by G. M. Ford
I offered a hand. He took it. His grip was soft and dry. "It was good to see you again, Charlie," I said.
The boys had gathered about us. It was handshakes and pats on the back all around. Free booze made you a viable presidential candidate, as far as these guys were concerned. Sainthood--perhaps. We all moved toward the door together.
"Sorry I couldn't be of more help," Charlie said as he used his bundle of keys to let us out the front door.
"Don't worry about it," I said.
The five of us milled about the sidewalk as the locks clicked behind us. The moon was on its way down. Ralph, Normal, and Harold linked arms and went weaving out into the street. George stayed at my shoulder. "You see what I mean?" he hissed.
I was dumbfounded. "What?"
"You see how quiet Ralph was? Ain't said anything real dumb in almost two days." He shook my shoulder. "Wouldn't even do his Elvis impression, and ya know how proud he is of that."
"He'll come around," I assured him.
I stretched toward the heavens and yawned as I walked diagonally across the street toward Jed's Lexus. Heavy Duty Judy and Big Frank sat on the low cement wall that marked the park's boundary, passing a bag-shrouded bottle between them. The air was heavy, the heady scent of equatorial dung rolling over the neighborhood from the adjacent Woodland Park Zoo. As if to play counterpoint, the muted trumpet of an elephant blatted twice, followed by the strange dry call of a large bird.
"Judy found him," George whispered as we crossed the street.
I pulled out a fifty and handed it to her. "Good work," I said. "Good work all around." High fives all around. I refused a pull at the bottle. "Anybody wants a ride to where they're going better get in the car," I announced. " 'Cause this train is headed for home." n
It was a state cop's wet dream. George, Ralph, and Harold squeezed into the rear seating area, with Big Frank spread out over their laps like an acrid afghan. Rear vision zero.
Norman, who generally filled any passenger seating area beyond capacity, had somehow scrunched up and back to accommodate Judy's loose-jointed bulk, most of which had melted over the console and onto the floor. The tiara rested in my lap. Her booted feet bobbed in the breeze. Mercifully, she'd passed out, staring straight up at the headliner with only the suggestion of a smile decorating her otherwise cherubic countenance. The primal stench I had attributed to the Zoo was now in the car with us. I stifled a laugh and turned the ignition.
Whether we violated state visibility constraints was open to question. That we exceeded highway load limits was beyond debate. I eased the car from the curb. The steering wheel passed a scant quarter inch above the tip of Judy's nose. I started to giggle.
25
"You heard me. That's exactly what Sarah asked me this morning. Her exact words. We're going down to Larry's for a coffee cake and she looks over at me and goes, 'Jed'--very serious-like, you know, and she says--'Have you been transporting wet sheep?' "
"If she has doubts about you, old buddy, tell her to hire me. I used to do divorce work. Either that, or you could just move to Montana."
"I'm serious, man. I left the windows open all morning, I've got those little pine tree things hanging everywhere, and the damn car still smells like old meat."
I searched for an excuse. "It was late. There were a lot of us. Some of them were ... big and ... somewhat indisposed." I wondered if they'd found Big Frank's shoe yet. Remembering the ride home, I suppressed a grin.
"It smells as if some of them were wildebeest."
"Take it down to Smith's and get it detailed on me," I offered.
He huffed and puffed a bit more and then changed the subject.
"I have, of course, resigned from the library board."
"Of course."
"I spoke--off the record--to several other members, and we all agreed that, all things considered, this is unquestionably the best way to handle the situation. I've assigned Marty Kroll to the Mendolson woman's case. Kroll's a real go-getter. It wouldn't be right for me to be directly involved as her attorney."
"Aren't you on rather shaky ground here? I mean, like, legally and ethically and other minor details?"
"No charges have been filed," he snapped. "Nothing is officially amiss until the final results of the audit are in. My legal position is, if not altogether pristine, at least manageable. Ethically, it's a bit more of a horse race. What I knew and when I knew it could get quite sticky, but I see no other path that assures both the library's public position and the young woman's legal position so thoroughly."
