Last Ditch

by G. M. Ford

  "The port guy," I said. "The one who told you it was political and that you should keep your nose out of it."

  "Yeah?"'

  "You remember his name?"

  "Sure," he said. " 'Cause it was like that runt who used to run Cuba before Castro. Batista was his name. Ralph Batista."

  Chapter 22

  I'd known Ralph Batista for as long as I could recall and, for some odd reason, I'd never once entertained the possibility that somebody like Ralph might have been thrust straight from grace to the gutter by a single catastrophic event. I'd always figured he'd eased into sleaze. You know, the standard hard luck story. Laid off. The wife starts banging her Akito instructor. Our hero screws up one thing after another, starts drowning his bridges. Of all people, I should have known better.

  One of the things twenty years of working as a PI will teach you is that pain and sorrow are equal opportunity employers. It's not a question of whether they'll come knocking on your door, it's only a question of when, and of how you're going to handle it when the wheel stops and suddenly it's your turn to answer the Double Jeopardy question about who in hell you are and what it is you're doing here. Answer in the form of a question, please.

  You gonna let it stop you cold? Gonna be a victim like Ralph? Gonna let the sight of a dozen or so moldering corpses make such an impression on your psyche that your life comes to a screeching halt? I mean . . . you could hardly blame a guy . . . could you? I mean hell . . . after all . . . fourteen dead bodies.

  Or are you going to be a tough guy? One of those crew-cut souls who strangles hankies, sheds his dry tears and then marches resolutely onward with his life. You know . . . stiff upper lip and all of that.

  Or maybe you join the masses somewhere in the middle. You shed your tears and stumble onward . . . cringing . . . from that moment on destined to spend a lifetime peeping back over your shoulder, flinching at loud noises and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Sometimes I think it doesn't much matter which path you choose. Nobody dodges all the slings and arrows, and -nobody gets out alive. Hell . . . maybe guys like Ralph have it easy. In the long run, maybe the express route from the penthouse to the outhouse turns out to be less painful than the route with all the stops. Kind of like getting hit by a falling safe would surely be preferable to being picked to pieces by birds.

  The tough guys ... the ones who seem to roll their cuffs and step over adversity . . . they're fucked too. They get to spend the rest of their days wondering whether the reason they were so effectively able to go on with their lives was not because they were strong, but was because they never gave a damn to begin with. Wondering if maybe their mothers and ex-wives hadn't been right about what shallow, one-gutted pieces of shit they really were.

  For the masses, it's the happiness industry. They go to therapy. They sit around little rooms, singularly and in groups, trying to find their inner child so they can convince the poor little bastard that this disaster of a life isn't their fault. Using whatever happened to them in the past as a blanket excuse for their hollow, half-assed existences, they try like hell to drag everybody else down into the hole they're in. They tell guys like Ralph that they're sick and need professional counseling. They tell the tough guys that they have unresolved issues and will never be whole unless they too spread their inner lives upon the floor for public inspection. Catharsis, you know. Makes them feel sensitive instead of weak. If that doesn't work, they take Prozac.

  THE ZOO WAS hopping. First of the month. Checks were in. George, Harold and Normal were holding down their deeded stools at the far end of the bar. Behind them, at the snooker table, Red Lopez leaned back against the wall holding a cue, his eyes narrowed to slits. Flounder stalked about the table, up one side and down the other, chalking the tip of his cue as he walked. Earlene and Heavy Duty Judy shared a table and a couple of pitchers with Big Frank's jacket I scanned the bar, but Frank was nowhere in sight. Ralph was over in the comer with his arm thrown around Billy Bob Fung's neck, slobbering in the poor guy's ear as he talked. Billy Bob kept pulling back and picking at his nose.

  I checked my watch, One-twenty. Hopefully, they weren't too far into their drinking day to work. Up in the front of the room, with the last of the lunch crowd, the jukebox blared out country western Jimmie Dale Gilmore, singing through his nose, wanting to know if I'd ever seen Dallas from a DC-9 at night.

