Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca?

by G. M. Ford

  "Bill," he said.

  "Allen, this is Leo Waterman, pain-in-the-ass extraordinaire."

  "Where did they find him?" I asked.

  "Nose down on the boat ramp. The tide was out so it stuck about halfway in, halfway out. High tide it might have floated out to the middle."

  "Nobody saw anything?" We were no more than thirty yards from the café. Somebody must have seen something.

  "Café's open from five A.M. to four P.M. You know, breakfast and lunch for the fishermen and factory workers. No dinner. The car wasn't here at four-thirty yesterday when the owner left. It was here when he got back at four-thirty this morning. After dark this whole area is deserted. It's all commercial for two, three miles in every direction. We're checking, but you know how it is. The owner, name's McCarty, he called it right in. You could see somebody behind the wheel." He let it sink in.

  I walked across the lot to the Buick. The driver's window was down. The passenger window was a spiderweb of cracks surrounding a single one-inch hole. The water hadn't gotten up past the seats. The interior of the car was splattered with what appeared to be oatmeal. I knew better. I turned away. "What else did they find in the car?"

  Allen consulted a notebook from his inside pocket.

  "Three empty pints of whiskey. They looked new enough so we - " I assured him the pints were in character. "A case of oil and a blue plastic funnel." He started to say something else, stopped, and snapped the notebook shut. "That was it."

  "How many quarts of oil were left?" He checked again.

  "Four. Eight empties."

  I wandered back to the boat ramp in silence. Trask and Allen followed.

  "The car," Allen said, "was turned on. We figured they just popped it into gear and let it drive itself into the slough."

  I looked around. Allen was right. Nobody was going to come forward. He kept talking. "We'd have notified SPD sooner, but those plates don't match that car. The old guy had no ID. I called the number in his notebook and got your machine. Then I called SPD. So . . . you want to tell me about it?"

  I told him the same story I'd told Trask and got much he same result. He didn't believe it either. They spent most of the time I was talking passing looks back and forth between them.

  "So, you've got no idea what he was doing down here?" Allen asked when I'd finished.

  "None." More looks.

  "Last you knew he was watching this building in South Seattle."

  "That's it," I said. He checked his notes.

  "Stay around your house, Mr. Waterman. I'll be sending some people over something this evening."

  Rather than making any promises, I changed the subject.

  "Whenever you and SPD are finished with the car, can you arrange to have it towed to this address? On me." I wrote Arnie's address down and gave it to him along with one of my business cards.

  "Sure, no problem," he said, slipping the papers into his notebook.

  Trask and I said our thanks and good-byes and made our way back to the freeway. Neither of us spoke until we were nearly back to the city.

  "Listen, Waterman, this isn't my case. It's not going to be my case. It's probably going to end up with TPD, so it's no skin off my nose either way, but that crock of shit you gave us is never going to float. You know that, don't you?"

  "I know."

  "This business about refusing to name your client isn't going to float either. You're not an attorney. You don't get privilege."

  "I know."

  "TPD's going to want to know who you were working for and what in hell you were doing. Any shit about how you were home watching. "The Munsters' last night is not going to be well received."

  "I need to call my client," I said.

  "What, you need to ask permission?"

  "The client just needs to know it's going to come down, that's all."

  "You sure you don't want me to turn around and take you back down south to make a statement? I don't mind. I'll wait."

  "I'm sure. Thanks."

  "The only reason Detective Allen didn't take you with him is that it's not his case either. You're not going to get a night's sleep, you know. Your ass is going to be back in Tacoma before morning."

  "I know." We crested the interstate n silence. I could see the Save the Earth building from the car. I'd have tot tell the rest of the crew.

  "One more thing, Waterman," Trask said through tight lips. "I know about you. You've got a reputation as a cowboy. This isn't the wild West anymore. You let the TPD handle this. You've got enough problems on this one already. You hear me?"

  "I hear you," I said. Trask wouldn't let it go.

