by G. M. Ford
I sat up and flicked on my light. She was wearing that ratty old flannel nightgown again. “I’m not trying to be a pain in the ass about this,” I said.
She made a “so what?” face but said, “I know.”
“Friday, I’m going back over to J.D.’s place. The county’s offer on the place closes the fifteenth. I’m going to use the time in the middle to do what Claudia’s paying me to do, which is to get a line on who killed her husband.”
She hooded her eyes, looking down at the bed. “I’m going to have to work on that agreeing to disagree stuff,” she said.
“I’m not very good at it.”
“Me neither,” I admitted.
In the basement the furnace turned on. I could feel the warm air from the register in the ceiling. “You know, Leo…in the past several months I’ve been making an effort to push our lives together more into the…into a more traditional pattern.”
Hence all the dinners with couples, the opera, her sudden insistence that I attend pathologist and medical examiner functions with her.
“More into the mainstream,” I said.
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“Nope. I’ve been doing my end, haven’t I? I showed up. I was polite.”
“That’s all you did.”
“Most of the people you’re talking about—I mean, what can I say?—I just don’t have much in common with them. It’s all investment strategies or office politics or how they’re in therapy together and learning so much or their next crosscountry skiing trip.” I sighed. Same old, same old. “Maybe it’s me,” I said.
“Doesn’t it seem odd to you that you’re middle-aged and half the people you know are criminals?”
“I’m in the crime business.”
“What you’re in is denial.”
“Should I go over and lie down on the couch, Doctor?”
I shouldn’t have said it, but there’s something about being psychoanalyzed by amateurs that brings out the worst in me. I always figure that since I don’t have the faintest idea why I do some of the things I do, it’s a good bet that nobody else does, either.
“Sorry,” I said.
She flopped down onto her back and stared at the ceiling. After a while, she said, “This isn’t getting us anywhere.” I told her I agreed. She said, “Didn’t I hear you on the phone with George yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting that bunch of drunks and donothings involved in this?”
When I didn’t answer, she pressed, “Well?”
“You told me not to tell you.”
She rolled away from me. “Turn off the light,” she said. I had the urge to laugh boldly and call out, Drunks and do-nothings, my ass; hell, girl, I’ve got a gay burglar, a pervert forger, a crippled wireman, a couple professional thugs and a who—Nah…not even in my dreams do I tell her about that one.
Floyd lived directly across the street from the Kingdome, in an ancient building without doors or windows on either of the first two floors. I know how that sounds, but trust me, I’ve walked all the way around and looked. More than once. The only hint as to how such a building might have come to be is found on the north and west sides, where patches of darker bricks betray a pair of windows on the north and, on the west, what at one time must have been a wide loading door, before it, too, was bricked in. All I could think of was that the place must have once been some sort of warehouse from which you then entered the floors above. Floyd gets in and out, so obviously, somewhere belowground, it’s connected to one of the nearby buildings, which, as it happens, in this part of the city is not nearly as unlikely as it might seem. In , when much of the city burnt to the ground, city officials decided to cure an old mistake and raise the level of Pioneer Square a bit higher above the tide line, so that the newly fashionable flush toilets would stop becoming sewage fountains during high water. Many of the brick buildings in Pioneer Square that had survived the fire were then buried alive up to their second stories, which became ground level, leaving a five-square-block area of the city with a town beneath its feet. For a mere six bucks you can take a tour. Maybe even have a commemorative rat named after you. What you did was push the buzzer that was mounted directly into the brick on the King Street side. Then you walk across the street and stand in front of the parking lot fence. Floyd will be along in a few minutes. You screw around and push the button for fun, and Floyd will be down even quicker, but you won’t be standing for long. I’d heard street talk about Floyd for years. Nothing solid, just a few murmurings to the effect that this guy was a serious shooter for hire. I’d originally gotten the Windjammer number from an old enforcer friend of my father’s named Frankie Ortega. Since Frankie himself had occupied the“baddest motherfucker in the valley” seat for the better part of twenty years, I was impressed when he told me to keep my mouth shut about where the number came from, because, as he put it, “I’m too old for the likes of that crazy motherfucker.”
When Floyd and I spoke a few days ago, we’d settled on a price. Talked it over and decided that we needed another hand. Floyd said he had a guy he’d worked with before. A Russian. That he’d had occasion to see the guy in action and had been suitably impressed. I said okay, but I wanted to meet him. We’d agreed that I’d come by the building, push the button and then meet them over at the Red White and Blue Café, a greasy spoon on Second Avenue. Floyd was a big guy, six-four or so, with the biggest wrists I’ve ever seen. He had curly hair, little close-set eyes and thick lips, under a nose that had seen a lot of wear and was flat at the tip. All that was left off his right ear was a withered flap of skin that stuck straight out from his head like a dried apricot.
We shook hands. “Long time no see,” he said.
“Nothing personal, man, but I’d just as soon not see you at all.”
