Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (2 page)

"Get the woman." Trask hurried off. Ms. Kennedy headed back for
Thomas Greer and the window.

Trask's partner appeared at my elbow. A little guy with an overbite. His
laminated ID card read "Henderson, Earl D."

"What do you think?" he asked, peering over my shoulder.

"I think the way this is being handled, somebody better call
sanitation. Where the hell is the regular negotiation unit anyway?"

"They're all down in Rainier Valley. We've had a hostage situation
going on down there all night long." He leaned in. "I've never seen
her before. I think this is her first one."

"I think so too," I said. She kept whispering out onto the ledge.
I strained to hear, but could only catch bits and pieces. Henderson broke my
concentration.

"You think he's going to jump, huh?"

"It's a distinct possibility," I said.

"We stood silently and watched Saasha Kennedy talk soothingly to Greer.
I still couldn't hear her end, but I sure could hear Greer's. It never varied.
No matter what Kennedy said to him, he screamed for the woman.

He got his wish. Trask stepped away from the elevator door and let my client
precede him down the crowded hallway.

She was short, sturdily built little woman carrying a poodlelike mass of
dark, curly hair that bounced as she walked. Pretty in a grossly over-made-up
sort of way. One more layer of foundation on her face and she'd be Madam
Tussaud material. Eyebrows plucked into pencil-thin question marks. Lipstick
too red for a woman her age. Halloween on Hollywood Boulevard.

She was wearing a red one-piece jumpsuit, the full-length gold zipper
alarmingly low, the elastic cinching her wasp waist further accentuating her
remarkably prominent prow, which she pushed aggressively before her like twin
battering rams.

"Where is he?" she demanded of no one in particular. I stepped
into the doorway and blocked her path.

"How's the boy?" I asked. The question momentarily slowed her.

She blinked and focused in on me.

"He's fine," she said. "Where's Tom?"

"He's inside. But listen, before you go in there - "

I never got a chance to finish. Eagan shouldered his way through me,
dragging Mrs. Greer along. She clung to his arm as if it were a life preserver.

I started into the room. Trask dug a hand into my shoulder.

"Butt out, Waterman."

"This is going to get ugly, Trask. I can feel it. I'm telling
you."

"Even better reason to stay butted out," he said. Henderson
grunted in agreement.

Saasha Kennedy had disengaged herself once again and was whispering into
Monica Greer's ear. Thomas Greer was screaming something unintelligible. Monica
Greer listened distractedly. She had other things on her mind.

Even as Kennedy spoke, Mrs. Greer's attention was riveted on the brawny
Officer Eagan, whose elbow she was now rhythmically polishing with her breasts.
The hunter had become the hunted. Eagan was beginning to sweat. He repeatedly
glanced over his shoulder. Another few minutes and Monica Greer was going to be
locked onto his kneecap like a terrier.

Kennedy was oblivious. She droned on. When she finished, she looked to the
other woman for agreement. Feedback was not forthcoming. Monica's total
attention was focused on making a meticulous estimate of young Officer Eagan's
inseam.

Undaunted, Saasha Kennedy pried Monica Greer from her quarry and led her
slowly toward the window. From the hall, I could hear Eagan's sigh of relief.
Kennedy leaned out and spoke briefly. Greer said something. Kennedy spoke
again. More yelling. With Kennedy's attention focused on the ledge, Monica
Greer turned back toward Eagan, clasped her hands below waist level, and used
her upper arms to squeeze her breasts nearly up and out of the jumpsuit. Eagan
resumed sweating.

"Looks like she's got two baldheaded midgets under that jumpsuit,"
Trask whispered from behind me.

"Not at all beyond the realm of possibility," I said through my
teeth.

Eagan tugged at his collar, looking for backup.

Kennedy stepped back and beckoned Monica Greer forward. Monica wasn't
looking. Kenney had to walk over and take her by the shoulder.

Slowly, one foot carefully in front of the other, Monica Greer allowed her
stiletto heels to propel her across the carpet. Her obviously unencumbered
derriere rolled and thrashed inside the jumpsuit. She snuck a coy glance over
her shoulder to make sure she was having the desired effect, pushed Kennedy
aside with a sweep of her arm, and leaned out the window.

