by G. M. Ford
As she listened to me, she turned over the pictures on her desk.
She pulled a loud breath into the back of her throat. I stopped talking and watched the blood leave her face and then surge back with a vengeance.
"That's her. That's perfect. God, that's amazing that he could do that. That's her," she repeated.
I walked behind and looked over her shoulder. The benign face of the first picture had taken on an almost spiteful look—a gaze that said, "You should get so lucky, fool." It was easy to see how the boy had become entranced. Allison Stark was a stunner.
"Well," I started. "What do you want to do?"
There was no hesitation this time.
"Seeing her again—I'm sure now. I need to know. Stay at it," she said.
Marge got to her feet.
"I have to go. Heck's been restless. He had a rough night last night. Call me if you need anything or if you find out anything."
She reached into the top small drawer of her desk and drew out a blank sheet of letterhead. She wrote, Thanks for everything. If there's anything I ever can do to repay you for your excellent work, please call. Signature and phone number.
She strode across the room, fed it into the fax machine, and pushed the redial button. "I have to get down to Heck," she said as she slipped into a full-length red wool coat and headed for the door.
The fax was doing its thing again. I wandered over and retrieved the message. How about a shot of those hooters? Use the copy machine.
Marge looked at me quizzically.
"Carl says you're welcome," I said, pocketing the page.
10
Was that the sound of my mother running? Or was she dancing? I strained to hear. The thin clicking of her heels faded slowly, now a dull echo in distant rooms, on lower floors, nearly silent. Then . . . still. I relaxed again and drifted. Without warning, she was back, dancing flamenco furiously in the hall outside the door to my room. The rhythm left me reeling. I'd never seen her either run or dance. I'd never seen her any way except moving between tasks at her unhurried gait. Her great sense of purpose left little choice but to imagine her having been born busy. The organized had no need to hurry, her cadence seemed to say. Running would be somehow confessional. No running.
And dancing? Dancing was the province of savages, of those with no self-respect—worst of all, those without enough to do. Every aspect of her being decried the squandered moment, the lost opportunity. The very sound of her incessant feet, sensible heels tapping the meter, served as a cautionary tale of perpetual motion to the idle, the slackers, the self-satisfied. Dancing, too, was pretty much out of the question.
I'd never seen her any way except fully and properly dressed—no chenille robes, no pink curlers. She materialized from her room each morning at precisely 6:30 a.m. like Dracula risen from the grave. Reanimated. Rejuvenated. Eternal. The spitting image of the day before. Hair perfect, tasteful jewelry in place. When I was young, I'd imagined that she slept that way, fully dressed, standing up like a horse in its stall, emerging the next morning as an exact, unrumpled reproduction of the previous day. In those days, my life had been timed by the clicking of those metronome heels on the oak floors of our house.
My old man used to call her the Drum Major. On those occasions when the business of influence peddling allowed him a night at home, he and I would curl up in the study and, warmed by a fire in the grate, lit by the blue glow of the oversized television set, eat the contraband Hershey bars he'd secreted in his pockets. Plain for him, almonds for me. He had radar. His extra years of practice had blessed him with an even more delicate and refined ear than mine for the tapping.
"Better hide those wrappers and wipe your mouth, son," he'd say as we watched the Russian bears on "The Toast of the Town." "Here comes the Drum Major."
I'd cock an anxious ear but hear nothing. He was always right, though. A minute or two later, I would pick up the staccato cadence of her approach. Once an hour or so, she'd poke her head in to confirm her worst fears concerning our wastrel evening and, most importantly, to make sure the old man wasn't polluting my system with any of the accursed junk food. My mother was a health nut long before it was chic.
"You're not feeding that boy a bunch of trash, are you? You know he has nightmares if he has too much sugar."
"No sugar," the old man would say.
"I want him off to bed right after this program."
"One more show."
"No, I want him—"
"You're letting a draft in," he'd reply.
The heels Would then recede. Louder than before. Angry.
