Last Ditch

by G. M. Ford

  I rolled the window up. I was still marinating the question of what had driven Bermuda out into his yard at this time of the evening when the lights smeared themselves over the car window. The single headlights came bouncing around from the backyard, turned the corner, coming right at me now, rolled across the narrow side yard, bounced across the curb and out into the street. It was an old Buick from the mid-fifties with wide whitewall tires and Little round hubcaps. A classic. Immaculate, gleaming two-tone brown with a grille like a chrome shark and three portholes in the side.

  I scraped the windshield clean with my sleeve just in time to see Bermuda's beret peeping up over the steering wheel as he tooled up the street with both hands locked to the wheel. I turned the key. Nothing. I cursed and turned it again. Dead as a herring. I pounded the steering wheel in frustration and hopped from the car. My instincts wanted to run toward the Buick's receding taillights, but my middle-aged body knew better. I jumped back into the car and tried it again. Silence. Shit.

  I got out and slammed the door for all I was worth, rocking the little car on its springs. I walked up to the front of the car and kicked the tire hard, leaving a black smudge on the front of my sneaker and a dull ache in my big toe. Shit. I kicked it again. Shit.

  I jammed my hands deep into my pants pockets and took three laps of the car, pausing occasionally to curse and kick some particularly delinquent spot. Sure, it was stupid, but it made me feel better.

  When I deemed the car had been sufficiently punished, I crossed the street to the side yard. A single set of wide, treadless tire marks had matted muddy tracks into the otherwise perfect grass. I followed the oozing tracks around to the back of the house to a postage-stamp backyard, bordered by a weathered board fence. Maybe fifty by a hundred, half of which was a concrete slab. Big abstract oil stain adorning the middle of the slab. No garage. At the far end of the paved surface, a gray canvas car cover lay hunched in the shadows like a seal carcass.

  In the meager back-porch fight, I squatted and ran my hands over the ground where the Buick had first rolled down onto the lawn. The lawn was smooth and unmarked, except for the wet, new tracks. I was betting he hadn't had the car out in months, maybe years. Why now? Shit. My legs cracked and complained as I straightened up.

  I retraced my steps around to the front and checked out the neighborhood. Darkness had sent a white cotton fog sliding like smoke along the street, reducing visibility to about two houses in either direction. I crossed the front lawn and stepped up onto the porch next to the gourds and the ceramic squirrel. I turned back toward the street. Still empty. To my left, the muffled sound of voices, the closing of a car door and then silence.

  I pulled open the screen door, wincing at the strangled whine of the spring and checked the street again. As usual, the front door was ajar. With my elbow, I pushed it open, stepped into the room and then silently eased both doors closed behind me.

  I crossed the room to his chair and looked around. A black portable phone rested comfortably in Bermuda's preferred spot. I picked it up, pushed redial and put it to my ear. The phone rang a half dozen times, clicked twice in transfer and then began to ring anew.

  An electronic voice said, "You have reached six-two-four, seven-seven-six-five. Please leave a message at the beep." Beep.

  I dropped the receiver back into the chair, pulled out my new notebook and made the number the first entry. Had it been anybody else's house, I would have gone through everything, hoping to get a hint as to what had been sufficiently urgent to send Bermuda driving out into the night. But it wasn't anybody else. It was Bermuda, and I couldn't bring myself to go through his stuff. Maybe it was all those pictures of my old man staring down at me from the wall. I was probably just imagining the disapproving cast in his eyes. Or maybe it was the feeling that tossing the place would somehow make every disparaging comment ever made about me true. Either way, I slipped the little notebook back in my pocket and let myself out.

  Chapter 18

  They Were Chasing me on thick thighs that never seemed to tire. No matter how fast or far I ran, no matter how many new corridors I plunged down, they pounded along behind, gasping, with their wet mouths so near my neck I couldn't risk making a run for the single secret passage. Unable to escape, I raced among the narrow winding stairs to the next level and the doors to nowhere, where, like the last time, I saw the small tracks on the black-and-white checkerboard floor.

