Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (14 page)

I eased myself down in the seat and turned the key. I'd forgotten how good
the throaty rumble of an American V-8 sounded. Arnie shook his head dejectedly.
"A real ozone ripper, Leo. This baby'll pass anything on the road except a
gas station. Did you know - "

I changed the subject. "Where's Nadine?"

"She went out for a walk the other day and didn't come back."

"Really." I tried to sound surprised.

"No sweat," he said. "Pussy may well be the only true
renewable resource, Leo. I've got another one lined up for when I get
back." I had to admire a man with that kind of insight and planning.

"Listen . . . Sooner or later, when they can't find me, the cops are
going to -  Back from where?"

"I'm flying down to Eugene in the morning for the Dead concert."

"When's that?"

"Saturday, like always. You want to come along?"

"No thanks." Frightening thought. "When are you coming
back?"

"Sunday morning."

"maybe you ought to stay longer."

"Oh, you mean the cops. No sweat, Leo. The storm troopers don't worry
me. I won't be intimidated by the heat." He slipped into character, one
hand raised theatrically above his head, eyes on a distant horizon. "I
have been to the mountain . . . Besides that" - he winked - "none of
these cars is registered to me. I don't know shit." A look of horror
crossed his face. "You didn't tell them I owned the wagon, did you?"

"I just told them to tow it back here when they were through with
it."

"No problem then. I haven't actually owned a car since seventy-one.
These" - he swept his arm around the backyard - "are all remnants of
a postindustrial society gone mad. Relics of the age of plenty. The decadent
art of the nineties. Did you know that if we'd recycled every American car since
nineteen-sixty - "

He seemed to have his end covered. I needed to get down the road.

"Will you get the gate for me?" I asked.

" - mas es mejor, more is better. The American Way - "

He was still talking as he walked toward the gate. " - private ownership
of the means of production has led us to the brink of ecological
disaster." At least he was walking while he was talking. He opened the
gate. I drove through.

He came around to the window and stuck his hand inside. We pumped the secret
handshake. Arnie always made me feel like I was missing my decoder ring.
"Good luck, Leo."

"Thanks, Arn. Have fun down south."

"Oh, I will, Leo. Bettine - you remember Bettina, don't you?" He
smirked. Bettina was Arnie's first and only wife. A counterculture diva. We'd
detested one another. "I'm staying with her. She's flying back up with me
for the party." I made it a point not to ask, but it was to no avail.

"You're coming to the party, right?" Now, I had to ask.

"What party?"

"My fortieth. Didn't you get the invitation? I left a message on your
machine yesterday."

"I haven't been home much lately," I said. I hated these blasts
from the past almost as much as I hated Bettina.

"Come on, man, you've gotta come. Everybody's gonna be there. Wendy and
her new hubby, Morris, Rebecca, everybody."

"Hey, Arn, you know I'd like to come. But Bettina and I, we don't
exactly - "

"You're not gonna let her drive you off, are you?"

"As I remember, you moved to Guatemala in the middle of the
night."

"That was different. You call Tom Romans yet?" he asked quickly,
changing the subject. I looked blank. "The guy whose number I gave
you."

"Not yet. A lot's happened since then." I thought I was home free.
No such luck. Arnie was too smooth for me.

"He might be coming to the party." With no escape in sight, I
reluctantly agreed to put in a guest appearance on Sunday afternoon.

"Don't forget," he grinned as I inched forward. "From a
Beamer."

A promise is a promise. I wheeled out of Arnie's yard, turned left down to
Forty-fifth and got on the interstate, heading north. I wanted to do as little
driving as possible on the expired plates. I needed a mall. Someplace where I
could lift some tags without being seen. It was Friday night. The malls would be
jammed. I headed up to Northgate.

It was so easy that for a fleeting moment I considered doing it again the
next time the Fiat came up for renewal. Right at the end of my first pass down
the first row, there it was, backed up against the fence all by itself, a
little gleaming black Mercedes convertible, a full half mile from the mall. The
owner had undoubtedly chosen the isolated spot as a hedge against door dings.
It wasn't a BMW, but I felt certain that Arnie would approve.

