by Jack Lynch
It must have been about seven o’clock that evening when I went back into a deep, deep slumber and pretty much stayed that way until the next morning. Zither was sitting up in bed looking through the Sunday paper and drinking a cup of coffee. She looked over at me.
“How do you feel?”
I moaned a little. On top of everything else, I was feeling bed sore. “No church for me this morning.”
“Want some coffee?”
“Maybe. Give it a minute.” I rolled my head around some and tried stretching my limbs. I hurt like a blister, but at least things didn’t refuse to move. Even my left shoulder was working again. I sat up and clamped my hands to the small of my back where a couple of shooting pains shot.
Zither threw aside the covers and got up quickly to come over and kneel beside me. She was wearing a black T-shirt and black lacy underpants that emphasized the alabaster cast to her skin.
“You should get out in the sun more, you know that?” I asked her.
She made as if to hit my arm, but drew back her hand just before making contact. “Just never mind what I should do. Try to concentrate on what you should do. How about the coffee?”
“Sure, okay. I don’t suppose you’d have some bourbon to put into it?”
“I don’t, but Mary Ellen has some downstairs I can get.”
She bounced up and went back up on the bed platform and got a pair of jeans off a wall hook and stepped into them.
“Is she here Sundays?” I asked.
“Most Sundays, and she is today. Got here about an hour ago. She stopped by yesterday too, but you were asleep. She said you were about the sorriest-looking shitheel she’d ever seen. I told her that was how you’d described yourself on the phone the night before, so I’d know who it was calling. It put her into a fit of laughter.”
“I suppose it would. Well, maybe she’s right,” I said, gingerly swinging my legs over the side of the sofa and rubbing my face. “Maybe that’s exactly what I am. It’s hard to explain about Lorna. My ex-wife.”
She came back down off the platform. “Let’s not talk about your ex-wife, huh? According to Benny, you two spent a lot of years together. I can understand how…things might have gone. I only wish you’d gotten that all out of the way before I met you.”
“Yeah, me too. At least I think it finally is all out of the way, if it means anything.”
“Don’t, Pete. Let’s not get into that just now. You’re here because Mary Ellen and Benny and I are all good friends. Benny’s in trouble, and you’re trying to help him. That’s why you’re here.”
“Yeah, well. Thanks.”
“I’ll get the bourbon.”
I phoned Benny while she was gone. He said that the night before he’d put on his false whiskers and wig and contact lenses and gone out to a couple of bars. He said it’d been Dolly’s idea and to a certain extent it had worked. He didn’t have cabin fever the way he had in recent days. But he didn’t know how much longer he could hold out that way. I told him to keep his chin up, that I had a couple of ideas but it would take a day or two to put them into operation.
Zither came back in with the bottle of bourbon while I was finishing the conversation with Benny. She poured me some coffee and whiskey and brought it over to me.
“What are the couple of ideas?” she asked after I’d hung up. “Or can’t you say?”
“I can’t say because I really don’t have any. I’m just trying to keep his spirits up. I still think, more and more, that something’s going to happen around here, and when it does, Benny’s the one who’s going to be able to figure out what it’s all about. Waiting for that to happen is the toughest part of this whole thing.”
“Seems to me that what happened to you Friday night would be the toughest part.”
“No, that only strengthens the hunch I have. Whoever’s doing this must know by now I’m up here to help Benny. He’s still the key to things.”
The phone rang. Zither answered it, then handed me the receiver. “Benny again.”
“Yeah, Benny?”
“Pete, I forgot to tell you. When I talked to Dolly last night, she said Lorna had phoned her up in Sequim. She was asking if Dolly knew where you were. She said she’d expected to hear from you Friday night, or yesterday at the latest.”
“Does Dolly know where I am?”
“No. I just told her you were lying low for a couple of days. I didn’t tell her where.”
“Good. I don’t want anybody else knowing. It’s bad enough that you and Mary Ellen and even Zither here have to know. Thanks, Benny. I’ll be in touch.”