  "Leo. Leo."

  I opened my eyes. Rebecca stood by my side, her hand on my arm, gently shaking me awake. "Wake up. Leo. Wake up."

  My breathing was fast and shallow. When I reached up and touched my forehead, I found myself hot and clammy to the touch.

  "I'm awake," I said automatically.

  "Sit up," she said. "You were shouting in your sleep."

  I swung my feet from the bed and rested them on the cold oak floor. "I was dreaming," I said. She was dressed for work.

  "You might want to hold that thought," she said. "I was having a nightmare."

  "Not like this one." She tossed the morning paper in my lap.

  I kept my eyes locked on hers. "What?" I said.

  Her eyes said if I was looking for sympathy, I better find myself a dictionary. "Read it," she said.

  Reluctantly, I stuck my thumb into the fold and brought the paper up in front of my face. Princess Di typeface. Pictures again. Peerless and the old man. At the bottom of the page, a picture of a small silver automatic laid out next to a wooden ruler.

  SON OF A GUN

  The strange saga of Peerless Price took another unexpected turn this morning when the Seattle Police Department announced that SPD officers now had in their possession a nickel-plated Uiirty-two-caliber automatic handgun which they believe to he the murder weapon in the Peerless Price case. Spokesperson Rhonda Peters declined further comment until ballistics tests can be completed later this afternoon.

  The sudden appearance of a weapon is but another bizarre twist in this nearly thirty-year-old case of—

  "Jesus," I said. "At least," she agreed. "How did they . . . where did the . . . ?" "I called Tommy. He called Harvey Wendenhall down in Olympia ... at the crime lab." "Yeah?"

  "Wendenhall says some stoner kid brought it into the East Precinct last night about eleven-thirty. In a shoe box. Says some guy gave him twenty bucks to Band the box

  to the desk sergeant. A note inside the box said the gun was the murder weapon in the Peerless Price case." She shrugged. "That's all Harvey knew."

  I jumped to my feet a bit too quickly, sending my head swimming.

  "Good," I said, as my vision cleared.

  "Good? How can this be good?"

  "It's good because I was about to give it up. Believe it or not, I finally came to the conclusion that everybody else was right and I was wrong. That I was poking my nose in where it didn't belong. I'd made up my mind to forget about Peerless Price and get my ass back to work."

  "Yeah . . . sure."

  "Really, I was."

  "And now?"

  "And now . . . it's pretty obvious. I've managed to do what I do best. I've made somebody uncomfortable. Uncomfortable enough to do something stupid. That's good. That's very good."

  "What if it turns out to be the murder weapon?"

  "Then sending it to the cops was even dumber. All I've got to do now is figure exactly whose day I ruined and why."

  "Any ideas?"

  "Absolutely none," I confessed. "I pride myself on being an equal opportunity annoyer. I'd like to think I piss everyone off equally, without consideration of race, creed or sexual orientation. With me, it's kind of like a point of honor."

  "How I admire a man with standards," she drawled. "I'm gonna jump in the shower," I announced. She leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. "How come you're all dressed up?" I asked. "I'm off to work. See you later." "On a Saturday?"

  She sighed and headed for the bedroom door. "I'm still behind on my work. I'd rather work today than have to stay late all next week."
>
  BY THE TIME I made it down to the kitchen about twenty-five minutes later, I was feeling better than I had in days. The feeling that my head was stuffed with cotton was gone, supplanted by the sense of cranial airiness one has after recovering from a head cold. Not only that, but for the first time since I'd started on this Peerless Price thing, I had the feeling that somehow I was making progress, even if I didn't exactly understand how. I settled in with a pot of coffee and the sports section to see if maybe I couldn't have a spasm of lucidity about what to do next.

  The Sonics had won seven in a row, but George Karl was still ranting about their lack of defense. The Seahawks were done for the season and looking to hire a new general manager. Rumor had it that the GM from Pittsburgh had been talking to new owner Paul Allen.

