The Bum's Rush (9 page)

The way I saw it, there were only two
possibilities. Either three blocks of downtown Seattle had been
vaporized by aliens, or 905 Union must be buried somewhere down
under the Washington State Convention Center. I headed back toward Pike
Street, keeping a sharp eye peeled for anyone sporting an antenna.

About ten years ago, faced with a desperate need
for a showplace convention center, but lacking any downtown property
whatsoever upon which to build one, the city and the state had hit upon
a novel solution. They closed two of the overpasses that crossed the
freeway, bridged the space between with steel and concrete, and built a
massive, greenglassed temple of commerce directly on top of the busy
interstate. Creative government at its finest.

This time, as soon as I recrossed the highway, I
took a hard right on Hubbell, driving down, seemingly into the basement
of the city. Hubbell Street was virtually buried now, the rerouted
freeway roaring in its front yard, the thirty-foot, ivy-covered
retaining walls keeping it in perpetual shade, giving it a nearly
medieval quality. Two blocks down, I found it, a splintered little
thirty-yard section of Union running nearly straight uphill, wedged
hard between the interstate and the Convention Center parking garage.

I parked the Fiat in a wide turnout facing the
northbound interstate traffic and walked diagonally back across Hubbell
to 905, a five-story blond brick block of a building, dwarfed by the
surrounding jungle of steel and concrete, as dated and out of place as
a flapper at fetish night. The leadedglass transom read, "The Ivy.
1927."

The door security system told me that Karen
Mendolson lived in 505 and that the manager, Gladys Skeffington, was in
166. I rang 166 and was instantly greeted with a harsh buzzer and the
sound of the automatic lock snapping back. I stepped inside onto the
wild purple floral carpet and followed the signs around the corner to the left.

Gladys Skeffington was waiting for me in her
apartment door. She was about seventy, wearing a mumu in a bright
orange floral print. Her rolled and segmented arms and legs seemed to
be sewn to the edges of the garment, allowing the rest of her to remain
completely at large, moving apparently at random beneath the three
acres of bright fabric like an overheated Lava Lamp.

Either she had considerably overestimated the
surface area of her lips, or she considered the application of lipstick
to be a far more creative enterprise than most. Horizontally it reached
nearly around to her ears; vertically it ended just beneath her nose.
Under other circumstances, the abundance of makeup could have lent a
festive effect. Her facial expression suggested otherwise.

''Wadda you want?'' Her voice was an octave lower
than mine. I found myself totally at a loss for words. She stood there
slowly chewing on her gums, looking up at me. Strings like little brown
rubber bands connected her lips as she worked them up and down.

"I'm looking into the disappearance of Karen Mendolson."

"Who says she's disappeared?"

"The people down where she works are concerned. She hasn't -"

"What would those two yo-yos know?" She went back to her chewing.

"I was hoping that maybe you could "

"Why should I?" More chewing. I looked away.

"Why not?" Two could play at this game.

"I already told those other two idiots."

"How about making it three?"

She looked me up and down twice.

"Well, you're a bit on the beat-up side, but you're still better-looking than those other two," she said finally.

I gave her my best Boy Scout posture. "At your service."

She waved a ridged finger in my face. "Don't be
gettin' smarmy with me neither, Buster. Like I'm some old fart. Just
because I've got some wear on my tires don't mean I'm ready for the
junkyard."

I hunched my shoulders and silently denied all.

Unconvinced, she tapped me twice with the finger. "I could still leave the likes of you for dead. Wadda you think of that?"

"I think maybe you overestimate both of us," I said.

She managed a small smile. "We'll see." She pulled
the door open, turned her back, and shuffled into the room. I took this
as an invitation and followed her in. She stopped, turned, and looked
at me.

"Wait here. I'll make some tea," she said,
massaging her gums. She moved me aside and headed back the way we'd
come toward what I presumed to be the kitchen.

Hermetically sealed. The place smelled of fresh
cabbage and dead skin. Narrow paths were worn into the minuscule areas
not covered by furniture. The furniture and lamp shades were covered in
plastic. The plastic gave me the impression that maybe the likes of me
wasn't allowed up on the furniture, so I stood and waited.

