by G. M. Ford
He was interrupted by the return of Trooper Coffey. The young cop stood in the doorway, his hand once again resting on the butt of his gun, gesturing with his head for Hayden to step outside. Resignedly, Hayden went onto the porch.
Coffey had company. In addition to his partner, who fidgeted nervously behind the wheel of the cruiser, two Snohomish County cops stood by an unmarked Chevy.
Charles Hayden was running his hands through his well-tended hair again. The cops seemed unimpressed. Hayden turned to come back inside. The troopers made a move to follow. Hayden held them off, closing the door behind him. He fixed on Daniel.
"Your friend Mr. Short - "
Uncharacteristically, Daniel interrupted. "He's not my friend."
Hayden regrouped. "Fellow tribe member - "
"He's not a tribe member either. He's a Cree."
"Whatever he is, Mr. Dixon, he's dead." Hayden mindlessly massaged the bridge of his nose. "The officers found him sitting in his office, with a bullet wound to the head."
"Suicide?" I asked.
"The officers don't seem to think so. He's been dead a couple of days, they say. They want - "He hesitated, squared his shoulders, and turned his attention to me. "They want to take you two with them for questioning. They say it's just routine. Why don't you two just - "
"What about our deal?" I said. Hayden had been waiting.
"You didn't tell me you were already wanted for questioning. That wasn't part of the agreement, Waterman. I can't possibly keep a lid on this. If I'd known - "
"If I'd known you weren't good for your word, I would never had called you to begin with and you wouldn't be sitting on the biggest bust of your career. But that's all water under the bridge, isn't it? Let's deal with the president. Think about it, Hayden. This is a lot cleaner deal without Daniel and me. We're not looking for any publicity in this. You can have this one to yourself." His eyes widened at the thought.
He started to respond, thought better of it, sighed, and turned pensively back toward the window, rocking slowly on his feet. "Okay," he said finally, and then fell back to thinking. I felt as if I'd missed part of the conversation.
"Okay," he said again. "Here's what I'm going to do - "
He never got to the rest of it. The white van in which he'd originally arrived slid to a stop of the store. One of the spacemen, his helmet I hand now, got out and started across the lot. Something about the white suit, stained now with soot and tarlike residue, gave the officers the urge to keep their distance. The minute he started toward them, they backed quickly toward their respective vehicles. He opened the door and came inside.
He was about thirty, his black curly hair plastered to his head, two black streaks running down along his right cheek.
Without preamble, he started to speak. Hayden gestured him toward the center of the store, away from the door.
"Well?" Hayden asked.
"It's under control," he said. "We got it out."
"How much was there?"
"Hard to tell. A lot's covered over already."
"An estimate?"
"At least a thousand, fifteen hundred drums, maybe more."
"Jesus. Must be a recycler then."
"Oh yeah. No way it can be a user. Way too much of it."
"Jesus," Hayden repeated. He rubbed his hands together. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. First of all, we're going to evacuate all civilians in the immediate area."
"It's under control. We got it out," the guy protested.
"Trust me on this, will you, Larry?" Larry looked dubious.
Without giving Larry a chance to respond one way or the other, he continued. "I want to leave a fire team there all night, just to make sure we've got it out. We'll start cleanup in the morning. No sense taking chances in the dark." Larry agreed. "In the meantime, clear the area."
Larry looked out over his shoulder toward the parking lot.
"Nobody out there except a few cops," he noted.
"Exactly," said Hayden.
A thin smile crossed Larry's lips. "Oh. It's them you want to - "
"I didn't say that," Hayden corrected quickly. "I merely want to protect the public from the deleterious effects of these materials." The smile got bigger.
"I don't know - " Larry started.
Hayden threw an arm around Larry's shoulders. "Larry, what we've got here is probably one of the biggest toxic waste cleanups in history. If Waterman here is right, we've got eight of these sites beyond this one, to clean up. There are promotions to be had here, lad. You hear what I'm saying?" Larry nodded gravely. "We don't need any meddling by local authorities, how do we?"