  Halfway through my second cup of coffee, I noticed my slippers still adorning the heat registers along the south wall of the kitchen and remembered the stuff I'd left to dry. The wallet itself was still damp around the edges, while the paperwork was wrinkled but dry.

  I reassembled my wallet and its contents and stuck it in my back pocket. The notebook, alas, was a goner. No loss. That's why I carry thirty-nine-cent notebooks. Over the years, I've tried every sort of scratch pad known to man. Everything from hand-tooled leather journals to miniature hand-bound books. What I'd discovered was that, regardless of the cost, with me, notebooks all seemed to have a similar life span and that it was exponentially less annoying to ruin or lose a thirty-nine-cent notepad than a thirty-nine-dollar journal.

  I flipped to the last couple of pages, intending to transfer anything still readable. That's when I saw it. The emergency number from Triad Trading's office window on Pier eighteen. Six-two-four, seven-seven-six-five. I walked over to the counter and picked up the new notebook I'd started yesterday. I flipped it open to the first page: six-two-four, seven-seven-six-five. The number Bermuda had dialed before leaving last night Curiouser and curiouser.

  I wedged the receiver between my cheek and shoulder and dialed the number. Same deal. Several clicks and transfers and then: "You have reached six-two-four, seven-seven-six-five. Please leave a message at the beep." Beep. I hung up. Immediately, the phone rang. I grabbed it. A woman's voice. Tentative.

  "I'd like to speak to . . ." Pause. ". . . Mr. Leo Waterman, please." She sounded like she was reading.

  "Speaking."

  "Urn . . . you don't know me but ... I mean we met the other day at Ed's . . . when you were there." "Amy?" I tried.

  "Yeah . . . you remember." She sounded pleased. "I remember," I assured her.

  "I found your card on the windowsill ... I was worried ... I thought maybe you would know ..."

  "Worried about what? What's the problem?"

  "Ed's not here. His bed hasn't been slept in."

  "Well, maybe he's ; . ." I began. I did what people do in moments like that I invented reasons why the situation wasn't as worrisome as it seemed. "Ed's a grown man ..." I babbled.

  She cut me off. "I've been making Ed's meals for five years, Mr. Waterman. In all that time, he's never not been here before."

  "Never?" I repeated.

  "And his old car is gone out of the backyard. I thought maybe you knew . . ."

  "No idea," I said.

  Technically, this was true. I didn't actually know a damn thing. I had a few suspicions but nothing else.

  "Have you called the cops?" I asked.

  "No. I don't know . . . what if Ed's just . . ." She began to sniffle.

  "I'll be right over," I said quickly. "Don't do anything until I get there, okay?"

  "Okay."

  EVERYTHING WAS PRECISELY as I'd left it the night before. For some odd reason, I felt a need to go in and check the bed for myself. The black-and-gold comforter was unwrinkled. The pillows pushed neatly against the headboard. On the table by the bed, two framed photographs of the same thin little woman with serious eyes. From the yellowed look of the photos, and the turn-of-the-century garb, I figured she was probably his mother.

  Across from the bed, to the right of the door, a collection of newspaper articles and news photos had been professionally framed and matted into a single large display. From where I stood, I figured it was probably more of the life and times of Bermuda Schwartz. If it hadn't been for Amy, I probably would have missed it.

  "You seen that?" She pointed.

  I walked over until I was close enough to read the captions and headlines. They weren't about Bermuda or my old man either. They were about me. Sports mostly. Football stat sheets. Baseball box scores. The picture of me when I hit the jumper at the buzzer to win the semifinals of the state 3A basketball tournament and the one of me with my helmet in my hand and the blood running down the front of my face after getting our asses kicked by Cascade in the football playoffs when I was a high school junior. He'd documented my every triumph and tragedy. Standing in that quiet room reading what amounted to a shrine to myself, my body felt like an electric current was running through it. I turned back to Amy who stood stiffly in the doorway.

  "Look around the house," I said. "See if there's anything obviously missing or out of place."

  Her face was blank. "Like what?"

  "Just anything missing or out of place," I said.