  I could tell right away that nobody had read the paper. The only thing this crowd liked better than a reason to party was a reason to cry. If they'd known Bermuda was dead, they'd have been holding their own version of an Irish wake.

  I made it all the way to Harold's elbow before anybody noticed.

  "Hi ho," said George. "It's the swimming detective."

  "Howdy, fellas," I said.

  Harold threw an arm around my shoulder.

  "You gotta be more careful with your driving."

  They yukked it up. I signaled Terry to bring the fellas a round.

  "Any of you guys want to make a little cash?"

  "No yard work," George said quickly.

  "Detective work," I said, pulling the Identi-Kit picture from my pocket and laying it on the bar. "I need for you to find this guy."

  They huddled together over the picture.

  "Ugly bastard," George said.

  "Bad hair day," Normal added.

  George pulled a frayed notebook from his pocket.

  "Wadda ya got in mind?"

  I told of my encounter with the Man With No Ears and of my little ride in the river. "Guy looks like this," I said. "Only places he can get lost are the square of the International District. Get together as many people as you can muster. Make copies of the picture. Canvass the whole district if you have to, but ..." I paused for dramatic effect. "... be careful. This guy is dangerous. He damn near punched my ticket for me, and unless I'm mistaken he killed Ed Schwartz on Friday night."

  "Ed Schwartz," George gasped. "Bermuda?"

  "Yeah," I said. "It's in all the papers."

  Harold jabbed the picture with his finger.

  "What this guy have against Bermuda?"

  "I don't know. That's what makes it scary."

  I gave them the Reader's Digest version of the story and then threw a hundred bucks' worth of fives onto the bar. "Here's some cash to keep your whistles wet and I've got another fifty for the guy who turns him."

  They began to scuffle over the money. "And George ..." I said.

  He clutched an unruly assemblage of cash against his chest with both hands. "Yeah?"

  "Leave Ralphie out of it,"

  "Sure," he said. "He still got that bug up his chimney about you, anyway."

  I crossed behind the snooker table to the men's room. The minute I jerked open the men's room door, I solved the puzzle of the missing Frank. Big Frank stood at the urinal, leaning against the toilet partition, dead drunk asleep with his dick in his hand.

  "Frank," I said once. Nothing. "Frank," I bellowed.

  He blinked several times and stood up straight. He looked over my way and then ran both hands through his greasy brown hair.

  "Leo," he said. "Yeah ..." He grunted several times. "I think I better have me a bracer," he said and started my way.

  I held up a hand. He stopped. I pointed down at his fly. "You probably better put that away," I said. He looked down at himself and-grinned. "Oh, yeah."

  He stuffed himself back into his pants and lurched back out into the bar. I checked the toilet stall. Empty. And then followed Frank.

  With the exception of Ralph and Billy Bob Fung, the entire crew was gathered around George over at the bar. I walked over and put a hand on Normal's shoulder. He followed me to the far side of the room.

  "I'm gonna have a little talk with Ralph," I said. "I want you to keep anybody from coming into the men's room while we chat"

  He eyed me closely.

  "You ain't gonna hurt him, are you?" he asked. "No," I said. "I'm just going to talk to him." "I don't think he's gonna want t
o talk to ya, Leo. Lately, he don't like you at all."

  "That's why I need you to keep people out." He nodded. "Okay. But don't hurt him."

  I walked over to Ralph and Billy Bob and threw an arm around Ralph. "Hey, Ralphie, how you doin'?"

  He was bleary-eyed and smelled of cheap scotch. Beneath a worn gray suit jacket, his yellowed long underwear top was wet.

  "Get the hell away from me," he said.

  I spoke directly to Billy Bob. "You don't mind if I borrow Ralphie for a minute, do you?"

  Through a series of head moves and facial tics, Billy Bob indicated that he would, as a matter of fact, be downright joyful were I able to get Ralph to stop drooling in his ear.

  "I ain't goin' nowhere ..." Ralph started.

  I grabbed him by the back of the collar, spun him around and marched him straight through the men's room door. When we got inside, I kept him moving, all the way to the back and the toilet stall, where I plopped him down on the seat with a thud and closed the door behind us.