Twenty minutes later, looking legal as hell, I was back downtown. I had
calls to make. Easy one first. I could count on Hector. Thirty-five years in
Castro's Cuba, sixteen days in a leaky rubber raft, and thirteen months in a
federal detention center in Tennessee had left Hector with a deep abiding
distaste for the authorities.

"Hector, it's Leo." Why in hell was I whispering.

"Oh, Leo, Leo," he whispered back. "Chew got prolems,
Leo."

"Have I had any visitors?" Stupid question.

"Doan come bach ere, Leo. Dey yoost left."

"Okay, thanks Hector. Did they leave anybody in my apartment?"

"No, but dey coming back. Mudderfokers."

"Listen, Hector, I'm supposed to be watering Mrs. Gunderson's plants
while she's away. You suppose you could take care of that for me for a few
days? She'll be back in a week."

"No prolem, Leo."

"One more thing, Hector. When you come out in the morning, there's
going to be a red Chevy pickup with a camper out in the building parking lot.
In Mrs. Gunderson's slot. Don't have it towed. It's me."

Hector giggled maniacally. "Right oonder deir fucking noses, eh, Leo?
Bueno, bueno." I wasn't sure how bueno it was, but it was a start.

Next, I called SPD Forensics and asked for Rebecca Duvall. For once, my
timing was perfect. She was just cleaning up and would be with me shortly.

"Duvall."

"Rebecca, it's Leo." She took an audible breath.

"I just finished up on him, Leo. He was a friend, I understand."

"You could say that. What's the verdict?"

"Cause is no problem. Single gunshot to the head. Point-blank range. A
great deal of powder residue. Steel-jacketed, three-fifty-seven, would be my
guess. I don't have anything for comparison. As I understand it, the slug
exited the passenger window."

"At least it was quick," I said. She took another deep breath. I
waited.

She outlasted me. Rebecca Duvall wasn't squeamish. Fifteen years as a
forensic pathologist will eliminate one's gag reflex. I forced myself to push.

"Just one to the head?"

"Not exactly," she said.

"Well?"

"You sure you want to hear this, Leo? You tend to be squeamish."

"Tell me." I could hear papers rustling.

"In addition to the entrance and exit wounds, he's got two broken
fingers. One a full compound fracture, the other a clean break. He's also got
several nonlethal knife wounds on the front right side of his neck."

"Like somebody held a knife to his throat and worked on his
fingers."

"That's what it looks like," she said. "Looks to me like he
held out for one finger. The left index is really spiraled. The right middle's
not nearly as bad." I started to speak; Duvall didn't stop. "I had to
clean him up, Leo. He'd . . . ah . . . voided. That's not at all consistent
with gunshot wounds."

"So whoever it was worked on him until they got what they wanted and
then shot him anyway."

"I'm sorry, Leo, but it looks that way."

"I need a favor," I said.

"What?" She was on guard.

"Hang on to him for a few days, will you? Maybe lose his paperwork
until I can arrange something. I don't think he has anybody else."

"Will do, Leo."

"Thanks."

"And Leo," she said, as I was about to hang up. "If it's any
consolation, he had maybe a year and a half, at the outside. No more. Both his
liver and pancreas were shot. His liver was the color of - "

I interrupted. "Thanks again, Rebecca. I owe you one."

"No. Leo. This is more like fifty-one. Speaking of which - "

"Yes?"

"Has Arnie braced you about this party of his on Sunday?"

" ‘Fraid so."

"You going?"

"Are you?"

"If you do."

"I don't want to."

Me neither."

"I promised," I said.

"Me too."

"What time?"

"Around two."

"Don't be late."

"See you there." Dial tone.

Duvall had answered one of my nagging questions. Whoever had incinerated
Robert Warren and tried to roast me had come prepared for both of us. The Fiat
had been well hidden. Somebody had looked hard with the expectation that I was
somewhere in the area. Somebody who didn't want me talking to Robert Warren.
That meant that whoever it was had already been aware of Warren. I was just a
bonus.

I dialed Tim Flood's number. Trask was right. Getting lost was a stopgap
measure at best. Sooner or later, I was going to have to answer some questions.
Tim might as well know. No answer. Tim was apparently getting around better
than Frankie let on. I headed for the Zoo.