"No, sir."
"Do you suppose those gentlemen have any idea of the possible health effects of these materials?"
"Probably not."
"Do you imagine they know what PCBs can do to a man's reproductive organs?"
"Probably not."
"What do you suppose would happen if you were to put your helmet back on and explain the various health effects to them?" Larry smiled again.
"I'd bet they run like hell."
"Exactly."
It didn't take long. I don't know what spacesuit told the officers out front, but whatever it was had the desired effect. Within two minutes, both patrol cars were burning up public property back the way they'd come. I took the opportunity to ask a few questions.
"Excuse me, as much as I hate to be dim, I still don't understand what is going on here that's worth killing people over."
Hayden turned quickly. "Are you kidding me? Didn't you hear what Neville said/ Maybe fifteen hundred, two thousand drums." He turned back toward the window.
"So what?" I said to his back.
"So?" He swiveled again. "So, it costs about a thousand dollars per drum, minimum, to legally dispose of that type of material. A thousand times fifteen hundred is - "
"A million and a half or so," Daniel piped in. Hayden nodded.
"Eight sites. Over a million dollars a site. Jesus," he muttered, overwhelmed by the enormity of his own figures.
The little parking lot was quiet for the first time in hours. Even the radio had stopped its infernal squalling. The humming of the coolers had suddenly become audible. Hayden heaved a sigh.
"Okay," he said. "You two get out of here."
We started to move; he stopped us. "This is it, Waterman. This is the end of the deal. As much as I appreciate the help you've been, I can't - I mean - I need to put some - "
"Distance."
"Yes, distance. I need to put some distance between us here. I'm sure you understand."
"Distance is just what Daniel and I had in mind," I said.
"I mean distance," he said solemnly. Ever since he'd run the numbers by me, I'd been waiting for this part. I'd offered him a cookie. He wanted the whole jar. Wendy had been right. He was a bureaucrat to the core.
"You're out of this," he continued. "You're not going to see your names in the papers tomorrow morning. You understand what I'm telling you? I never heard of you. Understood and agreed?"
I understood completely. This treat was too good to share. There might even be a cushy Washington, D.C. job in here somewhere.
"I understand," I said.
Daniel stretched and flexed, working out the kinks on our way out to the camper. The sky was bruised, a layered molten gray, holding the promise only of something different.
"I noticed you didn't say you agreed," Daniel noted as soon as we were well out of earshot.
"Most astute of y you, Daniel. I try not to lie."
"That's good, Leo. Lying's bad for the spirit."
Chapter 22
Perhaps it was intended as a cautionary peek at purgatory. Maybe that's what he had in mind. Or maybe the guy was just having trouble orating himself all the way to any sense of moral resolution. Considering Buddy's lifelong slide from grace, this was a definite possibility. Either that or the priest was just long-winded and didn't have sense enough to come in out of the rain. He dron
ed on.
A westerly gale mixed the icy, slanting rain with the last remaining leaves into a blenderlike frappe that swirled around heads and down collars as we stood dripping by Buddy's grave. The water that had entered my collar had, by this time, found its way all the way down my sleeves and was now dripping off my hand. Buddy was the only one present who was dry and comfortable. He'd have liked that.
The crowd was divided into sections. Hard by the right of the grave, Buddy's three somewhat interchangeable ex-wives jockeyed for position. Each veiled in black, each with an umbrella-toting limo driver who stood respectfully one pace to the rear, bending forward, struggling to keep the umbrella functional in the swirling maelstrom as his stout charge elbowed and upstaged her competitors shamelessly, like a well-oiled finalist in a bodybuilding contest, posturing through one last collective attempt to impress the judges.
None of that reserved, stiff-upper-lip, WASPish mewling into hankies. No sir. What we had from the ex-wife section was the Super Bowl of sorrow, as each writhed, moaned, mumbled, and tore desperately at herself in an all-out attempt to outgrieve the others.