  "We're going to have a little talk," I said.

  He half-rose and started a roundhouse right toward my head. His elbow bit the side of the stall, reducing the movement to more of a push than a punch. I caught the fist in my left hand and pushed him down onto the toilet with my left.

  "Stop it," I said. "I'm not in the mood to be bit. You smack me, and I'll knock you on your ass."

  "Oh, yeah, big man?" he sneered.

  "Fourth of July weekend, nineteen sixty-nine. That date mean anything to you, Ralph?"

  He turned his face to the wall.

  "I thought you might recall that Chinese family. You remember them? The ones they found in the container. The parents, the grandparents. Or maybe you just remember the kids. I hear the smell was really something."

  His eyes bulged in his head. He hiccuped once and then, using the graffiti-covered walls for leverage, scrambled to his feet I thought he was coming at me, so I spread my feet for balance and put my hands up. Instead he turned his back to me, dropped to one knee and began vomiting into the filthy toilet.

  I pushed open the stall door and stepped out into the room. He was full of beer, so it took a while. When the beer and everything else in his innards was gone, he kept on heaving until it sounded as if his muscles simply would no longer contract

  Normal popped open the door. "Leo," he yelled. "Got some people out here need to go real bad."

  "Tell 'em to go piss off the back porch," I said.

  When I stepped back into the stall, his eyes were full of water and a thin line of spittle connected his lower hp to his shirtfront

  "Who was supposed to let them out?"

  "I don't know what—"

  "Hey," I shouted. "Save it. You want to go up on Queen Anne with me and talk to a guy named Gaylord LaFontaine?"

  His eyes flicked up at me. He remembered the name. I could tell.

  "He used to work for U.S. Customs. Remember? You told him to keep his nose out of what was going down on Eighteen. Told him it was political and that he should keep clear. Remember now?"

  He gave a nearly imperceptible bob of the head.

  "Who was supposed to let the people out of the container?"

  He said it so softly, I didn't hear it the first time.

  "Who?"

  "Jimmy Chen."

  He had me going. "What Jimmy Chen?" "Judy's ex-husband," he said, without looking up.

  "I thought he'd been gone for years."

  "He was. Showed up again that summer. She give him a job workin' down in the yard." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "If I'da known, Leo. I'da . . ."

  Suddenly his eyes overflowed and tears began running down his face. "He was supposta let 'em out that Thursday." He looked at me. "Never showed up. Those people ... If I'da known . . ."

  "What happened? How come he didn't do his job?"

  Ralph shrugged. "Disappeared," he said. "Ain't never seen him since," he said. He stared up at the ceiling. "I ever see that son of a bitch again ..."

  He moved his gaze to me. "I always figured it was your old man," he said.

  "Why's that?"

  "He wanted that son of a bitch gone, but Judy didn't want to hear about it. Made him promise to leave Jimmy alone."

  "But you figure he did it anyway."

  He hunched his shoulders.

  "Two roosters and one hen."

  I'd have felt better if he'd said nearly anything else.

  "But you don't know for sure."

  He shook his head.

  Normal pushed the door open. "Terry's up my ass, Leo."

  "Be right out," I said.

  Chapter 23

  The Street was independent of time. Beneath the towering oaks and maples, the huge old houses frowned down at the street like dowager aunts. Tim Flood's house, like most of its neighbors, was better than twenty rooms. Three stories of tapered columns, gabled windows and gingerbread flourishes covered in brown shingles. A three-foot brick wall, into which an ornate wrought-iron gate had been set, separated the sidewalk from the front yard I opened the gate and walked up the broad front steps to the double doors. I knocked, waited for about two minutes and then knocked again, harder this time.

  A bell somewhere on the door tinkled as Frankie Ortiz pulled it open. He wore a pair of khaki trousers, a navy blue V-neck sweater and a pale blue button-down shirt. It was the first time in my life I'd ever seen him without a tie and jacket.

  "Hi, Frankie." I said. "Sorry to intrude."

  He stuck his head out the door and checked the street in both directions. "Ya shoulda called ahead," he said.