I hung up and stared at the far wall for a moment.
“Do I hear the sound of large thoughts gonging around?” Zither asked.
“I don’t know,” I told her finally. “It’s really just a small one, but it might have a little meat on it.” I braced my hands on my knees and started to get up. “Ow!” The pain dropped me back to the sofa. Zither watched with a stricken look on her face.
“Better go easy there, partner.”
I grunted, then rolled slowly off the sofa onto my hands and knees on the carpet. I rested there a minute, then raised my left knee. I stretched my back some more, then slowly was able to push myself partway erect, and finally heaved all the way up onto my feet. I hurt in some new places.
“Congratulations,” said Zither.
I looked out the windows. The streets had dried during the day I’d spent mostly passed out, but now more clouds were cruising in low again, looking for a good place to dump on people. I looked over at Zither. She was pouring more bourbon and coffee into my cup. She came over and handed it to me.
“I need a pool,” I told her. “A swimming pool where there won’t be a lot of people standing around staring at my black and blue marks.”
“I don’t know any of those.”
“Somewhere in or near this town there has to be a private swimming pool owned by a man or woman willing to let me use it yet able to keep his or her mouth shut.” I had a sip of the coffee, then turned with a ragged grin. “Would you like to go swimming with me? It’s an outdoor pool, but it’ll be heated.”
“I don’t know. Where is it?”
“At the home of a retired high-ranking mafioso living over on Mercer Island.”
Her eyes widened. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
I hadn’t realized just how ragged had been the grin I gave Zither until I gingerly ran my electric razor over my face while staring into her bathroom mirror. It was the first time I’d seen my face since the beating. I looked like a purple and black gargoyle and wondered how Zither could have stood sleeping in the same room with me. I would have given myself nightmares. But it was a little tonic to me at the same time. My face and head didn’t feel nearly as rotten as they looked. It made me think things were going to start looking up. And they did.
When I phoned and told Bomber Hogan what had been going on, he not only invited me over to use his outdoor pool, but insisted on sending a car with a couple of his men to pick me up. I asked if it would be okay to bring along the young woman who’d risked giving me shelter since the attack.
“She doesn’t get outdoors enough,” I told him.
“What the hell,” said Bomber. “Bring her along. We can make it a party.”
And he did his best to do just that. He and his blonde girlfriend, Kathy, were standing at the front door to greet us. When Bomber got a look at my face, he turned Kathy around and sent her back inside with a pat on the fanny.
I got into the pool soon after we got there. Zither joined me, wearing a one-piece black swimsuit. She got out about ten minutes later, when it began to rain. I stayed in the water. I always enjoyed swimming in the rain, and the exercise was doing its job. I could feel the knots and kinks leaving my muscles and the pain subsiding. By the time I climbed back out, I almost had a spring to my step.
After I’d toweled off, Bomber had a surprise for me. He’d called in his personal physician to take a l
ook at me. The physician took his look, then insisted I accompany him to his clinic over in Bellevue, where he had an X-ray machine. He wanted a look at the ribs. He found a couple of hairline fractures but nothing worse than that.
He drove me back across the East Channel Bridge onto Mercer Island and down to Bomber Hogan’s place. While I’d been gone, Zither had been charming the pants off everybody in sight by sketching them in pencil. Bomber wanted us to stay for dinner, but I was beginning to flag.
“I hate to swim and run,” I told him.
“Never mind. You look lucky to be standing on your feet. You know, I’ve taken part in a beating or two my own self, God forgive me, but I never seen anything like what happened to you. If you ever find out who did it, let me know, huh? My guys could maybe learn something.”
He insisted that we at least have a drink before leaving, so I told him I’d have a gin and tonic. Zither said a glass of white wine would be pleasant. That was the word she used—pleasant. You’d think we were in the home of royalty.