"Go ahead, you fuck. Jump!" she screamed. "You haven't got
the balls. You've never had any balls. Go ahead jump, you wimp. I've got you
insured to the teeth. You - "

There was more, but I didn't hear it. Trask, Henderson, and I were too busy
barreling into the room to catch the rest of the tirade. Saasha Kennedy made an
attempt to pull Mrs. Greer from the window but was elbowed backward over an end
table. She went ass over teakettle. Her dress up around her head, her heavily
freckled legs sticking up like a pair of rabbit ears, she wedged into the
corner.

In one smooth motion, Henderson clamped his hand over Monica Greer's mouth
and lifted her completely off the ground. She struggled and kicked her legs
madly. Trask and I ducked as one deadly spiked shoe slipped from her foot and
sailed spearlike into the bathroom on the far side of the suite. Henderson
quickly began to carry Monica toward the hall. She bit him. He yanked his hand
away.

"Jump, you son of a bitch!" she bellowed before Henderson could
replace his hand. He yarded her into the hall and kicked the door shut.

Trask took the window.

"Take it easy, Mr. Greer," he said soothingly.

Saasha Kennedy had regained her feet and was smoothing her dress around her.
"My God," she muttered. "Oh my God, I never - "

"Look on the bright side," I said. "At least you were wearing
clean underwear. Your mother would be so proud."

She began to stammer something in reply but was interrupted by Thomas Greer.

"Where is she? I want her to see this. Where is she?" He wasn't
screaming anymore. His voice was tight and flat. Trask kept talking.

"There's no need for this, Tom," he said. "You don't mind if
I call Tom, do you?" There was no reply from the ledge. Trask leaned in.

"I'm losing him," he breathed. "He's gonna do it."

Saasha Kennedy was rooted in place, her hands over her mouth, her eyes huge
behind the oversize glasses. No help there.

I slipped between Trask and the sill and looked out. Thomas Greer was
focused on the sidewalk below, rocking slightly on the balls of his fete,
building up a rhythm.

"You're not gonna let her win again, are you?" I asked Greer. I
wasn't expecting a reply and didn't get one. I stayed at it. "You dive off
this building and that bitch wins again. You know that, don't you? She wins.
You gonna let her manipulate you one last time? You like being manipulated? You
gonna leave your son alone with that tramp?" Trask grabbed my by the belt.

Thomas Greer turned his attention to me. Trask let go.

"I'll show her."

"You're not gonna show her shit, man. She wants you to jump, for
Chrissake. All you're going to do is make her day, you dumb fuck. A week from
now Jason will be in some strange daycare center, and Monica will be in the
Bahamas shacked up with an Australian rugby team or something. All you're gonna
do is finance the trip."

I don't know whether it was the mention of his son's name or the image of
the rugby team, but either way it got his attention. He stared at me, bobbed
his head up and down, and started to cry. He removed one hand from the bricks
and used it to wipe his eyes.

"Where's Jason?" he asked between gulps.

"He's safe here in the hotel. He's not with your wife," I added.
"Come on in here."

Greer hesitated, wiped his eyes again, and began to slowly slide toward me a
horizontal foot at a time. He almost made it.

Six feet from safety, he wobbled, swam with his arms, recovered, and welded
himself to the bricks, too terrified to move. I turned to Trask.

"Get the roof team," I said. Trask headed for the hall.

"Just take it easy, Mr. Greer. Help's on the way." I thought I
detected a slight nod of the head. Saasha Kennedy was at my elbow. She started
to speak, changed her mind, and stepped back again. I kept talking, saying
anything, just talking. Greer was shaking violently, his fingers scratching at
the bricks as if he were picking at scabs.

The team rappelled down in unison. First just two pairs of booted feet, then
two uniformed officers in full climbing gear. One black, one white. Bright
orange climbing harnesses segmenting their arms and legs. They were six feet
out from the ledge, trying to get up enough momentum to swing over to the
building. They weren't having much luck. I turned to Eagan, who was still
standing in the center of the room.

"Get the far window. Help him in. I'll get this one." He hustled.