"Wouldn't it be better if she had an outside attorney?"
"Not possible," he said. "The minute we bring in an outside attorney, we lose all control of the information situation. The guy could go right to the press. I know that's what I'd do. I'd play that whole thing with the frozen bum for all it was worth. I can see it now. Burgess Meredith as Earl. The steaming cup of latte every morning. A little string music. This caring young woman pushed to the brink by an uncaring society. She'd have her own news logo and musical fanfare by the end of the second day."
"Information situation? Now you really sound like my old man."
"A man could do worse," he said seriously.
"And as long as it lasts past the vote on Tuesday--"
"Merely a beneficial side effect," he assured me.
"You got her home okay?"
"Oh yes. She called a bit earlier. On short notice, her father and brother can come up with about fifteen thousand between them. She's still about eighteen short. She's going to sell her car. This afternoon she's going down to her bank."
My phone line gave a click.
"Is that you or me?" I asked.
"You," he said.
It was Duvall, about as excited as she gets.
"You better get over here, Leo. Right now."
"Is there a problem?"
"She's leaving." She added, "For California."
"I thought you were going to get along famously."
"We did until I ran out of things for her to drink."
"Well, give her some more."
"There isn't any more. She got the sherry. Mom's bottle of Scotch. The commemorative champagne. That half case of chardonnay we brought back from California."
"The Cakebread Cellars?"
"Gone. All of it. And all that beer you left out in the garage. Likewise, gone. Leo, this morning, she was eyeing my Chanel."
"You've got to keep her around till I get there."
"You better hurry. Soon as her clothes are dry, she's out of here."
I checked the clock by the bed. Eleven-fifteen. It had been five-fifteen by the time I'd gotten everybody to where they were going, returned Jed's car, caught a taxi back to the Fiat, and driven home. I sat up. Still dressed. I threw my feet over the side. Nikes too. Just like I planned it.
"Think of something. If she gets out on the loose now, she's going to be hard as hell to find."
"We've already had one shoving match this morning. I'm telling you, Leo, she's leaving. You get over here." I could hear shouting in the background.
"I'm on my way." I checked the mirror. My do had survived the night except for a solitary clump that stuck straight out to the right like a horn. The dreaded hatchet head. Better find a hat. "I need half an hour," I said into the phone. "I've got an idea."
"I'll do what I can," she said without enthusiasm.
I grabbed a Boston Bruins cap from the coat tree and sprinted for the elevator. The day hadn't yet made up its mind about itself. One of those gray Northwest mornings. 1 Overhead rode a rippled layer of cloud, bumpy and disor- j ganized like atmospheric cellulite, while, to the west, fifty miles out over the snowcapped Olympics, a bright white 1 sun backlit some of the peaks, hinting of better things to come.
I made good time. Seventeen minutes later, I slid the Fiat I to a stop in front of the Bauhaus. She sat at the same table, reading a different book. Snow Falling on Cedars this time. She saw me as I came through the door and snapped th
e book shut.
"I need you," I said.
She curled her lip. "I knew it would come to this."
I pulled the book from her fingers. "I need you to meet 'I somebody. Right now. We have to hurry. Come on."
She stood up. "Meet who?"
"Lukkas Terry's mother."
"Me--I--why--"
"You want something out of this other than your rent paid?" I said quickly. "You want something for that baby you're carrying around?"
One hand crept to her midriff. "Sure I do."
"Then get in the car."
She wrinkled her nose at the sight of the Fiat.
"This is your ride?" she said. "This POS?" I didn't bother to answer. She lasted three blocks. "What's wrong with this car?" she asked as we flew onto the freeway entrance ramp. "I think I'm going to be sick."
"It's a bit out of alignment," I said. "Don't look out the front window and you'll be okay."
"Oh God," she groaned. "I'm sick in the morning anyway. Oh God."
Miss Goza continued her devotional services as I ran flat out up to Fiftieth and then cut east toward Duvall's place in Ravenna, avoiding the University Village traffic knot, running behind fraternity row, dropping down the hill onto Twenty-second Avenue, remembering what Rebecca had said about construction in her neighborhood and staying on the arterials.
