Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (17 page)

"Okay," he said. "What are we gonna do then?'

I told him. "You think you can handle it?" I asked when I'd
finished. I already knew the answer. Harold had gained a certain notoriety
among his peers for pulling this same stunt as a last-ditch panhandling ploy.

"Easy," he said, grabbing the cart and wheeling up the street.

I was backed in at an angle, which made it difficult to see back up the
one-way street. She was going to be right on top of me before I had a chance to
pull out. I'd have to rely on Harold. Not a pretty thought.

Cars crept by, looking desperately for signs of someone leaving. A two-tone
brown LeBaron, packed to the rafters with senior citizens, stopped just short
of the truck and waited. The driver scrunched down to look up into the truck
for signs of departure. I waved him on. A horn blew impatiently behind him. He
rejoined the parade slowly inching its way along. When I looked up again,
Harold was slowly pushing the cart back toward me along the central divider,
his eyes wide, his face a collection of tics and grimaces. I started the
engine.

I opened the door and poked my head up over the truck. Caroline was three
cars back. Traffic was at a complete stop. Harold was directly opposite me now,
headed down to the next corner according to our plan. A burgundy minivan rolled
by. Two cars to go. The cars were well spaced for what I had in mind. Every
driver was leaving a couple of car lengths, hoping to get luckier than the guy
in front. A yellow Toyota pickup eased slowly by. Caroline was next. I nosed
the truck out into the flow. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Caroline
Nobel behind the wheel. The pickup moved onward. I settled in behind, moving
just far enough forward to give Caroline room to back into the stall. She
whipped the little blue car in like a pro.

The street was empty for half a block in front of me. I gunned the Chevy up
to the next intersection, turned right, up a block, right again, a block south,
and another right. I could see Harold and his cart a block down in front of me.
The street was clear. I roared down toward Harold, who stood poised on the
corner, his hands white-knuckled on the handle of the cart. We exchanged
glances. The light changed. I turned right and rolled down toward Caroline
Nobel.

As I eased over the crosswalk, Harold pushed the cart out into the street. I
drawled, letting the traffic in front of me move on up past Caroline, keeping
one eye on the big sideview mirror. I checked the empty street in front of me.
By the time I looked back in the mirror, Harold was well into his act. The cart
lay on its side in the left-hand lane, its contents spread over the entire
intersection; Harold was flopping around like a beached steelhead in the right
lane, apparently in the throes of a seizure. Several people were out of their
cars rushing over to give aid.

I had the street to myself. I raced up the street and slid the truck to a
stop in front of the Toyota, blocking any chance to escape. I walked around the
front of the truck, unlocked the passenger door, and left it open. Whatever she
thought I was about, she wasn't having any of it. She leaned her head out the
window. Oversize aviator sunglasses covered most of her face. A designer
commando. When body language failed to work, she leaned farther out the window
of the little car.

"Sir, will you please move that . . . that" - she waved a
disgusted hand at the camper - "monstrosity."

Something possessed me. I grabbed her by the front of the camouflage jacket
and pulled her out through the window. It was a tight fit. I'd planned on
easing her to the ground, but lost control as she cleared the windowsill. She
hit the pavement hard, landing flat on her back. Her breath escaped in a single
rush. The beret bounced off, releasing more blond hair than her pictures had
suggested. She groaned and gagged as she fought to find her wind. Appalled at
my own behavior, I picked her up by the collar and the belt and half-dragged,
half-carried her over to the truck. I stuffed her onto the floor on the
passenger side and slammed the door.

I could hear her weakly trying to reopen the door as I sprinted back around
the truck. The street behind the truck was still empty. Harold had attracted
quite a crowd. Caroline Nobel was still pawing at the door handle and retching
intermittently as I wheeled under the viaduct, hung a left, and headed south.

We shot past Harold, who by now was sitting up. I blew the horn three times
in the prearranged signal. The good Samaritans didn't know it, but a miraculous
recovery was about to take place. Caroline had her head up on the passenger
seat, working hard to stifle the dry leaves that racked her body. She was
groping blindly for the missing door handle.

