters." Buddy again.

  "What about him?"

  They all looked at Buddy. There was a problem.

  "You tell him, George," said Buddy. When in doubt, delegate.

  "You were driving, you tell him."

  Buddy fidgeted around in the recliner, took a deep breath, and started. "Well. Leo, on Wednesday George and I were ready. Ralph stayed back at headquarters. Harold found this great old Safeway cart and was pushing it around down there where they park."

  "Got right up next to their car," bragged Harold.

  "George and I were ready to follow him - "

  "Found four bucks worth of cans too." Harold again.

  Buddy shot him a murderous glance. "Anyway, Leo. To make a long story short. He lost us." Buddy hung his head.

  "Guy drives like Barney Oldfield," said George, staring at his mismatched wing tips.

  "Any ideas which way he was headed?"

  "Up University. That's as far as we got."

  "Toward the freeway?" Buddy and George nodded.

  "Okay," I said. "Good work. Here's what we're going to do."

  "You're not pissed?" asked Buddy.

  "We're not fired?" George showed great relief.

  "Hell, no," I said. "You guys did just fine." Buddy staged a recovery.

  "If George here wasn't so goddamn slow, we'd a kept him in sight, Leo. I know we would have. He" - pointing at George - :wouldn't ride in the backseat."

  "I get carsick riding backward," whined George.

  "You're the one insisted on sitting back there," Buddy snorted.

  "The passenger seat's sopping wet," George shot back.

  "Who are you shittin', George? How could you tell? You're generally a bit damp down there anyway." Buddy looked around the group for agreement. I put a stop to it.

  "Is there a pay phone handy down there?" These were the guys to know. Checking coin slots was part of the daily routine.

  "Three," said Ralph immediately. "One all the way over by the Curiosity Shop. One inside the Antique Mart and one by the Hot Dog Stand."

  "Okay," I said. "Here's what we're going to do." The got out their notepads. "You guys are going to do the same thing you did the last time they met, with one exception. This time I want Ralph over at one of the pay phones."

  "Which one?" asked Ralph, pencil poised.

  "It doesn't matter, Ralph," I snapped. "You decide."

  Chastened, Ralph went back to drawing in his pad. "Harold, you get your cart and wander about. Buddy, you and George be ready in the car same as before, but this time" - I paused for effect - "the minute they're both there, you guys have Ralph give me a call. I'll be waiting at home. If the pattern holds, I ought to have plenty of time to get down there. I'll follow him."

  "What do we do, then?" asked Buddy.

  "You guys pile in the wagon and follow her. If she goes back to the building, stake it out and keep taking license numbers." I remembered. "Where's the license numbers you guys have gotten so far?"

  Buddy rummaged around in the pocket of his parka and handed me the list.

  "What if she don't' go back to headquarters?" he asked.

  "Then try to follow her." I waited for it to sink in. "Any questions?"

  Ralph started to raise his hand, but an elbow from Buddy made him reconsider. "We're ready," Buddy said.

  "All right then, fellas. Back to work."

  They rose as a unit and headed out the door. From the doorway, I reminded them. "Take the stairs." They waved agreement. I closed the door. having the crew around was hard enough on my neighbors. Over the years I'd been part of a couple of ugly scenes that had played out here in the building. Most of my neighbors already looked at me with a jaundiced eye. To my knowledge, I was the only resident who'd ever actually shot anybody on the premises. I was afraid that getting caught in an endeavor with this group might push one of the neighbors over the edge. I watched until the boys opened the fire door and started down.

  I was behind in my paperwork. I owed a couple of expense reports on a skip-tracing job I was working on
and a final report and billing on a prenuptial investigation I'd just completed. And this was just the old business.

  Last evening, I'd retrieved a lit of nine new possibles off my answering machine, weeded it down to the six most promising, and made a note to follow up sometime today. Sometime was now.

  I started with Jed James. Jed was a local attorney whose investigative work I handled when the time and finances permitted. He did mostly pro bono work, but usually scammed up a way to get me paid full rate for my work.