  "You're in no position to screw around here, Waterman. I don't suppose it's a scoop to you that one of the quick ways to fame and fortune for any cop in this town is to either put you inside or find a way to pull your ticket. I don't know how in hell you managed it, but Captain Henry Monroe's got a wild hair across his ass about you. Waterman. A very wild hair. He'd like nothing better - "

  I played my trump card. "Monroe's married to my ex-wife," I said.

  Trask thought it over. "That so?" he mused, smiling for the first time.

  "You work directly under Monroe?" I asked. He was wary

  "I do. Why?"

  "Then I don't have to tell you about Henry Monroe, do I?"

  "You said that. I didn't." He quickly changed the subject. "Your father used to be mayor or something, right?"

  "City Council."

  "Monroe claims you've got no right having a P.I. license. Claims your old man's cronies arranged it for you. That true?"

  "It was true twenty years ago," I said.

  "But you're deserving now, right? You've earned your spurs."

  "You find anybody who does anything for twenty years and doesn't get better at it, then you'll have a scoop."

  "Military background?"

  "Nope."

  "No law enforcement training at all?"

  "Nope."

  Before he could respond, I went on. "Ask around, Trask, you won't hear many complaints. I've got people who swear by me and people who swear at me, just like everybody else in this profession. Ask around."

  "I have, Waterman. I have. After I ran into you the last time, you remember that shooting over in Broadhurst." I nodded. "After that, I asked around. That's what makes this little discussion so interesting. Word is you give honest effort for honest pay. They say you've got a real knack for finding people and things that don't want to be found."

  "That does seem to be my niche," was all I could come up with.

  "So how come every time we've got some absolutely lunatic situation like the other morning at the hotel, you always seem to be involved?"

  "Cream rises?"

  "Yeah, either that or the light turd floats."

  In spite of my best intentions, I cold feel my anger rising.

  "What is it with you guys? Is it part of your genuine police department training to give P.I.s a hard time whenever you get the chance? Is it mandatory or something?" He started to open his mouth, but I beat him to it. "It's not like we're competing with one another. All I do is the shit work you guys aren't willing to do. You gonna try to tell me that you guys were going to spend three days looking for little Jason Greer, who's known to be in the company of his father? No chance. Don't bullshit me. You guys would have to find his body before you started asking questions." I'd gotten his attention.

  "Hey" - he took one hand off the wheel and pointed a meaty finger at me - "the police department's the last line of defense around here, pal, and we're seriously overburdened. Without us, this whole city would go down the shitter. The scumbags would make it do decent people - " He caught himself. "Maybe you never thought about it, asshole, but people become real cops because they - "

  I jumped in. "- want to be in a business where the customer is always wrong."

  "Cute, Waterman. More people like you helping out and - "

  "You guys can use all the help you can get."

&nbs
p; "Not from amateurs. Amateurs are a danger to themselves and others. Ask Buddy Knox."

  "Don't flatter yourself, Trask. You guys may have the latest technology at your disposal, you may be able to tap into all the information sources, but it doesn't help much, does it? Yeah, you can send an army of cops out into the streets, but that doesn't help much either, does it? You know why?"

  "Why's that, Waterman? Enlighten me."

  "Because nobody wants to talk to cops except other cops. On the undesirable scale, you guys run a close second to the slimeballs. That's why you manage to resolve less than half your cases. People are goddamn near as scared of you guys as they are of the criminals."

  "So what we need are more helpful amateurs like you out there, is that it? Is that what you've got in mind?"

  I laughed at him. "What makes me an amateur and you a professional? You're flattering yourself again, Trask. Don't kid yourself. I can dig up information around this town a whole lot more effectively and a whole lot quicker than you can. I live here. I was born here. This used to be just a big town. Most everybody knew most everybody else. If I didn't go to high school with them, then I played sports against them. If I didn't do either, I've got a friend who did."

  "You sure as hell haven't got any friends in the department."

  "That's because I don't need any friends in the department."