"Son," he'd always say as she stalked away, "for the life of me, I will never understand why anybody who's having so precious little fun here on earth is so damned intent on living forever."
I never had an answer.
We'd wait for the sound of the stairs. The groan of the fourth step. Once she went upstairs, she didn't come back down until morning, when the unremitting parade of progress would begin anew.
She began each day at the kitchen sink with a crystal pitcher of ice water and colorful pile of pills and capsules the size of a modest cow fritter. She got her rest, avoided sweets, abhorred grease, and was still in possession of her girlish figure when she gamboled into the grave at fifty-nine, the victim of a massive cerebral hemorrhage. The old man, who was ten years her senior and had for better than thirty years started each day with a jelly doughnut and a cup of Irish coffee because he claimed they contained the four basic food groups—caffeine, sugar, grease, and alcohol—lasted another seven years. Go figure.
I awoke with a start. Dark volleys of raindrops, driven horizontally by a blustery wind, clicked rhythmically onto the window above my bed, brittle, insistent with their still-frozen centers. I sat up and checked the street. Out on Fremont, the icy rain was bursting and dancing, forming a moving carpet of frozen mist six inches above the black glistening pavement. Mary Sloan's white VW Bug, parked in perpetuity half a block north, rocked slightly on its aged springs as if cowering under the violent onslaught. In spite of the protective windowpane, I found myself squinting into the abrasive wind. So much for Indian summer.
After liberating my favorite pair of blue sweats
out to the kitchen to make coffee. Mechanically, I opened the fridge. Nada. It all came back to me. Knowing that I was going to be shepherding Tony Moldonado, I'd purposely allowed myself to run out of everything even remotely perishable. This, of course, included milk for my coffee. Shit. It was either head to the store or do without. As if to assist me with the decision, a fresh barrage of sleet ratcheted against the front windows of the apartment, rattling the ancient sash. I opted for the suffering.
I padded over to the front door, and pulled my Sunday Times in from the hall. The story of my aborted evening was plastered across the front page: "Four Dead in Fiery Southcenter Crash." Rebecca and I had planned dinner and a movie. We'd managed neither; her beeper had put a stop to any such foolishness. I had watched her thin face take on added weight as she held the receiver to her ear.
"Fifteen minutes," she'd said into the receiver and hung up.
"Bad?"
"Sounds like it. Traffic accident. Three, maybe four dead."
"At least you'll look good," I commented weakly. "Doesn't sound like it's going to matter. Lock up for me, will you, Leo?" I'd promised I would.
Rose Moldonado had, as usual, messengered her check over as soon as Tony arrived home. I'd plucked it from my mailbox as I'd sulked home last evening. The money had proven small consolation. I'd moped around the apartment, waiting for it to get late enough to go to bed.
On two separate occasions I'd picked up the pale green bag full of the stuff Heck had collected, and twice I'd failed to muster up the initiative to do, anything useful. Pulling out the collection of bills and receipts, gazing absently at the dates and amounts, stuffing them back in, finally lobbing the bag back onto the kitchen counter in disgust. The sack's wrinkled countenance still gazed speculatively a
t me from the counter. After freeing the sports section from the paper, I used the bulk of the Sunday edition to intern the insolent bag.
The Sonics were still undefeated at home. Ten and zero. Eighteen and two overall. What else could a serious sports fan ask for? Coffee, that's what. Maybe a fresh onion bagel with some . ..
The phone interrupted my imaginary breakfast.
"Jew wann guess who'z at Jazz Alley tonight?"
"Fidel and the Modal Marxists?"
"Not fonny, Leo. Jew shouldn't joke like dat. De man is a tyrant. What he has done to my country ees—"
"You got any coffee, Hector?" "Chewer. Go on, guess." "Milk?"
"No till you guess."
"Gene Harris Quartet."
"Dey left Thursday. Jew know dat."
"You got sugar too?"
"Why don' I yost dreek it for you. Save jew de walk." "Who's playing?" "Benny Carter." Now he had my attention. "Let's go." "Second show?" "For sure."