“I’m kind of like the dentist that way,” he said. He tilted his head toward the nondescript-looking guy who was wedged up against the wall on his right. “This is the Russian.” He was about forty, five-ten or so and narrow all the way down. He sported a hair helmet that I suspected he dyed and a pair of those Moscow snow-cutter eyebrows that Russian men seem to sprout in middle age. “Does the Russian have a name?” I asked.
“Peek one,” the Russian said.
“How about Boris?” I suggested.
“Vhy you Americans tink ve are all named Boris?”
His English wasn’t any worse than, say, a drunken Canadian’s.
“It was a cartoon we all watched when we were kids.”
Floyd snapped his fingers. “That’s right…Boris Badenov,”
he said.
“Oh…” The Russian nodded. “Propaganda.”
He’d been a major in the Russian Army and was a veteran of the Afghan war. Been in the country for a year and a half. He had a résumé of villages sacked, livestock slaughtered and crops burned that was second to none. Seemed like just the guy I needed, so I took him on.
“Seriously though,” I said. “It’s got to be real names on this one. Valid ID. The whole ball of wax. No weapons without permits.”
“How come?” Inquiring Floyds want to know.
“Because we’re going to be taking on the powers that be, and the powers that be can instantly check on those kind of things.”
“The cops?”
“Yeah,” I said. For a second, my answer surprised me. I guess it was because I’d never verbalized it before. I’d spent a lot of time thinking about the night Rebecca and I were pushed over that cliff, and every time I ended up with the same question about the timing of the thing. How had they known we were coming? No way they could have been sitting there with the road blocked for very long. A couple of dozen families used that road. No…they knew just when we were going to arrive. Really, it was simple. I’d made two stops before starting back to J.D.’s. First one at Beaver Building Supply for a new lock and chain. Second one to leave a gate key with Deputy Spots. The former had no idea where I was going from t
here. Spots knew exactly where I was headed next. Pretty much a no-brainer.
I went over everything I had on my list. Used a napkin to draw a crude map of the cabin and the surrounding terrain. They were coming up on their own. Shooting for three or four tomorrow afternoon. They loved the river at our backs but hated the forest at our throats. I gave Floyd directions to the homestead and twenty-five hundred bucks for up-front expenses. He slipped a thousand to the Russian and pocketed the rest. He slid out of the booth so that the Russian could get out. I stood up and shook his hand.
“Seriously,” I said, “what’s your name?”
“Boris,” he said with a smile. “Vould I lie?”
I laughed. “Okay, Boris. See you tomorrow.”
Floyd and I stood next to the booth and watched him leave.
“What about you?” Floyd asked.
“What about me?”
“You capable of taking care of yourself or are we gonna need to wet-nurse you, too?” I pulled up my pants leg and then took off my cap. I was used to sympathy. Floyd looked at my wounds like they were mosquito bites.
“I can’t be duking it out with anybody,” I said. “Other than that I’m okay.”
“Tomorrow,” he said.
I made a show of pulling five hundred-dollar bills from my pocket and then flourished the cash in hand as I approached the receptionist’s desk.
“Lenny’s got some work ready for me,” I said boldly. She didn’t look up from her typing. “You know the way.”
“I’ll give you twenty bucks to go get it for me.”
She chuckled. “No way.”
“Fifty.”
“Forget it.”
Suffice it to say that Lenny was as I’d left him. “Over there,”
he said.
Sure enough, five official-looking envelopes, Seattle postmarks, canceled postage. Perfect. Beneath the envelopes, two typed pages.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“The one on top is Charlie’s phone spiel. He wrote it down so he wouldn’t forget. I thought maybe your phone guy could use it. The other one is directions to the addresses on the envelopes.”
“You know Stevens Falls?”
He made a disgusted face. “It’s on the web, Leo. Maps of every damn place in the world. If you want to waste your time on that crap.” He slapped the computer on its top.
“Goddamn phone lines are so friggin’ slow during the day. Got every little bastard in every school clogging up the airways. Ought to keep the little bastards off—”
I pointed at the screen. “Can you print that?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “You want one?”
“Please.”
A minute later he held a piece of paper by his fingertips.
“It’s wet,” he said.
I took the picture, left the money in place of the work and scrambled for the door.
“Thanks, Lenny,” I said on the way out.
“Wait…wait, you gotta see,” was the last thing I heard him say.
On my way by the receptionist’s desk, I slipped the picture onto the counter. She was reaching for it as I hit the door. I’d have walked right by her on the street. The blond hair was gone. So were the green contact lenses and the slinky raincoat. The woman who slid into the booth opposite me was the All-American Girl. Drop-dead cute. Curly brown hair worn close to the head, blue eyes and the kind of makeup job that makes you wonder if she’s wearing any.
“G said you wanted to talk.” She waved at the waitress, who seemed to know what the gesture meant. We were sitting in a booth at the Five Spot. A trendy café at the top of Queen Anne Hill. She read my eyes. “I’m a chameleon,” she said.
“Is Narva your real name?” I asked.
“Nobody’s named Narva.”
I told her what I knew about Constance Hart and Misty McMahon.
“The kid’s lucky to have her,” she said when I’d finished. The waitress showed up with a double tall latte of some sort, something brown sprinkled on top. “Hazelnut,” she said and took a sip. Ended up with a milk mustache, which looked great on her. “So?” she said.