Turned out I wasn't. She reappeared five minutes
later with a tray. After surveying the room, she reluctantly waved me
toward a plastic-wrapped wing chair and without further ado began
serving me something green in a blue bucket. Actually, it was a huge
blue cup. The matching saucer was half the size of a hubcap. I felt
like Alice.

She settled herself on the couch. She smelled of
dust and potted violets. "What's your interest in this, Bosco? You're
sure as hell no librarian like those other two."

I produced a business card from my pocket and handed it to her.

"A private dick, huh?"

"On my better days."

"Why would a private dick be looking for Karen Mendolson?"

"I can't really say. But I assure you "

She slurped a mouthful of tea with such force that
it sounded like she was gargling. "Don't matter," she said when she'd
swallowed. "I know just about nothin' about her except she had good
references and she paid her rent on time. Quiet girl. Kept to herself.
Never had any trouble with her. Wish to God they were all like that
girl."

"Nothing?" I probed.

"Nope," she said. "Nobody knows anything about
anybody else anymore. They're all strangers to each other. They live
here, all huddled up together, but alone. They nod at each other in the
halls. That's it."

"How long has she lived here?"

"Since eighty-six, when they buried us alive."

"She moved in after the construction?"

"We my husband Jack was still alive then we had to
come way down on the rents. Lost most of our long-term tenants. There
used to be a nice little peekaboo view of the Sound from four and
five." She narrowed her eyes. "Now it's like being in Sing Sing."

"So she was a good tenant?"

"Oh yeah." She nodded. "Still is. Real unusual
these days. Back before we was buried alive, people used to stay in one
place for a while. Most of the folks we had then had been here the
better part of ten years. Can't replace tenants like that, you know. Not all this running from
place to place you got now." She waved her pleated arms. "Going here.
Transferred there. Moving in with my boyfriend. You name it. Seems like
nobody grows roots anymore. I should have more of them like the
Mendolson girl. Settled. Steady."

"That's the problem," I said.

She stopped the cup halfway to her mouth. "What?"

"I get the same story from the people she works with."

"What story is that?" she asked.

"That she's a real reliable person. That it's not at all like her to be missing for a week or so without telling anybody."

"So?"

"So, they're worried about her."

"So what do you want from me?"

"I'd like to have a look at her apartment."

She shook her head. "Can't do that. She's paid up."
She put her cup on the table. "Hell, she's paid up through the end of
next month."

"Next month?"

"Last time she paid, she paid for two months."

"Did she usually do that?"

"Hell, no. First time. I was " A cloud of confusion darkened her face. "I thought maybe she was going on vacation or something."

I waited. She retrieved her cup and inhaled another quart I of tea.

"You think something might have happened to her?"

"I have no way of knowing. I just started on this,
but I think missing ten days of work without telling anybody is way
outside this woman's usual behavior pattern."

"Like paying advance rent."

"That just makes it worse."

She mulled it over. Again, she wagged a meaty
finger in my direction. "You're smoother than you look," she said.
"You're trying to scare me, aren't you? That's, what you're trying to
do."

"I'm being straight with you."

"I don't like the idea of busting up somebody's
privacy. It's bad for business. This is a real quiet building. That's
what these people want."

"I don't like the idea much either," I said. "But
I'm thinking that I'd rather make a mistake by being too damn concerned
and pushing my nose in where it's not needed than by sticking my head
in the sand and pretending nothing's wrong. That's the attitude gets
people killed in full view of thirty of their fellow citizens. I think
I can live with being a busybody a whole lot easier than I can live
with any of the other possibilities."

She swirled the tea in her cup. First one way, then
the other. Then back the other way. "I wish you hadn't said that," she
said finally.

"Why's that?"

" 'Cause that's just what I've been thinking about
ever since those two gals came here." She banged her cup back into the
saucer. "Matter of fact, I haven't slept a wink all week thinking about
it."