"Jew tink we chould call?" "Second show. No way."
"Coffee, milk, and sugar. Dat's it? No eggs? No toast?" "I'll be right up."
"Don' sweat. I got some groceries for old Mees Bandon. I drorj eet bv."
"What a guy." "Jew focking right."
He hung up. I returned to the Sonics. After a slow start, Shrempf seemed to be settling into his niche with the team. Averaging nearly ten boards a game for the past week and a half. Ricky was in a slump, though. Couldn't throw it in the ocean. Shooting less than 40 percent for the past five games. Must be injured and keeping it to himself. Bad news. Above all else, we needed a healthy Ricky Pierce.
The doorbell interrupted my research. Hector dangled three small plastic bags out from under a huge cardboard box of groceries. I plucked them from his fingers.
"Thanks."
"I come by nine-fifteen or so." "I'll be ready."
Between the Sunday paper and the coffee, I was able to stretch my morning into early afternoon. The front section. Arts and Leisure. The Classifieds. Weekender. The weekly TV guide. Travel. I attacked the paper one section at a time, careful to keep several sections always restraining the recalcitrant green bag. It was nearly one o'clock when I finally reached for and then discarded the fashion section. Much to my chagrin, I was forced to face the realization that, Sunday or no, I was going to have to at least try to accomplish something.
An hour later, freshly scrubbed and showered, I grudgingly guided the Fiat east on Northlake, along the ship canal, sliding up to Pacific, crossing over the Montlake Bridge on my way down through the deserted Arboretum. I babied the car along the narrow lanes, radio off, listening to the intermittent hissing and cracking as the undercarriage caught, dragged and discarded an unending series of small windblown branches while the narrow tires popped legions of fallen pine cones.
From under the arch of trees at the south end of the park, I briefly emerged into the light, darted across Madison, and slalomed my way down through the high-rent district to Lake Washington Boulevard, where the heavy south wind whipped the green surface of the lake into a humped and hollowed froth of small rolling whitecaps, rioting simultaneously in all directions, driven by the wind to lurch in a self-destructive chaos of foam and frenzy. I turned on the wipers.
Although the rain had stopped, the airborne mist created by the disintegrating waves showered down on the little car and veiled the distant arcs of both of the floating bridges as I wheeled into the waterfront parking lot. A large U-Haul truck was backed in against the far curb, its mouth open, tongue-like ramp licking the golden, leaf-covered ground.
In one sinuous motion, I stepped from the car into a puddle that nearly reached the top of my sock. Before I could recover, icy water filled my left shoe, running down between my toes and under my foot. A real day killer. I swore, briefly considered turning around and going home, and then swore again for good measure.
Using the car for leverage, I vaulted my way onto a small island of pavement. I realized now that the even yellow carpet of leaves was a cruel ruse. The storm had turned the lot into a single large puddle, then used the-wind-blown leaves to hide its dirty work.
Intent on avoiding further puddles, I kept my eyes glued to my feet as I squooshed across the lot. Walking blind, I was nearly bowled over by a gray-shrouded desk being wheeled along the sidewalk on a dolly. The double doors to the real estate offices had been propped open by a couple of chrome folding chairs. Another desk on a dolly fell into line behind the first. I stepped aside and let it pass. It followed along in the exact wet tracks of its predecessor, like a trailing circus elephant, joined trunk to tail. Windlass Real Estate was on the move.
"Don't just stand there like a bump on a log. Take that box of files."
Like many well-maintained women, her age was hard to guess. Somewhere between forty and fifty-five. Wasp-waisted, well-fed, a natural blond about five-eight. Big blue eyes, pretty face. Her manual-labor ensemble consisted of a purple hooded U-Dub sweatshirt, a crisp pair of new 501s, a pair of Nike Airs, and a clipboard. Matching purple earrings, of course.
"Time's a wastin', my friend," she chided.
When I failed to move, she looked up at me for the first time.