“I have need of your services.”
She frowned, which also looked good on her. “Really?”
“Not for myself. For somebody else.”
Her brow smoothed out. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad to hear that.”
I wasn’t exactly sure how to take that, so I shut up.
“Not like that,” she said. “I meant good because I like to think I’m a good judge of people, and I didn’t make you for the type.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that, either, so I said, “Thanks. I didn’t make you for the type, either.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “Are you still fishing for a story?”
“Not me.”
“Let me ask you a question, Leo.”
“Shoot.”
“Are you involved with a woman?”
“Yes,” I said and gave her the abridged version.
“So you guys…you know…get it down once in a while…” She held up a hand. “I don’t mean to be personal. I’m merely making a point.”
“I understand.”
“So, Leo…Is it free?”
“Is what free?”
“The sex.” Before I could speak, she went on. “I’m not asking whether you leave money on the nightstand. I’m asking you as a man who’s involved in a long-term, committed relationship. I’m asking whether psychologically, emotionally…or even financially whether you’d characterize the service as being free.”
“Relationships have other benefits,” I hedged.
“I didn’t say otherwise.” She raised her eyebrows. “Is it?”
I thought it over. “Not strictly speaking,” I admitted.
“My point exactly. It’s not a question of whether you pay. It’s a question of what the price is and over what period of time the payments are made.”
“It’s like that joke about the difference between a pigeon and a dove.”
“Which is?”
“The dove has a better agent.”
She laughed and said, “So what is it you’ve got in mind?”
I told her. When I finished, she said, “That’s not very nice.”
“You abuse the public trust, you take your chances,” I said. She looked at me over the coffee. “My, my,” she chided.
“Indignation. And from the son of the legendary Wild Bill Waterman?”
“That was sharks bilking other sharks. The public didn’t enter into it.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “I guess we all have our stories, now, don’t we?”
If this were a boxing match, I’d be stopped on cuts, so I changed the subject.
“So what do you think?”
“I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m concerned for my safety.”
“I’ll be right there. Less than a hundred feet away.”
“Watching.”
“In a purely clinical fashion,” I said.
“No doubt.”
“Be a chameleon.”
She leaned back in the booth, hugging the coffee cup to her chest as she thought it over. “You were pretty impressive that night in Bellevue.”
“So were you,” I said.
“No…I mean it.”
“So do I.”
“I was terrified.”
“Me, too.”
“Bullshit. You were having fun. I could feel it.” She raised an eyebrow. “Trust me. I’m in the fun business. I knows it when I sees it.”
“So…we’ve got a deal.”
“My rate, plus expenses, plus you’ll owe me.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“We both know you can get this done a lot cheaper, Leo. I’d be glad to give you some names and numbers.”
I’d made up my mind. If I was going to do this, I was determined to give it my best shot. “No,” I said. “I need you.”
“It would have to be Monday or Tues
day. Wednesday and Thursday nights I have class.”
Monday was perfect. As Carl had so lyrically said, by then some of the turds ought to be floating. And by then I’d be a better judge of the tide.
“Monday, then,” I said. “Gives you, like, two whole days for…you know, in case he turns out to be hard to get.”
She laughed. “Sure,” she said.
She finished her coffee while we worked out the details. I threw a five on the table as we got to our feet. “A pleasure doing business with you,” I said.
“That’s the idea,” she said.
21
HAROLD AND RALPH DON’T GET OUT IN THE COUNTRYmuch. Passing out in Volunteer Park was their idea of confronting the unspoiled wilderness. I wish I’d had a camera when they first got out of the car at the Springer place. Tenthirty on a Friday morning. About the time they usually get out of bed. Hazy sunshine. Bright blue sky to the west. Fifty degrees. The rivers wearing a layer of fog like a mantle. Absolutely gorgeous. I don’t know whether it was the scale of the wilderness or whether it had dawned on them how far they were from the nearest liquor store, but they were blown away.
“Jesus,” Harold said. “You mean people lived here?”
“On purpose?” asked Ralph.
“What the hell do you do in a place like this?” Harold asked.
“Commune with nature,” I said.
“I could commune with a drink,” Ralph said.
“No shit,” said Harold.
They were getting sullen. It was understandable. After all, it was going on eleven in the morning and they were still sober.
“I’m going to drop you guys off at a tavern,” I said. Eventually, the cheering subsided.
“You’ve got the right men for the job,” Ralph declared.
“What do you need us to do?” Harold asked. I told them everything I knew about Ben Bendixon. How he used to be a regular at the Timbertopper. How he moved to Port Townsend to live with his daughter. How I needed somebody who knew the daughter’s name, or maybe somebody who’d kept in touch and had a number or an address. Anything. I wanted to talk to Ben Bendixon.
“I know you guys can do this,” I said. “Just go in there and do what you do best. Don’t mention me. Don’t mention J.D. Springer or this place. Tell ’em whatever you want. And promise me, if anybody gives you a hard time or takes offense at you wanting to know about Ben, back off. Play it cool. Just asking. No big deal, right?”