We were seated in the sprawling study where Bomber and I had talked the first time I’d visited him. Zither and Kathy were chatting over in one corner. Bomber was at the bar fixing drinks. I got up and hobbled on over to him to ask if his sources had anything more to say about the funny money movements he’d told me about earlier.
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot about that. Your friend who’s in trouble, does he have anything to do with this big Potlatch Bay project going on over in the city?”
“No, not that I know about. But there’s somebody else I know who’s involved in that. Or plans to be.”
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“My ex-wife.”
Bomber turned with the gin bottle in his hand and looked across the study to where Zither was talking to Kathy. “Her?”
“No. Somebody else.”
Bomber shrugged and turned back to the drinks he was mixing. “You’re a man with many corners to his life.”
“Too many, almost. What did you hear about Potlatch Bay?”
“Not a whole lot. Just that that’s where the funny money movements might be going on. Are you on friendly terms with your ex-wife?”
“Depends on the day of the week.”
“Heh-heh. Yeah,” he said a little sadly. “I know just what you mean. Well, you might suggest to her that somebody maybe ought to check a little closer into the backgrounds of everybody involved in that thing. I’m not saying everything isn’t legit, but maybe somebody should hoist the caution flag. At least that’s what the people I know said.”
“I’ll pass it along. Bomber, I’m afraid I’m getting deeply into your debt.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m out of the business, mostly.”
The same two men who’d picked us up drove us back to Zither’s place. They hadn’t spoken much on the drive over, but they’d been among the people Zither had sketched while I was being examined by the doctor in Bellevue and now they opened up a little. They were chatting between themselves. One of them mentioned some physical problem his father was having back in Cleveland. Then they began talking about the chances of the Seahawks making it to the playoffs that year. The one drink I’d had back at Bomber’s had nearly set me on my ear. I settled back and dozed.
When we got back to Western Avenue, the driver cruised around the neighborhood some before letting us out, making sure nobody was keeping a watch on the place. They asked if I needed help getting inside.
“No thanks, I can make it. You guys have been a comfort. Thank your boss again for me, okay?”
“No problem,” said the lean fellow, whose father was having physical problems back in Cleveland.
Like I’d told them, I could make it, but I had to stop and rest a couple of times on my way up the stairs. Zither hovered around a little nervously.
“You really ought to be in a hospital, you know that.”
“No. I’m doing just fine.”
I thought about what she had said as she was unlocking the door to her studio.
“I’ll be getting out of your hair tomorrow,” I told her.
She flung open the door and turned to me. “That isn’t what I meant. And for your information, I don’t want you getting out of my hair.”
She tugged me inside by the sleeve. I made my way back to her living quarters and took off my jacket—the back-up one I’d had in my suitcase, not the one I’d been drenched and beat up in. I stretched out on the sofa and tried to bring a little order to my slightly gin-woozy mind. I could try phoning Lorna and tell her I’d been hearing some curious things about Potlatch Bay. Where did you hear these things? she would ask. From a hard hat bar mate out in Ballard and a retired hood on Mercer Island, I would tell her. And what curious things had they to say? she would ask. They weren’t too specific about any of that, I would reply. No, I told myself. I wouldn’t try to phone Lorna. Maybe after I talked with somebody at Seattle First Trust tomorrow. Maybe then.
I rolled over and stared at the back of the sofa. Still off balance, that’s what I was. Off balance in Seattle. Maybe that’s how it would be for me in Seattle forevermore. How could you feel that way about the town you’d grown up in? Why did I feel like such a hulking alien here these days? Superfluous, that’s what I felt. In Seattle I was superfluous in the lives of everybody I knew. Benny and Dolly. Lorna. I couldn’t seem to do what any of them wanted of me.
Zither? Well, she didn’t really want anything of me. She just wanted to paint me without my clothes on. As a young man, it would have shocked me. But after the life I’d been living the past few years, that was pretty tame stuff. I heard her over at the sink doing something and rolled back around on the sofa.
“Hey, Zither?”