  "You'd have told me no."

  He stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind him.

  "I seen where you popped those two Vegas cowboys."

  "Thanks to you."

  He gave me a look of mock surprise. "That what you come here for? To thank us? How thoughtful."

  "No," I said. "I need to talk to you."

  "To me?"

  "To both of you."

  His eyes ran over me like ants.

  "Tim don't see nobody but Caroline."

  "I'd really appreciate it if you'd ask him."

  Frankie shrugged. "Way I see it, our accounts are even, Leo. You give us a hand with the girl; we ship you a warning that somebody wants to waste your ass. Nobody owes nobody nothing."

  "I'm asking a favor," I said.

  "A favor, huh?"

  "You've seen what they're saying about my father?" "Be kinda tough to miss there, Junior." "How about it?" I asked.

  He smoothed his pencil-thin mustache with the side of his finger.

  "You been talkin' to Eddie Schwartz lately?" "Yeah."

  He checked his manicure and then the street again. "Not much incentive for talkin' to you then, is it?" "No. I guess not." He gave it some thought

  "You wait here," he said finally. "I'll go ask Tim." Five minutes later, he reappeared at the door. "You caught him in a good mood," Frankie said. He opened the door all the way, and I stepped into the vestibule.

  "Come on," he said, "you probably want to take that coat off before you get in there."

  I took his word for it and pulled the coat off as we ambled to the end of the hallway, and then on through the double French doors at the end of the passage, which left us in a small foyer between the main house and the giant solarium at the back. Frankie stepped to one side and ushered me into the stifling sunroom. Like my last visit, it was at least eighty-five degrees inside the glass room. The humidity was like the Texas Gulf Coast in August.

  A dazzling array of orchids, exotic plants and shrubs, many pushing the thirty-foot glass roof, dripped in the moist air. The place was a greenhouse with furniture. It felt like a sauna.

  The remains of Tim Flood were masquerading as a pile of bones, dry, white and nearly lost amid the cushions of an ancient wicker settee that fanned out behind his head like a halo.

  "Sit," he said, motioning toward a green wicker chair. Sweat was beginning
to roll down my backbone. I sat.

  Frankie pushed an old-fashioned bar cart over next to me and asked me what I wanted. I took a botded water and downed about half of it. Frankie poured something disturbingly yellow into Tim's glass, added two ice cubes and then took a seat on Tim's right, with his hands folded in his lap.

  Tim looked pretty good. Smaller than I remembered. His hawklike nose had become more prominent with age; his bony liver-spotted hands gripped the padded arms of the lounger like bird's feet, but the hard little eyes showed no concession to time.

  Tim generally liked to shoot the breeze a bit before getting down to business. He was big on tales of the good old days. Of ghost fleets on Lake Union, of breadlines and Hooverville and union elections that were settled by sawed-off baseball bats up the sleeve. Today, however, he wasn't in the mood for small talk.

  "Tell me about Eddie Schwartz," he said.

  I gave him the whole story, omitting, nothing except what Ralph had said about Jimmy Chen.

  When I finished, Frankie jumped in.

  "What the hell was he doing down on the docks?"

  "I think he wanted to talk to Judy Chen."

  "Why would he want to do that?"

  "I don't know."

  Tim sat up straighter in the chair. "What do you want from me?"

  "Somebody told me Judy Chen had her ex-husband working for her down on Pier Eighteen. Said it was the ex-husband who was supposed to let those people out of that container."

  "Somebody, huh?" Frankie repeated. He looked over at Tim. "Now what tittle somebody might that be?"

  "Eddie Schwartz tells nobody nothing," offered Tim.

  "Judy neither," added Frankie.

  Frankie and Tim passed a quick look between them.

  "Ralphie," Frankie said. "The lush."

  Tim turned his predator eyes on me.

  "Ralphie still alive, huh? I'da thought he'da swallowed himself to death by now."

  "He's working on it," I assured him.

  "That thing ate him up."

  "What thing?"

  "The container thing. He ain't never been the same since that. Before that he was a pretty good man. After that . . ." He made a drinking motion with his thumb.