The officer was trying to swing over. I timed his swing, stretched out of
the window, and got two fingers hooked in his harness. As he swung back toward
perpendicular, the force pulled me up horizontal to the floor, balancing on the
windowsill, my feet off the ground. I tottered, rocking on my belt buckle.

"Easy now," the cop in the harness whispered.

I should have listened. Instead, I tried to brace myself on the bricks below
the window. Bad move. The movement of my arm put me further out of balance, and
an inch at a time, I began to slide face-first out the window.

Trask saved the day by grabbing my belt, rearing back, and jerking me to the
floor. Unconsciously, I held on to the harness. My weight dragged the officer
to the side of the building. He got settled on the ledge, pried my fingers
loose, and turned to me.

"You okay?" he asked calmly. I had the shakes so bad it looked
like I was nodding. He turned his attention to Greer. I checked Eagan. Kennedy
was lending a hand over at the other window. Everything seemed to be in order.
I stayed on the floor. Trask's knees appeared in front of me. He held out a
hand. I declined the invitation. Trask did the commentary.

"They've got a harness on him. They're hooking him up."

I rolled to my knees and peeked up over the sill. Greer was now connected to
the roof. I slowly levered myself up onto my feet, legs heavy, tingling like
I'd run a marathon. I had to lock my knees to keep them under control. I leaned
back against the wall.

The room was full of people. A complete medical team had assembled,
collapsible gurney and all, without me noticing. The hotel manager was back.
Four more cops had arrived.

Everybody was accounted for except Henderson and Monica Greer.

"You don't look so good, Waterman," said Detective Trask, a smirk
bending his lips.

"Most observant. Must be how come you made plainclothes," I said.

Before he could get cute again, I asked, "anybody checked on Henderson
and the woman?"

Trask turned to Eagan's partner. "Olson, go find Henderson and lend him
a hand."

"Or a condom," suggested Eagan from across the room.

The tension shattered. We were still laughing when they stuffed Thomas Greer
back in the window and rolled him out strapped to the gurney.

"You're a shit magnet, Waterman," said Trask, "a true shit
magnet."

I suddenly remembered where Trask and I had met. We'd had much this same
discussion at the time. Saasha Kennedy appeared on my left, rubbing her temple,
her glasses in her hand.

"Mr. Waterman. I don't know what to say. I mean . . . I've never . .
."

"Don't worry about it," I said.

She wouldn't let it go, "I mean . . . I'm so sorry . . . I . . . "

"It was my first jumper too."

"I was sure the wife - "

I tried again. "You had no way of knowing."

"I mean . . . I should have . . . I wouldn't want you to think . . .
"

"The only thing I'm thinking about, Ms. Kennedy, is having a
drink." I bumped myself off the wall and started for the door. She was
still mumbling when I rounded the corner and headed for the back stairs.

The Embers was dark. Interstellar-space dark. Black-hole dark. Patsy liked
it that way. I'd asked him about it once, several years back when I was
spending most of my days and nights working on a stool implant. I'd always
figured that the lighting was merely another example of Patsy's bizarre sense
of humor.

We'd watched an executive drunk wobble from his stool at the other end of
the bar and head for relief in the men's room. Four lurches from the dim glow
of the light over the register, the poor bastard realized he was flying blind.
He'd stopped, hiked up his drooping trousers, put his hands up in front of his
body, and begun to shuffle slowly across the room, working his hands like a
mime in a box. Patsy had chuckled into the back of his hand.

"You think it's funny, don't you?" I'd said. He smiled.

"It is funny," he said. "But that's now why I keep it so
dark. Drunks drink to forget, Leo," he sighed. "It's easier to forget
in the dark. They don't have to wipe anything out. All they've got to do is
make up new material."

"Very thoughtful of you, Patsy."

"One does what one can, Leo."

I'd bolted from the hotel certain I needed a drink. By the time I made it
all the way across town to the Embers, I was positive I'd better not tart. I
was still waffling between the poles when I stepped inside. I'd learned from
experience not to make any sudden moves, just to step inside, close the door,
and wait for my eyes to adjust.

Slowly, like a fade-in my pupils expanded to the point where I could make
out the two couples engaged in quiet conversation at one of the booths facing
the bar. Another ten seconds and I was able to make out the three solitary
drinkers holding down her bar stools. I headed for the far end of the bar.