"I'm sorry," she said after perusing me from head to toe. "You must be here about the phones. I should have known. You're obviously not one of the movers. My apologies. This whole move has just got me dizzy."
She used the clipboard to point toward a morass of phones, wires, and connectors heaped in the front corner of the office, nearly covering a flattened patch of sienna carpet where some heavy piece of furniture had rested until quite recently.
"We need at least the main line to be up and running by tomorrow."
She watched with mounting disbelief as I shook my head.
"I was assured by the company—" I redoubled my head-shaking efforts. It worked. "You're not here about the phones either, are you?" "I'm afraid not."
She placed the heel of her free hand against her creamy forehead. "Sorry again." "No problem." "What can I help you with?" "Allison Stark."
"I've already . . I'm sorry . . . Are you with the police?"
"I'm a private investigator, working for the Sundstrom family."
We were interrupted by one of the movers, a dark, heavyset guy with a thick Stalin moustache and a five-day growth.
"We're gonna take this load over and be right back."
"How many more loads do you figure?" she asked.
He scanned the single large room. Half a dozen metal desks, twenty assorted chairs, the pictures and posters on the walls, and a bank of file cabinets were all that remained.
"Next load be the last, easy."
"Okay."
She watched as the workman, unhurried by the inclement weather, ambled back toward the truck.
"This should have already been over," she said to his broad back. "First they're two hours late. When they finally get here, they move like they're on Thorazine. I've never seen—"
She sighed deeply.
"Please excuse me, Mr.—"
"Leo Waterman."
I pulled a business card from my jacket pocket and handed it over. She studied the card, checked the other side.
"May I keep this?" she asked.
"Please do."
She slipped the edge of the card under the metal retainer on the clipboard and then stuck out her hand. I took it in mine. We shook. She held on to both my gaze and my hand.
"Nancy Davies," she said. "I'm the broker here. This . . . er"—she disengaged our hands and swept her free arm over the interior—"this mess is more or less mine."
"My pleasure," I said.
"I'll tell you the same thing I told the police, Mr. Waterman. Naturally, I was shocked to hear of her accident. The death of anyone so young always comes as a shock, but there's no point in pretending to a lot of grief. That's not my style. I barely knew the woman. Other than the day I hired her, I probably saw her a total of three times. She was one of my junior sales associates for a little over a
month. She came and went as she pleased, which in her case was mostly went. She graced us with her presence maybe a couple of days a week. Two residential sales. A new listing or two. Several other offers. Playing at real estate rather than being a real player, if you know what I mean?"
"I'm not sure I do."
"We get a lot of day trippers in this business, Leo. You don't mind if I call you Leo, do you?" "Not at all."
"How nice. Anyhow, real estate has a certain ease of entry, Leo. You pass a little test, they give you a little license. We get a lot of people new to the workforce who have no idea what a tough racket this is. People who think they can take weekends off, who think listings are going to fall from heaven, people who have no idea what they're getting into, how hard you have to hustle to make a living. Sometimes they're just trying to show hubby that they can make money too or maybe pay for that car or cruise that hubby won't spring for. They come; they go. They show up at my doorstep with a license—if I've got desk space and they feel right to me, I'll give them a try. There's very little expense to me. Associates pay their own phone bills."
"Then Allison Stark felt right to you?"
She paused to consider.
"Depends on what you mean by felt right. I wouldn't want to give the impression she was cuddly or anything. Nothing like that. Allison Stark was not a person who was going to bring out the maternal instinct in anybody. She seemed competent. That was enough."
She stepped in closer. The musky aroma of a bit too much Obsession hung in the surrounding air.
"You ask more probing questions than the police."
"Thanks," I said tentatively.
"I say that because, when I think about it, I'm usually pretty right-on with my first impressions. Not always, but most of the time. I had her figured for a real shark."
"And you were wrong?"
"Yes and no."
She folded her arms across her chest and measured her words.
"I had this feeling that there was more to Allison Stark than met the eye. There was some quality about her ... a lack of vulnerability maybe."
"Can you be more specific?"