I took Fifty-fifth all the way to the top of the hill and turned left and then left again toward Thirty-fourth Avenue. I slid to a stop. Goza had stopped groaning and sat white faced, breathing deeply.
Selena Dunlap, sleeping bag hanging from her shoulder, was striding north down Thirty-fourth Street beneath the arch of bare trees, away from the city. Her loose-jointed stagger suggested that Duvall would be well advised to check the perfume supply. Rebecca was half a biock behind, wearing her black spandex biking outfit, her cellular phone dangling from her wrist as she walked along. I got out and stepped up onto the sidewalk in Selena's path.
"Get the hell out of my way!" she shouted. "I've had all a you I can stand. You just stay the hell away from me."
The area adjacent to her left eye was puffy and beginning to turn purple. She was going to have a hell of a shiner. I opened my mouth.
As if to answer, she spun on her heel, dropped the sleeping bag, and shook a fist at Rebecca. "I told you to stop followin' me," she said.
Duvall had a scrape on her chin and the beginnings of a minor mouse on her cheek. She gave me a sheepish look.
"You ought to see the other guy," she said.
I said I figured I had, stepped around Selena, and inserted myself between the women.
Selena poked me in the chest. "You just don't get it, do you? I'm outta here. You got that? Got some friends hitching down to the Bay Area. I'm goin' with 'em. You wanna play your little games, you do it without me." She turned to leave.
"You want a bunch of strangers to end up with his money?"
She closed the distance between us. "I don't want nothin' from that boy, you hear me? It's me shoulda had things to give him, not the other way 'round. Only thing he ever got from me was the thing that killed 'im. All I ever gave him was the get-high monster. It's hereditary, you know. He'da never been an addict--"
"Lukkas did not get high." Beth was emphatic, standing at the curb holding the little jacket around her. "Get a life. An addict. Duuh."
Selena squinted down at her. "And what in hell is this?" she demanded of me.
"Her name is Beth Goza."
"Well, Miss Beth Goza, let me tell you somethin'. What you oughta be doin' instead of standin' out here in the street, pokin' your nose into where it don't belong, is to be lookin' high and low for your hairdresser so's you can kick her ass. Whoever it was give you that rinse surely deserves a whippin', I can tell ya that. Ain't nothin' on God's green earth got hair that color 'ceptin' one of them dumb-ass troll dolls."
Goza looked my way. "What did she say?"
"And what's all that metal shit you got hangin' offa you, girl? Kerrrist, you look like a walkin' junkyard."
The girl opened her mouth, but Selena stayed at it. "And one more thing, while I'm at it, just so's we understand each other. You make that duuuuh noise at me again, and you're gonna have trouble breakin' up the lumps in the stew, if you catch my drift."
With that, she pushed me aside and began weaving up the street. I followed, yapping at her heels like a terrier.
"Anybody ever tell you, you're pretty damn judgmental for a woman who once left town on the back of a Harley behind a guy with MOM tattooed across his forehead," I said.
She slowed and then stopped altogether. "Rufus," she said. "For crimeny sakes, how do you know about Rufus?"
I told her about old Clark Bastyens's story.
"Busybody," was her only comment before she once again swayed up the street. I stayed with her. "There's more involved here than just you."
"Not for me, there ain't," she countered.
"I think that girl's pregnant with Lukkas's baby."
Again she stopped. This time she turned back my way. "Well, we ain't never gonna know now, are we? The boy's dead. He ain't here to speak for himself, now is he?" She dismissed me with a wave. "Hell, that's something a live man can't hardly be sure of. The dead, hell man, they got no chance, they're just dead." She started to leave.
"It's easy enough to find out," I said.
"Yeah, and how's that? All we got's"--she pointed back at Beth--"that thing's word."
"Oh, no. We've got a whole lot more than that."
"Like what?"
"We've got the woman who claims to be the mother. And we got '' I searched for a word. I settled for "samples from Lukkas."
