The Deader the Better

by G. M. Ford

  “What is the big deal?” asked Harold.

  “The big deal is that I don’t know what the big deal is. Things keep happening around here that I don’t understand. I just want you to be careful. Okay?”

  They said it was. I gave them Cabin Number One. To those two it was the Taj Majal. A real bed, a kitchen and bathroom that worked. A front porch overlooking the river. It was like Ralphie said. “Nice place. Too bad it ain’t somewhere.”

  I packed them into the rental car and started back for town. I must have missed it on the way in. Probably so intent on getting off West River Road alive that I had tunnel vision. I turned right out of the driveway as Harold groped the dial for a radio station; my eyes drifted to the left and the Fox Creek Bridge.

  I slid the car to a stop, backed up, turned left over the bridge. Drove out to the middle and stopped. The Bogachiel was running hard but clear, one of those blue-green colors for which women have a specific name. Teal, maybe. I rolled over to the far end and looked around. Everything was gone. The gate, the barriers, the signs, everything. “Is this the way we come?” asked Ralph.

  “No,” I said.

  The bridge changed the trip to town from twenty-five minutes of curves and dips to ten minutes of smooth pavement. Whitey and the crew had finished painting the yellow line. It wavered in a few places. But, all in all, looked pretty darn good.

  Monty was sweeping up in front of the Black Bear when I drove by. I tooted the horn. Without looking up, he waved with the broom.

  Another mile up the road, I pulled the Malibu into an alley behind the Stevens Falls Veterinary Clinic, hidden from view, diagonally across the street from Freddy’s Timbertopper Tavern. “This is where we’ll meet,” I said. “I can’t have anybody seeing you with me.” I gave them twenty-five bucks apiece. “Right here,” I said. “Three o’clock.” It’s not often you see them jog.

  With a little help from his secretary, I found Emmett Polster just as he was leaving a construction site on Fifth Avenue. He was about sixty, thin with pointed features and rimless eyeglasses. He carried a rolled blueprint under his left arm and wore a yellow hard hat. “Mr. Polster,” I called. He stopped and turned, so I figured I had the right guy.

  “Yes.” His nose twitched as if he were testing the wind. I stuck my hand out. “Leo Waterman,” I enthused. “You’re a hard man to catch up to,” I said. Always tell public employees how hard they’re working. It matches their inner dialogue.

  “Lotta work to do,” he said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Waterman?”

  When he brought a hand up to wipe the corners of his mouth, I noticed his fingernails were bitten to the quick. I went into my good old boy friendly act.

  “I’m staying out at the Springer place. Got a bunch of friends coming out this weekend. Gonna do a little fishing before the run is over, and I was wondering if you could help me out with what it is that might be the matter with the electric and the plumbing in those guest cabins, ’cause I went around and tried everything and damned if it don’t all work, and I noticed your name on all those red tags and I sure don’t want to endanger anybody if there’s something, you know, like dangerous about them.”

  “To the untrained eyes, flaws in electrical or sewage systems are not always obvious.” He said it like he’d been rehearsing it, so I went over the top and lied.

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I enthused. “I said to myself…I said self…what do you know about this stuff? You better get somebody who’s expert in these matters before you go making any accusations. That’s why I’ve got a State Building Inspector coming Friday to have a look at the systems.”

  The longer I talked, the tighter his lips got. And unless I was mistaken, some of his color had drained out at the mention of the name Springer.

  “You can’t be out there,” he said. “The place has been sold to—”

  “Yeah, the city, I know, but you know, the deal don’t close till the fifteenth and we kinda figured we’d take this last opportunity to do a little fishing.” I gave him a lewd wink. “You know, get away from the little women for a week or so.”

  When I dug a playful elbow into his ribs, he jumped a foot and stepped back away from me. “Those structures have been banned from commercial use.”

  “Good thing we’re just a bunch of friends, then, huh?”

  I saw the light bulb go on as it dawned on him who I was. He started to put the corner of his index finger into his mouth, but caught himself and stuck the hand in his jacket pocket. “I don’t have to talk to you about this,” he announced. I tried to look hurt. “That’s not very polite,” I whined. “I was just trying—” He walked briskly over to a new Honda Accord, got in and locked the door.