She stood and snatched both cups from the table.
Mine, still full, sloshed over into the saucer and onto her thumb. She
looked me in the eye. "You won't touch anything. You'll just look
around?"

I gave her Scout's honor. She nearly threw the tray at me.

"I'll get the key," she said. "You wait right here." 

Karen Mendolson's living room furniture was
arranged in the middle of the room, facing in at itself. White couch, I
matching chairs and ottoman. If you looked closely, they had a subtly
embossed pattern in blue and burgundy. Glasstopped coffee and end
tables. Just beginning to collect noticeable dust. Brass lamps. A peach
and baby blue imitation oriental rug covered most of the oak plank
floor. Matching little rug in front of the slider. Antique oak
sideboard on the left-hand wall. Entertainment center on the right.
Several old Bumbershoot posters were framed on the walls.

I tilted the chairs back and looked underneath for
a stray magazine or a slipper. I looked down in the cushions. Not even
crumbs. I walked softly over to the entertainment center and opened the
double doors beneath the television. About forty CDs were arranged
alphabetically in an oak carousel. Heavy on the Neil Diamond and James
Taylor. Ten or twelve classical cassette tapes, also alphabetized. A
videotape of The Jane Fonda Workout. A boxed set of Gone with the Wind.
Fonda before Gone.

I went over to the sideboard and opened the drawers
on top. The family silver was neatly arranged in the little
compartments. A little off-color, but still silver. Napkin rings, lace
tablecloths, place mats, finger bowls. Underneath, the family china was
arranged according to height. Little hooks for the little cups.

After rummaging my way through the kitchen, I
headed down the hall toward the bedroom. Small, feminine bathroom on
the right. I stepped in. Little ornate soaps in a crystal dish on the
counter. Matching pink toilet cover and throw rug. Flamingos cavorted
on the glass shower door. Beneath their watchful red eyes, I went
through the room carefully. Nothing in the drawers of the vanity except
used over-the-counter medicines. The only toothbrush was still sealed in its plastic case. No toothpaste. No
makeup case. No Q-Tips. No cotton balls. No deodorant. Having already
answered my first question, I headed down the hall.

The bedroom was all the way down on the left. All
yellow and white. The yellow bedspread looked Mexican and matched the
drapes. The carpet was off-white. More framed posters of Seattle
events. There were three dressers, a makeup table, and a rustic cedar
chest at the foot of the bed.

The first dresser was for underwear and stockings.
I hate going through women's drawers. It never fails to make me feel
shabby. I did it anyway. When I finished, I walked over and checked the
laundry hamper in the corner of the room. Empty. Either Karen Mendolson
managed to get by with only three pair of frayed cotton panties, or her
underwear stash was elsewhere.

The next dresser was for accessories. Purses,
belts, scarves, and a number of esoteric items I couldn't identify. I
took my time. Nothing in any of the purses except a wad ded-up tissue
and a tampon applicator. I mentally added tampons to my list of things
that were conspicuously missing from the bathroom.

The third dresser wasn't a dresser at all, but slid
apart on silent rollers to reveal a cleverly designed computer
workstation. A gray Hewlett-Packard printer sat forlornly on the lower
shelf. Everything else even vaguely electronic was gone. To the left,
where the dust outline of the computer was still visible on the desk, a
black-and-white plastic box held about twenty diskettes. To the right,
a black wrought-iron gizmo kept bills neat and tidy with a series of
metal clothespins. I riffled through the bills. Heat, electric, the
Bon, Nordstrom, a Seafirst Bankcard, a credit account at Computer City. All paid in full. I
pocketed them. As an afterthought, I popped open the plastic case,
stuffed the diskettes into the inside pocket of my jacket, and started
for the door.

"Mr. James is with a client, Mr. Waterman. But we
have instructions to put you through no matter what. So, if you'll
hold, it may be a minute or so."

"Thanks," I said.

I gritted my teeth through three minutes of Bobby Vinton singing "Roses Are Red, My Love."

Jed rescued me. "Yeah, Leo."