  Jed was the scourge of the local law enforcement community. His ten years spent as the ACLU's chief litigator back in New York had given him both a taste for the underdog and a grating, abrasive manner seldom seen this far west. Jed was interested in rights. It didn't matter whose rights, just rights. No cause in rights. It didn't matter whose rights, just rights. No cause was too unpopular. No infringement too slight. To my knowledge, if you counted appeals, he was undefeated.

  Judges, when faced with the prospect of presiding over one of Jed's cases, had been known to hastily disqualify them selves on obscure technical grounds in favor of a couple of weeks of tranquil trout fishing in the eastern part of the state.

  The district attorney's office, after years of having its best and brightest ground into fodder, had wisely taken to utilizing Jed's peculiar talents to cull their own ranks of deadwood. Many a marginal prosecutor, ineffective but immovable because of the arcane civil service statutes, had been jettisoned either into private practice or into a completely new career path after being buried in court by Jed James.

  Most of the experienced local attorneys, rather than trotting their thousand-dollar suits into open court only to be hammered mercilessly by this obnoxious little guy spouting lyrical phrases with the Brooklyn accent, usually settled out of court. Contrary to rumor, there are some things that attorneys won't do for money. Not coincidentally, Jed was also my attorney.

  "James, Junkin, rose, and Smith." A cheery little voice.

  "Jed James, please."

  "Can I tell Mr. James who's calling, please?"

  "Leo Waterman."

  "Leo, it's Cynthia. How are you doing?"

  "Cynthia, I thought you'd retired to full-time child rearing."

  "I have. But Suzanne had a baby last Thursday. I'm filling in for a few weeks till she gets back on her feet."

  "What did she have?" I asked.

  "A boy, and catch this, eleven pounds three ounces."

  I winced. " Sounds painful."

  "No kidding."

  "She home yet?" I asked.

  "Oh, sure. They let her out Monday."

  "Let me have her address. I'll send her something." She read me an address up in Snohomish County.

  "Let me get Jed for you. He's been trying to get me to call you every fifteen minutes. You know how he gets." I knew. Type A all the way. "I, on the other hand, know you'll check in when you get damn good and ready."

  "One of the perks of the self-employed."

  "I'll get him for you." I waited on the line as the Embalmed Strings sawed their way through a particularly turgid instrumental rendition of "Moon River." The line clicked.

  "Leo, you slime, I've been looking for you."

  "You'll have to take a number, like a bakery."

  "I knew fame would spoil you, Leo. I knew it."

  "The only thing that's going to spoil me, Jed, is that music you play over the phone system. Is that the best you can do? I mean ‘Moon River,' give me a break." I made gagging noises.

  "It's soothing, Leo," he chuckled. "We do criminal defense work, remember. I don't think ‘Stairway to Heaven' is what most of the people calling here are looking for."

  "Point well taken, Jed. What can I do for you?"

  "I've got a kid accused of a drive-by shooting over in Medina. He - "

  "A drive-by shooting in Medina? Come on, Jed. You sure it wasn't more like a drive-by snubbing? That would be more like Medina."

  Medina is the Beverly Hills of the Greater Seattle area. Spacious homes bordering Lake Washington, Japanese gardeners tending acres of nature landscaping, estates set back a quarter mile from the road. The only way you could stage a drive-by in that neighborhood would be with a Mercedes-seeking cruise missile.

  "I swear to God, Leo."

  "I can't handle it this time, Jed."

  "Sure you can. He's black, so naturally he's guilty."

  "I'm swamped."

  "Find a way. I need you."

  "No can do. Send one of those eager young associates of yours."

  " ‘Fraid not, friend. I already sent one of the neophytes on a foray to ferret out the friends."

  "How do you do that?"

  "What?"

  "Make up whole sentences using the same letter."

  "It's a gift. How about it?"

  "I'm working for Tim Flood." This slowed even Jed down.

  "You have a living will?"

  "I'm just helping him with a problem."

  "Most of Tim's problems wind up wearing the concrete kimono."

  "He's retired. This is personal."

  "Your ass."

  "I'll check in when I'm finished."

  "No, my man, you'll probably check out before you're finished. Ta ta." He was gone. Before I could dial again, the phone rang. I answered it.

  "Waterman Investigations."

  "Hello." I waited. "Can I help you?"