"The door doesn't open from the inside, Caroline. Relax and get your
breath back. We're going to have a chat."

The mention of her name got her attention.

"Who - " Her body jerked in another series of spasms. A thin line
of spittle hung from her lower lip as she rested her head on her arms. Her
sunglasses hung from one ear. "Please," she moaned. "Please - I
don't know what you - "

"Shut up and catch your breath," I said. She groaned.

I'd spent the better part of an hour this morning scoping out a spot close
to downtown where Caroline and I could have our little talk in relative safety.
We were almost there. I pulled up to the double gate that separated the street
from the heavy construction equipment being used to complete the new I-90
on-ramp. Taking the driver's door handle with me, I got out, unwound the thin
piece of wire I'd used to put the chain back together, and slid the gate open.

Caroline made a pathetic attempt to kick me in the face as I got back into
the truck. I hit her hard in the shin with the door handle. The leg retracted.
She made small whimpering sounds. I drove the truck through. Got out, closed
the gate, replaced the chain, and drove the truck back behind a line of cement
mixers.

Again taking the door handle with me, I walked around back and let the
tailgate down. Caroline tried to kick out the side window but couldn't muster
enough leverage. I pulled her out by the coat collar and walked her stiff-legged
around to the back of the truck. I sat her on the tailgate. She telegraphed a
kick to my groin. I stepped back. Her hair covered her face. Only the eyes of a
cornered animal were visible through the blond tangle.

I dug a handkerchief out of my pocket and held it out.

"Here, wipe your mouth." She hesitated, then took it.

Frankie Ortega was right. The pictures didn't do her justice. Even
disheveled, white as a ghost, with a line of spit still clinging to her chin,
she was beautiful. She swept her hair back with one practiced hand.

"Look buddy," she tried to snarl. Her perfectly clipped diction
made snarling sound ridiculous. "I can't imagine what in hell you think
you're doing or who you conceivably could be, but this is kidnapping. If you'll
let me go, right this instant, I won't - "

"Funny you should say that, Caroline."

"Say what?" She hesitated. "How do you know my name?"

"Buddy. You called me Buddy. This is about Buddy."

"How do you know my name?" she demanded.

"Heck," I said, "I even know your mother's name." She
started to speak. "Gene," I said. "Gene Constance Nobel." I
had her going.

"What are you, one of those degenerates who follows people
around?" She looked me up and down. "I must say, you certainly look
the part." Her regal bearing had made a recovery.

"No, actually Buddy's been following you around."

"Who's this Buddy, goddammit?" Her voice wasn't made for swearing
either. "Is that how you and Buddy get your jollies, following people
around, or going through their garbage maybe? Maybe you're - "

"No," I said evenly, "all Buddy got from following you was
dead."

"Dead?"

"Every bit as dead as Robert Warren."

"Robert Warren. Who is Rob - "

"Young Indian guy. Big red Ford pickup."

"Bobby?" she gasped. "Dead?" I'd made a dent in the
veneer.

"Bobby won't be making your little meeting anymore."

"You're full of - how do I know - " She looked at me closely.
"You're not kidding, are  you?" She got to her feet, wandering
in a circle.

"Sit," I said. She leaned back against the tailgate. "No. I'm
not kidding."

She combed her hands through her thick hair again as she digested the
information. "Dead?" she said again.

"Dead." Traffic noises made their way to the forefront as silence
settled in on us.

"How?" she asked softly.

"Somebody burned his house down, with him inside."

"Burned?" She thought about it. "How do you - "

"I'm asking the questions here," I said. Silence again.

"Listen you, please - "

"I'm going to listen. I'm going to listen while you tell me what you
and Bobby have been meeting about that was so important that it could get two
people killed."

Her mental wheels were turning so fast I could almost hear then spinning.
Behind the curtain of hair, a single blue eye glazed over as if a switch had
been thrown somewhere. She gave me her most dazzling smile. Time for Plan B.
Plan B always worked.