  I pulled my notepad from my pocket and wrote down his plate number as he drove off. His face was tight as a fist in the rearview mirror. I gave him my best smile. Time to deliver the mail. Charlie would be proud of me. Charlie Boxer had been a part-time PI and full-time con man around the Pacific Northwest for forty years. Whenever he was scamming anybody and it didn’t seem like things were moving along quick enough for Charlie’s taste, he’d turn the screw a couple of notches. The mark would wake to find a city of Seattle assessment for thirty-two thousand dollars for sewer repairs. Or a threatening letter from a collection agency. Or he’d come home to find that someone had delivered six tons of coal in his driveway, exactly as he’d been so carefully instructed over the phone. Or all of the above.

  He tried a bunch of them, but eventually found that, pound for pound, the IRS audit packed more stress than any of the others. Always on a Friday. Something about coming home after a week of work to find a notification of audit that uses the bothersome clause “considerable amounts of undeclared income” and then quotes the federal statute for tax evasion, which uses the even more unfortunate phrase “for a period of three to five years in a Federal Correctional Facility.” It’s all a mistake, of course. Silly, really. You’ll just make a call and straighten the whole thing out. Except it’s Friday and the line’s busy. So you sweat for the weekend, only to call on Monday and have this supposed auditor absolutely ream you out like the filthy criminal you are and then give you an appointment for your audit about two weeks hence. Now you’re nervous. So you call your accountant and your attorney. Of course, by the time they get around to your little problem, the phone line is set on perpetual Lennon Sisters. So they call the real IRS, who quite naturally claim they don’t know anything about it. But having worked with these slugs before, the attorneys and accountants take cold comfort in this claim and demand a thorough search of IRS records before notifying their clients. You get the picture. Lenny’s directions started from the little park in the center of town. Tressman and his wife filed separate returns so they got one apiece. Weston was single. I saved Polster for last, so I could end the job with a nice fuzzy sense of satisfaction. The number they’d all soon be calling was that of a stolen cell phone I’d borrowed from Carl, plugged into the wall in my kitchen back in Seattle and rigged to forward all calls to the office in the Zoo. That way nobody was going to be able to run a caller ID number on us. Not coincidentally, the number was going to be busy for the rest of the afternoon. Friday, you know. That gave them the whole weekend to stew. Starting Monday, George was going to man the phone at the Zoo during regular business hours. I’d given him Charlie Boxer’s script, fifty bucks in cash and a twenty-dollara-day bar tab. Terry promised to do the best he could to keep George sober while he was working. I was keeping my fingers crossed.

  Harold and Ralph were a couple of minutes early, juiced and sloppy. They piled in the back together, leaving me up front like the chauffeur. I eased along the back of the stores, out into the street, turned left, then right onto the highway. As soon as I was up to speed, I asked, “How’d it go?”

  “Not a daughter,” Ralph slurred. “A granddaughter.”

  “Put on some music, will ya, Leo?” Harold said.

  “Name of Pamela,” Ralph said.

&
nbsp; “No last name?”

  “Nobody knew.”

  “Find somethin’ with a beat, will ya, Leo?”

  “What else?”

  “None of that hip hop shit, neither.”

  “Like you said, he was a regular. Come in every day about nine, went home six or seven. Nobody knew for how long. Longer than any of them anyway.”

  “Leo, will ya please—”

  “Harold,” I said sharply.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t make me come back there and kill you.”

  “Sheeesh…what a grouch,” he mumbled.

  “What else, Ralph?”

  “Just tryin’ to have a little…”

  “It’s all anybody knew. Nobody heard from him since he left. One guy name of Swede says he heard the granddaughter don’t let him drive no more.”

  “…cause some people got no goddamned…”

  The church was still closed and empty. The Steelhead Tavern open and full.

  On the surface, it wasn’t much. No help on a name or a number. There was, however, the fact that the guy had been a daytime regular at Freddie’s Timbertopper since before the beginning of time. Which in this case probably meant since the mid-seventies when his wife died. I already knew the answer, but I asked anyway. “So…Harold.”