  "Is this Leo?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "Leo Waterman?"

  "Is this Ralph?" Just a wild guess.

  "Leo, it's Ralph." I was trying to stay calm, but this conversation needed a boost. Five more minutes and we'd be at Ralph's last name.

  "Are they meeting again?"

  "Yep. They're sittin' in her car We're all here like you said."

  "Stay where you are. I'll be right down."

  "Should I tell Buddy you're comin'?"

  "Just stay where you are. I'm on the way." I hung up.

  I'd already packed a cooler full of food and Pepsi and a day pack full of clothes. Preparation is the essence of stake-outs. I'd spent some of the most miserable days of my life staked out unprepared. I'm a slow learner, but eventually it gets through. I hustled over to the hall closet, threw a flashlight in the side pocket of the pack, grabbed my sleeping bag just in case, and put on my coat. With my nine-millimeter in one pocket and the little thirty-two auto in the other, the coat was as heavy as chain mail and every bit as comforting.

  I slung the strap of the little cooler over my shoulder, reached through, and picked u the pack. The sleeping bag went under my free arm. It was clumsy, but I managed to get out the door and down to the car.

  Chapter 7

  It wasn't hard to find the boys. Harold's shopping cart leaned heavily against the front bumper of the Buick, blocking half of one of the already narrow lanes of traffic beneath the overhead highway. I pulled up behind the cart and left the Fiat running. I moved the cart over to the side. There was a party going on in the Buick. I rapped hard on the window. The window slid down.

  "You guys paying attention, or what?"

  Buddy cleaned the windshield with his sleeve and peered up the street in terror. "Still there, Leo. You see that primered red Ford?"

  "The one with the big tires?" I asked.

  "They're still in there," he said smugly. He smelled of cheap whiskey.

  "I thought we'd agreed to stay sober on the job," I said loud enough for all of them to hear. They went silent. Buddy took the lead.

  "We've only got a pint, Leo. That's mouthwash for the four of us. Just a bracer," he said with a watery wink.

  I appreciated that Buddy hadn't tried to bullshit me, but the bracer part made me nervous. These guys had names for every conceivable drinking situation. They liked to have a midmorning bracer before attempting anything serious, a few modest cocktails at lunch, followed by the obligatory afternoon pick-me-up, which segued neatly right into happy hour and ended with a little one just to help them sleep. For purely medicinal p
urposes, of course. What the hell had I expected, anyway?

  "Okay," I said reasonably. "I'm going to ignore this little breach of manners this time. "They visibly relaxed. I checked the street. The Ford four-by-four was still nosed in, sixty yards up the street. I leaned down to the window.

  "So, you guys follow her, right?"

  "To the ends of the earth," said Buddy.

  "All the way to Bellingham, if we have to," added Ralph.

  Buddy, bless his heart, tried to run interference.

  "From the mighty Columbia to the Straits of Juan de Fuca, Leo."

  "Who in hell is Wanda Fuca?" asked Ralph.

  We never did get it settled. Caroline Nobel, wearing a yellow down vest over a camouflage jacket, strode briskly across the street toward her car. The pick up backed out in a rush. I sprinted back to the Fiat.

  The big Ford made the first available right and started up toward the square. I had to run the light to keep up. The boys were right. As a driver, this guy took no prisoners. Passenger cars, their roofs barely above the truck's tire level, seemed disinclined to compete for space.

  He intimidated his way through the midafternoon madness at breakneck pace, turned left on First Avenue, and headed uptown. By the time I rounded the corner, he was three blocks up, whistling along in the right-hand lane while the bulk of the traffic inexplicably crawled along on the left. I started to follow along in the right lane but was stopped by a tandem Metro bus, which pulled to the curb, blocking both my path and my view.

  By the time the bus disgorged its passengers and got back underway, I was sure I'd lost him. I nearly sideswiped a new green Wagoneer as I rocketed around the bus and tried to make up ground. I got lucky.

  Six blocks up the hill, the Ford looked like it was long gone until, just before University, a UPS van veered suddenly into its path. I could see the nose of the truck dive as he stood on the brakes. Even from this distance I could see some of the collected mud that layered the sides of the truck break loose and turn to dust on the street.