Still leaning on the tailgate, she slowly shucked off the camouflage jacket,
with just enough arching to make her ample breasts strain the yellow T-shirt
she was wearing beneath the jacket. She continued stretching with a certain
feline grace, gazing out from under her hair to make sure I wasn't missing the
show. She slid down to the ground, turned around, and bent over farther than
necessary to put the jacket on the tailgate. She lingered, bent at the waist,
the seat of her designer jeans taut.

When she assumed that I was thoroughly distracted, she mule-kicked backward
and took off running. I tripped her. She sprawled on her face in the gravel. I
set her back on the tailgate. She spat on my shirt. "I hate you," she
screamed. "You have no right."

"Bobby had a right not to get fricasseed in his own home. Buddy had a
right not to have somebody torture him and then shoot him in the head. Those
are the rights that we're going to worry about here today, Caroline. You
understand me, honey. Your rights, my rights, they don't matter much to me
right now. You hear what I'm saying?"

I didn't get an answer. She sat on the tailgate, carefully picking gravel
from her palms. She made one last attempt at what had always worked before. She
stood and put her arms over my shoulders, drawing her softness up close to me,
resting her head on my shoulder. I could fee her warm breath on my neck.
"I'm sorry about your friend," she whispered, rubbing her pelvis
against me.

I put one hand on her breastbone and shoved her back onto the tailgate. The
truck rocked. She tried looking hurt and offended. I ignored her.

"What did you and Bobby have going?" I asked.

"Bobby was my fiancé. We were going to - "

I stuck my finger right up in her face and wagged it back and forth.
"Spare me. I'm not buying that crap. Your boyfriend is whoever's standing
in front of you at the moment. Now let's get real here, or I'll - " I
stopped myself. A mistake. She was quick.

"I suppose you like beating up women?"

"I get hard just thinking about it," I snapped. Another mistake.
Immediately, she got feline on me again. She got languidly to her feet.

"Maybe you'd get off from whacking me around a little, huh? Would that
do it for you?" She stepped in close again and fixed me with her veiled
eyes.

"No," I said quietly. "I like ‘em dead. Right after they
start to cool off, that's the way I like ‘em." She pushed off of me.

"You're disgusting."

She'd tried sex. She'd tried violence. Then she'd tried sex and violence.
She was out of ideas. She sat heavily back on the tailgate and ran through her
options. The truth was not high on the list. She heaved a sigh.

"We were going to catch them red-handed."

For some reason, I felt less than informed. "Trying to catch whom doing
what?" I asked.

"The dumping." My blank expression seemed to exasperate her.

"We wanted to find out where it was coming from."

"Where what was coming from?"

"The stuff they were dumping."

"What were they dumping."

"I don't know."

If at first you don't succeed. "Who was dumping it?" I asked.

"I don't know that either."

"What do you know?" She thought it over.

The girl was persistent, if not imaginative. I figured she'd just seen
entirely too many Lauren Bacall movies. She dredged up what she must have
imagined was her most seductive look, a hint of a smile, eyes at half mast,
lips slightly parted. I shook my head. She pouted, flounced once, and then
casually looked up to see if maybe that was working. Her expression suggested
that she'd forgotten about pouting. Pouting and flouncing worked sometimes too.
She was hopeful. Not this time. She heaved another sigh.

"Bobby knew about some dumping of illegal waste. He knew a bunch of
places where they were burying it, up around Marysville." She affirmed
herself with a bob of the head. "Can I go now?" I think she was
serious.

"Dumping what?"

"He didn't know. Bobby said he was going to check local water samples
to see if he could find out."

"What water samples?"

"From one of the towns up by where they're dumping." Impatient.

"What town?"

"I don't know."

"And you don't know who it is that's supposedly doing this
dumping?"

"No. I tried to follow one of the trucks yesterday."

"And/"

"I lost it. This goddamn train - "

"Where?"

"Down by Tacoma somewhere."

Now it was my turn to think. A number of interesting possibilities presented
themselves. "This was Friday afternoon?" I asked. She nodded.