She turned toward me, her eyes ready for trouble. “Yes?”
“You’re all right.”
She blinked a couple of times. I dozed.
TWENTY-THREE
I looked and felt a lot better the next morning. Anybody who knew about that sort of thing could still tell I’d taken quite a beating in recent days, but the facial swelling had gone down enough so at least I could walk the streets without scaring the horses and children.
I thanked Zither for the hospitalization. She told me she’d be happy to have me stay on. I thanked her, but told her it would be better for me to find my own accommodations. It wasn’t that I felt I’d have to sing lustily for my supper if I stayed at her studio, the way I would have felt if I’d moved in with Lorna. There was just something that made me shy away. A part of my mind told me I was being noble, that my staying at the studio would put Zither in jeopardy, that the men who’d beaten me might find me there and hurt the girl as well. But a different part of my mind said something else. Timid. That’s the word Lorna had used. I wondered.
I took a taxi to a downtown car rental agency and got myself another compact car. Marietta Narcoff had called her main money man, Bill Shakey, and told him to be expecting a call from me. Shakey in turn gave me the number of a man named Clausen at Seattle First Trust. I phoned Clausen. He told me his morning was clear and to stop by anytime. I went over and chatted with him about First Trust’s role in the Potlatch Bay financial picture. It turned out the role wasn’t all that major. First Trust had been approached by the Potlatch developers and asked to handle the transfer of funds from a bank in Hong Kong. It was mostly minor paperwork, for which First Trust would get a fee. Like trimming your fingernails, almost. First Trust wasn’t really guaranteeing anybody anything despite the impression Lorna had given. First Trust was just going to handle the cash flow when the cash started flowing. It hadn’t yet.
From a pay phone in the vault-ceilinged bank lobby I tried to call Lorna, but she and Gene Olson had already left for the luncheon and press conference at the Olympic Hotel. I put some more coins into the phone and dialed Benny Bartlett.
“Boy, am I glad to hear from you,” he told me.
“Why? What’s up?”
“I’m up. I mean, I’ve been up since s
ix-thirty this morning. I’m packed and as good as checked out. I have to get out of this place. I gotta rejoin mankind.”
“Benny, there are reasons for you to keep your head down, remember?”
“I remember. There also are reasons for me to get out of here. Mental health comes to mind. If nothing else, I’m going up and join Dolly and the kids in Sequim. Seriously, Pete.”
I thought for a moment. Maybe he was right. We really hadn’t accomplished much by his hiding around town. I’d been busy on my wild goose chases and getting beat up. Benny read the newspapers and watched television and we were still as much in the dark today as we’d been more than a week earlier, when I first hit town. Some private detective.
“Okay, Benny, maybe you’re right. But let’s meet and talk about it. Right now I want to go see Lorna. She’s at a Potlatch Bay luncheon at the Olympic Hotel. Why don’t you meet me there?”
“I’m practically walking through the front door.”
I drove on up to the hotel and left my car in the garage where Gregory “Pappy” Boyington used to park cars in the days after this country was bombed into World War II. Boyington and some other hot-shot military flyers had been induced into resigning their commissions prior to this country’s entering the war and joining up with Claire Chennault’s Flying Tigers in Southeast Asia. There was a secret document held by the brass in Washington that stated in the event this country did go to war, these men would be allowed to quit the American Volunteer Group and be readmitted to their old service branch. But after Pearl Harbor, nobody seemed to remember that understanding. So far as Chennault was concerned, his flyers were to be inducted into the air corps for the duration of the war. Boyington said to hell with that, he was a marine and he was going to fight as one. He came back to this country and began lobbying for his reinstatement into the marine corps. He had family in the Seattle area and was told to go there and wait while his request was being processed. It took a while before he was sent back to the Pacific Theater of Operations, where he indeed did fight as a marine. He was nearly broke at the time, so while waiting to hear from Washington, he parked cars at the Olympic Hotel garage in Seattle.