  A sullen, “What?”

  “Put yourself in Ben’s place. You’re getting way along in years and you’ve got no choice, you’re moving in with your granddaughter.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you do next? You’re in a new town. You know nothing about the place, and she won’t let you drive anymore.”

  He thought it over. “Have I got any money?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Find a new gin mill,” he said.

  “Someplace I can walk to,” Ralph added.

  “Better be close. He’s old,” I said. “What are his other options?”

  “If I got money, I can take a cab,” Harold reasoned.

  “It’s either that or get religion,” Ralph added solemnly. I must have thought out loud. “How many gin mills can there be in Port Townsend?” because otherwise Harold read my mind and said, “Lots, I hope.”

  “Tomorrow I’m going to send you two to Port Townsend. First thing I want you to do is go to all the cab companies. See if anybody’s got an old guy coming and going from some bar every day. If that doesn’t work, start in on the taverns.”

  They reckoned how it was a filthy job, but since they felt so highly about me personally, they’d put aside a rash of objections and muddle through the best they could. When the Malibu emerged from the tunnel of trees into the light of the driveway, I could sense there was a problem. Deputy Harlan Spots was standing behind the door of the squad car, his service revolver in his right hand and pointing straight down at the ground. From forty feet away I could see his hand shaking. Thirty feet in front of him, Floyd and Boris lounged against the trunk of a blue Buick. Floyd was cleaning his nails with a pocketknife. Boris was watching Deputy Spots with a bemused expression. The deputy heard the sound of the tires on the gravel. He turned and his face fell. Whoever he was expecting, we weren’t it. I parked next to the Blazer. “Get down and stay down,” I said to Harold and Ralph and got out. “Is there a problem?”

  “Damn right there’s a problem,” Spots wheezed. “I’m arresting these two.”

  “What for?”

  “For not doing what I told ’em to.”

  “That’s not a crime.”

  “Is too. Interfering with an officer in the performance of his duties.”

  “What duties were those?”

  “Patrolling this place.”

  “And they interfered with you doing that?”

  “They wouldn’t get in the car “That’s not a crime, either.”

  His cheek was beginning to twitch. “Maybe you ought to get over there with those two,” he said, “until the sheriff—”

  “No,” I said. “I’ll stay right where I am, thanks.”

  I heard Boris chuckle. “Dat’s vhat ve told him.”

  Our little party was interrupted by the sound of tires and the roar of an engine. Nathan Hand and Bobby Russell were out of the Sheriff’s Crown Victoria before it stopped rocking on the springs. Russell held a black riot gun across his chest. Hand slowly surveyed the scene and said, “Harlan, put the gun away.” Spots looked like he was going to cry. “Sheriff, these men—”

  “Put it away,” Hand said again, softly this time. Deputy Spots did as he was told.

  “What happened here?” Hand asked. He kept asking Spots questions. “Did they give you their identification?” Spots said yes. “Where is it now?” Turned out to be on the driver’s seat of the patrol car. Hand picked it up and motioned to Deputy Russell, who came over and took the driver’s licenses back to Hand’s car. I watched as he brought the microphone to his mouth.

  “And then you told them to get in the car.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Spots looked around like one of us was going to help him with the answers.

  “They said they’d rather not.”

  Hand looked over at me.

  “He could tell ’em to paint the patrol car yellow,” I said“…and they wouldn’t have to do that, either. He asked for ID. They gave it to him.”

  “Harlan,” the sheriff said. “Go back to the station.”

  Deputy Spots wanted to argue, but restrained himself. It took him three tries to maneuver his car between the sheriff’s and the edge of the cabin. We stood and watched as he chugged back up the driveway and out of sight. Deputy Russell returned from the car. “No wants on either of them. The big one rented the car with a Visa card in his own name.”