The most substantial of the three women zealously held down the central position. Her periodic spasms of lamentation were invariably punctuated by an imploring tilt of the head toward the heavens, followed quickly by a violent thrusting of her substantial elbows outward and toward the rear. This position both lent a martyrlike quality to the pose and, not coincidentally, served to keep her smaller rivals bobbing and weaving about in a manner that would have been the envy of many NBA centers.
Buddy's actual friends, as usual, occupied the low ground. They had been relegated to a spot at the foot of the grave, where a pile of sodden earth waited for the return of the backhoe. Only their soaking, rain-plastered heads were visible above the mound. As the unpredictable wind spiraled around the grave site, an occasional whiff of something akin to a pack of wet hunting dogs assailed my nostrils, reminding me of their presence.
George, Harold, and Ralph had been joined in their vigil by an eclectic assortment of the city's more colorful street denizens. Three or four I knew. Earlene and Mary sobbed together, arm-in-arm near the center of the group, the green army blanket thrown over their heads offering scant protection from the elements. The Speaker, who for this special occasion had traded in his omnipresent sandwich board for a Hefty Bag parka, seemed to be quietly conducting his own service, his lips mouthing their own silent benediction, his hands punctuating the salient points. Nearly Normal Norman looked better than usual. His enormous mane of untamed red hair, which usually stuck alarmingly out in all directions, had been plastered onto his head, gentling his otherwise fiercely bearded countenance into something vaguely cherubic.
Five minutes into the ceremony, while hunching up and swiveling my neck in a futile attempt to channel the rain away from my armpits, I'd noticed the guy under the laurel tree.
No need to wonder. This was the cops. Fifty yards of glaucomalike downpour and blowing leaves wasn't sufficient cover for this guy. All the signs were in place: worn overcoat, one epaulet unbuttoned and moving with the wind, partially covering twelve acres of fire-sale sport jacket, polyester pants - that baggy look they all develop over time. The face was a stew of melancholy and bored cynicism. This one had started out skinny, but twenty years of lingering over pie and coffee had pasted a gross paunch beneath his bony chest. If he'd had a chin, it would have been a triple model. As it was, his neck seemed to be sprouting layered goiters. I ignored him.
As if by magic, four workmen appeared from the surrounding mist and began slipping the four ends of rope through their gloved hands, lowering the coffin into its final resting place. I lost my bet.
Restrained by their beefy chauffeurs, the ex-wives, in a touching show of self-restraint, limited themselves to showering the rapidly descending coffin with a hail of wilted floral matter. As each in turn stepped forward, sniffed dismissingly at the others, and waited into the wind, my mind heard laughter.
I watched them go, resisting the powerful urge to scratch the soaked bandage that covered the former home of my right earlobe.
George appeared at my elbow. He seemed to be impervious to the weather. Hs slicked-back white hair, although showing a bit more pink scalp than usual, was still in place. The rain had loosened and washed away the layer of dust that generally covered his shoes and outer garments, leaving behind a temporary sheen of cleanliness and respectability.
"Seemed like the wifies was all broke up about it," he said.
"Shattered."
"These are the same three broads who used to jail him regularly for nonpayment," he added with a snarl.
"I miss him already," said Ralph. His eyes were full.
"Seemed like Buddy was forever," muttered Harold.
"Buddy would hate us getting mushy over him," I said.
"Fuck him." Harold snuffed through a filthy handkerchief.
We lapsed into silence.
George filled the awkwardness of the moment by slipping his arm through mine and leaning in close.
"We found out where they're going," he whispered.
"Where?" I whispered back. He went leaden, not answering.
"Leo Waterman." A sandpaper voice from behind me.
Without turning, I said, "That's me," George grimaced.
A bony hand appeared on my shoulder, trying to turn me like a top. I went with the flow. No more than a foot separated our noses. His breath spoke of a titanic struggle between garlic and Binaca. Garlic was winning.