  "Tell that to Buddy Knox," he growled. "And be sure you tell it to TPD when they get here. I'm sure they'll be most anxious - "

  "fuck you, Trask. It was a routine surveillance."

  We kept it up all the way back to my place. I wanted to strangle him, but he was right. I had maybe two hours before I got unwanted visitors. They might even be there waiting for me now. That I'd have to risk. There were things in the apartment I needed. Detective Allen would report in and the ball would get rolling. Two hours, at most.

  Whoever was in charge down there would assign the case, and I'd be first on the agenda. Trask slipped the Dodge to a stop in front of my building.

  "Have you heard any of this, Waterman, or have I just been talking to myself? ‘Cause you sure as hell don't look like you've been listening."

  "I heard, Detective. Thanks for the ride and the dazzling repartee."

  Trask yelled something at my back as I was opening the lobby door, but I didn't hear that either.

  Chapter 11

  "Let me see if I've got this straight, Leo. The police have the Buick."

  "Right."

  "It's impounded down in Tacoma."

  "Right."

  "Now you want to know borrow the red pickup."

  "Right."

  Having meticulously cut the sinsemilla bud into pieces with a pair of nail scissors, Arnie scraped the pot off the edge of his kitchen table into a single rolling paper without losing so much as a shred. A lick of the tongue and a flick of the Bic later, he had a joint the size of his thumb fired up.

  "interesting," he rasped while holding is breath.

  "You'll have what's left of the Buick back in a week or so."

  The pot came back out of his lungs with a rush. Arnie sat back in the chair. He sucked down another massive hit. His eyelids headed south. I waited. He exhaled again, took another toke, then snipped off the end of the joint and dropped it in his shirt pocket.

  "Kinda reminds me of the old days, Leo. You remember. People would give your name to other people they met out on the road. Folks you'd never seen in your life would show up on the doorstep wanting to crash for a few days. It was like a perpetual party." He walked over and refreshed his tea.

  "Heck, that's how I got the truck. Young couple from back East crashed here for a couple of weeks. They were out of gas money. Then this other dude who was on his way up to the Queen Charlottes showed up and they decided to travel with him. Said I could have the truck.

  "Can I borrow it?"

  "Is it going to end up trashed and impounded too?"

  "Probably."

  "Cool." I didn't know people still said that. "Sure, why not? I like it. We'll bury them in their own garbage. Yeah, I like it. We'll have to scrounge the battery out of the Opel."

  "How are the tags?"

  "What tags? The only tags it ever had were from Iowa or someplace. We'll use the original plates from the Buick. Tags you'll have to liberate on your own.

  "No problem," I said. Arnie knew what I meant. When we were younger and couldn't afford to register our cars, we'd become expert at slicing the renewal tags off other cars and gluing them to ours.

  "You've got to promise me though, Leo."

  "What?'

  "You'll take them off a Beamer."

  "I promise."

  "In Bellevue," he added.

  "I wasn't planning on driving that far without tags."

  "But off a Beamer."

  "I promise."

  Forty-five minutes later, I was almost ready to go. I had my gear stowed back in the genuine Caveman camper and the plates bolted on the truck and was tightening up the last battery terminal when Arnie reappeared.

  "Here, you'll need these." He was holding a razor scraper and a small tube. "Careful when you go for the tags. I put in a new blade. They're using better glue than they used to. If you're not careful, they just disintegrate." I eyed the tube. "Super Glue," he said. "Waterproof. That way you don't have to worry about them falling off."

  I eased myself down in the seat and turned the key. I'd forgotten how good the throaty rumble of an American V-8 sounded. Arnie shook his head dejectedly. "A real ozone ripper, Leo. This baby'll pass anything on the road except a gas station. Did you know - "

  I changed the subject. "Where's Nadine?"

  "She went out for a walk the other day and didn't come back."

  "Really." I tried to sound surprised.