For the first time, she seemed to pay attention. "What did you say? You say they got parts of the boy, like, stored away someplace?"
I went for the throat. "A bunch," I said. "They've even got the plate they took from his arm."
She started to speak but instead seemed to fall inward. I kept at it. "A sample from the girl and a sample from Lukkas, and we can tell for sure. No doubt about it."
"They can do that?"1
"Easy," I said. "DNA testing."
"They got that thing from his arm, eh?"
"In a little glass jar," I added.
I thought I detected a slight sag in her shoulders as she walked over and put the nearest oak between us, leaning back into the thick gray bark. I moved forward. She cast me a sidelong glance. "Jesus, bird dog," she said after a minute, "you could fuck up just about anything, now, couldn't ya?"
"Just can't stay away from those porcupines."
"Think you'da learned to run like hell by now."
"You would be the world's foremost expert on running from it, now, wouldn't you?" I said.
She bounced off the tree. "You listen here, you " -m
I straight-armed her back against the tree. "She's right, you know. Lukkas didn't take drugs. Didn't drink either. Not even the people who assumed that his behavior must have been caused by drugs can say they ever personally saw him take anything. They just assumed."
Duvall from behind me. "Leo," she said urgently.
She stared out over my shoulder. I turned around. Selena craned her neck in that direction. The back third of a gray van slid slowly from view behind the corner house.
"That the one been tryin' to clean your clock?" Selena asked.
I made it a point not to look that way. "Yup."
I kept my eyes on Selena's. "We need to get you and Rebecca and the girl out of here," I said.
"I can take care of myself." A wry smile touched her lips. "And your lady friend there ain't no shrinkin' violet neither," she said, gingerly fingering her swollen eye.
"The girl couldn't find her butt in the dark," I said.
Selena bobbed herlieavy eyebrows. "Why ain't I surprised?"
"Must be 'cause you're such a fine judge of character."
"It's back," Selena said without moving her lips. "I can just see some of the front end stickin' out. He's turned
it around."
"What say we head back the way we came?" I suggested.
She didn't argue. Selena retrieved the sleeping bag as we turned our backs on the van and started back down the uneven sidewalk.
I talked as I walked. "Rebecca. You take these two back to the house. When you get there, call the cops. Stay on the sidewalks and hustle your bustles."
Beth Goza began to object, but with Rebecca latched onto one arm and Selena lifting her by the other, traction was at an all-time low. Her booted feet barely touched the ground as she flew openmouthed down the street as if swept along by the breeze.
Resisting the temptation to glance over my shoulder, I stepped off the curb and into the Fiat. Before snapping the seat belt around me, I pulled the 9mm out from under my coat, checked and rechecked the safety, and then set it on the passenger seat. I pulled the door in and checked the mirror. The van was now fully out from behind the house.
I pulled the door until it clicked and then backed the Fiat into the street and began a slow K-turn maneuver, taking ;| four tries to do what I could have done in two. By the time I got it finished, the van was no longer in sight. I started back up Thirty-fourth Street.
At the corner, I whipped the wheel hard to the right and gave the little car everything she had. It wasn't nearly enough. The roar of a big V-8 assaulted my ears. The van filled my mirror. As I pulled the shift lever down into second, the van rammed me from behind, sending the car into a series of small swerves. The van hit me again before I could recover from the first. This time I could feel the snapping of the plastic taillights as I nicked one of the cars parked nose-to-tail along both sides of the streets. The wheel tried to escape from my grip, but I muscled the Fiat back under control. Redlined in second gear, I lifted my foot from the accelerator and allowed the force of the screaming engine to slow the car enough for me to slide left around the next intersection.
Unable to react in tune, the rocketing van slid past the intersection, screeching to a halt on locked wheels, then burned out backward and followed in my wake. I stayed off the arterials, running in the neighborhood where the blocks were short and the Fiat's cornering advantage could keep me away from my more powerful adversary. By now Duvall had called the cops. In this neighborhood, somebody on every street we went down was probably calling them too. It was just a matter of time.