"You're coming with me," he said evenly.
"Am I under arrest?"
"If you want to be."
I remembered Jed's advice on the phone last night.
"If you want me to go anywhere with you, you're going to have to arrest me."
Harold, Ralph, and the others had wandered closer, forming a loose semicircle around the cop and me. He checked his back. His eyes narrowed.
He reached inside his coat. Everyone tensed. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a material witness warrant.
"I can get all the backup I need," he said.
"No need." I said it loud enough for everyone to hear.
I reached into my inside pocket. It was the cop's turn to tense. I came out with my notebook, tore out a page, and handed it to George.
"Call this number. Ask for Jed James. If you have any trouble getting through, tell the lady you're calling for me." He nodded. "Tell him I've been arrested. He'll take it from there."
I checked my watch. Eleven forty-five. "You guys be at my place at four o'clock," I added.
The cop openly smirked. "If he's not there, you boys make sure you start the meeting without him. Waterman here won't be - " I cut him off.
"I'll be there," I said. "Four o'clock."
Chapter 23
I made it home by three.
As we rounded the corner, the cop now paternally propelling me by the elbow, the expression on their faces told me all I needed to know. Either they were simultaneously passing kidney stones, or Jed was already here.
The three of them stood impatiently in the hall, leaning back, holding up the stained pea-green walls, arms defensively folded. Detective Trask, Detective Allen from Tacoma, and a skinny little lamb-to-the-slaughter who turned out to be Assistant D.A. Van Pelt.
Before I even got seated, Jed started on them.
"Now as to these cretinous charges," he began.
They looked from one to another. The D.A. cleared his throat.
"At the moment, Mr. James, there are . . . er . . . no formal . . ."
Jed scooped at his papers. "Let's go," he said to me. I froze.
"If and when you fellas get your shit together, my client will be, of course, anxious to assist you in any way possible." Big smile. We started out.
"If he's so anxious, where's he been for the last three days?" Trask.
"Is Mr. Waterman charged with something?" Jed repeated, halting.
"As I
stated, Mr. James, there are no charge," said Van Pelt.
"Then Mr. Waterman's movements are of no concern to any of you. This isn't Nazi Germany, you know." Jed was big on the Nazi analogies.
The two cops looked to Van Pelt for assistance. Van Pelt, hooking a finger into his collar for relief, looked like he'd rather be peddling time-shares in Beirut.
"We had assumed that Mr. Waterman, as a public-spirited citizen, would be willing to cooperate in our - "
"And your notion of cooperation includes a trumped-up material witness warrant" - Jed wrested his copy of the warrant into the air. It floated back to the stained table, bounced once, and slipped over the edge onto the worn linoleum floor - "served upon my client at a time of great bereavement? This is your conception of a reasonable manner of asking the public for help?" Silence again. "Well?" he demanded.
Trask jumped in. "We've been attempting to locate Mr. Waterman for several days."
"Let's," snarled Jed, "deal with one abuse of power at a time, shall we? What do you say? We can take up the matter of your illegal entry of Mr. Waterman's domicile after we settle the matter of this - this" - he used the toe of his hiking boot to kick the warrant over toward the assistant D.A. - "toilet-paper travesty."
Before they could regroup, Jed seized the initiative.
"Now," he began, "so as to neither waste any more of my time nor inflict any further damage on Mr. Waterman's already mutilated civil rights, specifically what crime is it that Mr. Waterman's testimony might conceivably be material to?"
"The murder of Beaumont Knot," said Detective Allen immediately.
Jed cast me a glance. "He worked for me," I said.
"I want to confer with my client alone."
They took their time. Van Pelt had to take a quick little skipping step to keep the heavy door from hitting him in the ass whenJed kicked it shut.
"Toilet-paper travesty?" I winced as the door clicked.
He grinned. "I'm a little off my feed this morning. Have no fear. I'll warm up." I never doubled it for a second.