I parked the truck three blocks away and approached on foot. At this point,
I was nothing more than a material witness in an out-of-town investigation; I
figured it would be a couple of days before anybody wanted me bad enough to
start canvassing for me. Wrong again.

I nearly walked into them. If I hadn't spent the last hour liberating
license tags, I might not have noticed the tax-exempt plates. There were two of
them in a blue unmarked Chevy. They probably thought they were inconspicuous,
just sitting there doing nothing, parked half in, half out of a bus stop at
ten-thirty at night. I crossed the street two cars behind them and doubled back
toward the camper.

Four blocks past the truck, I found a working pay phone and called the Zoo.
I asked for George. I guess George didn't get many phone calls. I had to
describe him. I waited. One of the cops was out on the sidewalk stretching and
casually scanning the street. All I could make out was a well-tailored blue
suit and the beginning of a bald spot.

"Hello." George, tentative and smashed.

"George. It's Leo." It took  him a minute to process.

"Oh, Jesus, Leo, have you heard about - "

"I know, George. I need to see you guys. Are Harold and Ralph
there?"

"Yep. Oh, God Leo - those sonsabitches," he sobbed.

"Listen to me, George. Are you listening to me?"

"I'm listening, Leo." He sniffled.

"Get Harold and Ralph and - "

"Un huh."

"Walk out the front door and turn left."

"I don't think Ralph can make it, Leo. He's a little - "

"You and Harold help him. It'll look better that way anyway."

"Harold's not so good either."

"It's important, George."

"Okay, turn left - "

"Walk up about four blocks. You'll see a red truck with a camper. Walk
around the back and get in the camper. You got that?"

"Around the back to the camper. I got it."

"Make it as quick as you can." I hung up, crossed the street, and
approached the camper from the rear. I unlocked the door, stepped up inside,
closed all the little flowered curtains, opened the slider between the
passenger compartment and the camper, and crawled through the window into the
driver's seat.

Cleverly disguised as a spastic conga line, the boys were halfway to the
truck. Ralph's arms were draped fraternally over the shoulders of the other
two. The trio treated curbs as if they were canyons, pawing with one foot until
one or the other located solid ground and then collectively lurching onward.
They wandered over the entire width of the sidewalk, occasionally bouncing off
the buildings and parked cars, but careening steadily forward, until, just as
they drew even with the cops, George, his attention riveted on Ralph, walked
smack into a parking meter and dropped to his knees, dragging the other two
with him. The nearest cop got out. I started the truck. The party was over.

One by one, he helped them back to their feet. As the crew resumed its
journey, the cop stood on the sidewalk and watched, shaking his head. The cop
was tall, six-four or so, horn-rimmed glasses lending a little character to his
smooth boyish face. His bald spot reflected the overhead lights as he leaned
down and said something to the driver, then straightened up and resumed
watching. The crew had barely a block to go when, mercifully, he finally lost
interest and got back in the car.

They stuffed Ralph in first. He lay across the tailgate with his head and
shoulders inside the door and softly began to snore. George and Harold used him
as a throw rug as they climbed aboard. Taking Ralph by the shoulders, they
yarded him up near the front of the camper and closed the door.

"Sit down fellas, we're going to take a little ride," I said
through the window. George and Ralph sat in the built-in booth on opposite
sides of the tiny table. Ralph continued to snore. George was livid.

"Did you see that dumb fucker in the glasses run right into me,
Leo?"

"Never gave an inch, did he, George?"

"That fucker was solid," he replied.

Instead of continuing up the street past the cops, I backed the truck up,
hung an immediate right, and started radically downhill toward the lake.
Something bumped against the back of me, rocking the cab. I snuck a look over
my shoulder. Ralph, now in the fetal position, had slid all the way up against
the cab.

"Ralph took it hard, Leo," said Harold. I was thinking that Ralph
took such disasters as sunrise hard, but kept my mouth shut.

I wound down Eastlake and parked in the deserted parking lot of a boatyard.
I left the interior lights off. No sense attracting undue attention. I stuck my
head through the slider.