  "All right," she said weakly.

  I waited for her to get lost and then quickly shook down the room. Pawing through the drawers in the nightstand, checking the shelves in the closet and running my hands beneath the clothes in the dresser and as far as they would reach all around the mattress. I got down on my knees and looked under the bed. Nothing.

  I was still picking dust bunnies from the knees of my pants when Amy appeared in the doorway.

  "Only things I see gone is his brown coat and hat."

  "Where does he keep his phone book?"

  "You mean like the Yellow Pages?"

  She was a nice girl, but I'd hate like hell to have to explain Noam Chomsky to her.

  "No, his personal phone book. A Rolodex, that kind of thing."

  "Oh," she said, and turned and started into the living room. I followed along. She walked directly to the small built-in cabinet to the left of the white leather chair and pulled it open.

  "He always keeps it here," she said, rummaging around in the interior.

  "How often does Ed go out on his own?" I asked.

  "Never," she said quickly. "Up until a couple of years ago, he used to go away during the holidays, but I think whoever he visited with died or something, 'cause he hasn't gone for a few years."

  I didn't like it. I didn't like an old shut-in being gone all night I didn't like it that the last number he called was a place I'd very nearly gotten killed. And I especially didn't like the fact that it probably was something I said that sent him on his way.

  "Here it is," she said.

  She handed me a small black plastic book about three inches by five, with a gold telephone icon on the cover.

  The doorbell rang. A smile split her wide face, nearly closing her eyes. She ran for the door. "Ed," she yelled.

  She was still squealing as she jerked open the white door and then, as suddenly as she'd been filled with joy, she stood stock-still. I heard a male voice. Then another. Deeper this time. Every hair on my body began to rise. I started for the door. Stopped. Amy backed into the corner, leaving the door agape. Her eyes were wide. She looked my way.

  Trujillo and Wessels stepped into the room.

  Chapter 19

  "Well, looky, looky," said Wessels, rubbing his hands together with glee. The three of us stood there, looking from one to another, trying like hell not to appear surprised. Wessels was still wearing that ratty gray suit and didn't look like he'd combed his hair since I last saw him. Trujillo, on the other hand, was resplendent in a blue silk pinstriped suit and a purple tie. Trujillo stepped around his partner, walked up to me and pulled Bermuda's phone book from my fingers.

  "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

  "Me? I came to see an old friend. W
hat about you?"

  Wessels jumped in. "We're looking for Edward Schwartz."

  Trujillo shot him a sharp look. "What we're doing here is none of your business, Waterman."

  "Ed's not here," Amy piped in.

  Trujillo turned toward the girl. "And who might you be, miss?"

  "I'm Amy Sorenson." She said it like it was the first day of school.

  "What's your connection to Mr. Schwartz?" Trujillo asked.

  She told him. At length. It took her a full five minutes 216 to get back to the present. "And when Ed . . . Mr. Schwartz wasn't here this morning, I called Mr. Waterman."

  Trujillo turned his attention to me. "Where's Schwartz?"

  "No idea," I said. "Maybe you guys will get lucky again and somebody'll deliver him to the precinct house in a shoe box."

  "Turn around," Trujillo snapped.

  "Why?"

  He raised his voice. "I said, turn around." I stayed put. "What for?"

  "I'm arresting you for interfering with a police investigation."

  "Oh, gimme a break, Trujillo. How bogus."

  He looked back over his shoulder at Wessels, who reached to the back of his belt and produced a pair of handcuffs.

  "Turn around," Trujillo said again.

  I heaved a sigh and did as I was told. Wessels stepped forward and clamped the cuffs on me hard enough to stop circulation, grabbed me by the back of the neck and marched me out onto the porch, across the street and stuffed me in the back of their silver unmarked Ford.

  IF YOU GO to the King County Jail, you stay for at least six hours. The county doesn't get reimbursed by the state for inmate stays of less than six hours, so it doesn't matter a whit what your infraction was, or how many of your friends are waiting with bail money clenched in their sweaty palms. You do six hours.