  "No sweat," he said. "Pussy may well be the only true renewable resource, Leo. I've got another one lined up for when I get back." I had to admire a man with that kind of insight and planning.

  "Listen . . . Sooner or later, when they can't find me, the cops are going to - Back from where?"

  "I'm flying down to Eugene in the morning for the Dead concert."

  "When's that?"

  "Saturday, like always. You want to come along?"

  "No thanks." Frightening thought. "When are you coming back?"

  "Sunday morning."

  "maybe you ought to stay longer."

  "Oh, you mean the cops. No sweat, Leo. The storm troopers don't worry me. I won't be intimidated by the heat." He slipped into character, one hand raised theatrically above his head, eyes on a distant horizon. "I have been to the mountain . . . Besides that" - he winked - "none of these cars is registered to me. I don't know shit." A look of horror crossed his face. "You didn't tell them I owned the wagon, did you?"

  "I just told them to tow it back here when they were through with it."

  "No problem then. I haven't actually owned a car since seventy-one. These" - he swept his arm around the backyard - "are all remnants of a postindustrial society gone mad. Relics of the age of plenty. The decadent art of the nineties. Did you know that if we'd recycled every American car since nineteen-sixty - "

  He seemed to have his end covered. I needed to get down the road.

  "Will you get the gate for me?" I asked.

  " - mas es mejor, more is better. The American Way - "

  He was still talking as he walked toward the gate. " - private ownership of the means of production has led us to the brink of ecological disaster." At least he was walking while he was talking. He opened the gate. I drove through.

  He came around to the window and stuck his hand inside. We pumped the secret handshake. Arnie always made me feel like I was missing my decoder ring. "Good luck, Leo."

  "Thanks, Arn. Have fun down south."

  "Oh, I will, Leo. Bettine - you remember Bettina, don't you?" He smirked. Bettina was Arnie's first and only wife. A counterculture diva. We'd detested one another. "I'm staying with her. She's flying back up with me for the
party." I made it a point not to ask, but it was to no avail.

  "You're coming to the party, right?" Now, I had to ask.

  "What party?"

  "My fortieth. Didn't you get the invitation? I left a message on your machine yesterday."

  "I haven't been home much lately," I said. I hated these blasts from the past almost as much as I hated Bettina.

  "Come on, man, you've gotta come. Everybody's gonna be there. Wendy and her new hubby, Morris, Rebecca, everybody."

  "Hey, Arn, you know I'd like to come. But Bettina and I, we don't exactly - "

  "You're not gonna let her drive you off, are you?"

  "As I remember, you moved to Guatemala in the middle of the night."

  "That was different. You call Tom Romans yet?" he asked quickly, changing the subject. I looked blank. "The guy whose number I gave you."

  "Not yet. A lot's happened since then." I thought I was home free. No such luck. Arnie was too smooth for me.

  "He might be coming to the party." With no escape in sight, I reluctantly agreed to put in a guest appearance on Sunday afternoon.

  "Don't forget," he grinned as I inched forward. "From a Beamer."

  A promise is a promise. I wheeled out of Arnie's yard, turned left down to Forty-fifth and got on the interstate, heading north. I wanted to do as little driving as possible on the expired plates. I needed a mall. Someplace where I could lift some tags without being seen. It was Friday night. The malls would be jammed. I headed up to Northgate.

  It was so easy that for a fleeting moment I considered doing it again the next time the Fiat came up for renewal. Right at the end of my first pass down the first row, there it was, backed up against the fence all by itself, a little gleaming black Mercedes convertible, a full half mile from the mall. The owner had undoubtedly chosen the isolated spot as a hedge against door dings. It wasn't a BMW, but I felt certain that Arnie would approve.

  Twenty minutes later, looking legal as hell, I was back downtown. I had calls to make. Easy one first. I could count on Hector. Thirty-five years in Castro's Cuba, sixteen days in a leaky rubber raft, and thirteen months in a federal detention center in Tennessee had left Hector with a deep abiding distaste for the authorities.