  The sheriff motioned with his head. Deputy Russell crossed the gravel to Floyd and Boris and returned their driver’s licenses. He lingered for a moment, casting what he imagined to be a hard look at the pair, who returned the favor by looking him up and down in the manner of tolerant parents toward a precocious child. He rested his hand on the butt of his gun as he walked back toward Sheriff Hand. Hand again turned his attention to me. “Didn’t figure to see you again.”

  “Thought I’d do a little fishing,” I said. He looked over at Floyd and Boris. “And these two?”

  “They’re my fishing buddies,” I said.

  “Don’t much look like fishermen to me,” Hand said. “What about you, Bobby? These two look like outdoor enthusiasts to you?”

  “No sir, they don’t,” he replied. “Not sure what they look like to me, but it sure ain’t fishermen.”

  “Can the fishing buddies talk?” Hand inquired.

  “Yes, ve can,” said Boris.

  “It’s true,” added Floyd.

  Hand stuck his tongue in his cheek and looked from one to the other.

  “What say I have a look in that car,” he said.

  “What say you don’t,” said Floyd.

  “Are you refusing me permission?”

  “Big as life,” Floyd said, without looking up from his nails.

  “Probable cause ees a vonderful ting,” said Boris. Hand stiffened his spine even more and then turned to me.

  “You know Mr. Waterman, considering what happened to you the last time you visited our fair city, I would have thought you would have taken your vacation plans elsewhere.”

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff, if I gave you the impression that I was here on vacation,” I said. “I am planning on doing a little fishing, but mostly I’m going to be investigating the murder of J.D. Springer.”

  “For a client?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” I said. Nathan Hand walked around in a small circle. “I’ve been patient with you. Hell, my deputy here probably saved your lady friend’s life out there on West River Road last month. But…you just don’t seem to get the message, do you?”

  “I’m renowned for my hard head.” I pulled off the Sonics cap and showed him my stitches. “Literally and figuratively,”


  I added.

  Our eyes locked and stayed that way. All the good old boy pretense was gone now. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said. “You could end up with something they can’t sew back together.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I assured him. He turned around and sauntered toward his car. “Sheriff,”

  I called. I used my sweetest tone. “We won’t be needing that extra patrol anymore. Thanks for the help.”

  His eyes flicked over at Floyd and the Russian. “Figure you got all the help you gonna need, do you?” When he smirked, his eyes nearly closed.

  I couldn’t resist. “We can’t all have Deputy Spots on our side, Sheriff.”

  It didn’t ruin his day, but it sure opened his eyes. He expelled another whale breath, gave me a little two-fingered salute on the brim of his hat and then took his sweet-ass time getting in the car, buckling up and getting on the road. I turned to the pair leaning on the car. “When cops point guns at you, you really ought to try to look scared. It makes them nervous if you don’t.”

  “Bubble Butt didn’t need any help being nervous,” Floyd said.

  He bumped himself off the trunk, slipped the key into the lock and lifted the lid.

  “Take Cabin Three,” I said and then turned back toward the driveway. “Hey,” I yelled. The rented Chevy remained still. I yelled again. “Okay.” Nothing.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw Floyd and Boris exchange puzzled glances. I gestured toward the car. “Harold and Ralph,” I said.

  “The Booze Brothers,” Floyd said without enthusiasm. Boris and Floyd each carried a long blue athletic bag with a white swoosh and a black rifle case sans swoosh. I walked across the gravel toward the car. I should have known. They were crapped out. Ralph snored. Harold drooled onto his arm. They seemed peaceful, so I left them alone. Floyd and Boris emerged from the cabin carrying identical rifles. Floyd read my face. “Perfectly legal,” he said. “.2 semiautomatics. Varmint guns. Reworked clips that hold forty-eight rounds. Virtually flat trajectory inside four hundred yards.” He gave me what passed for a smile. “Tend to put nice clean holes in things. Keeps the complications to a minimum.” He slipped one of the clips into the bottom of the gun and then leaned the gun low against the porch. I checked my watch. Three-thirty. An hour of daylight. At ground level, the afternoon was still, only the ripple of breaking water cutting intervals into the silence. Above us, boxcar clouds, dark around the edges and dangerous-looking, rolled in hard from the west carrying moisture and the smell of the sea.