Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca?

by G. M. Ford

  "This is supposed to be a one-on-one?"

  "Supposedly."

  "They'll try to make it look that way, then. They'll send somebody harmless-looking. You're responsible for the one you meet. He's your problem. I'll take care of the rest. What are you packing?"

  "I'm not," I said. He was disgusted.

  "Not very often it get to meet anybody who's actually as dumb as he looks. Just because this is a park don't mean this is just a walk, asshole."

  He pulled up his right pant leg and liberated an automatic from a spring holster strapped to his ankle. "Take this."

  I dropped the gun in my overcoat pocket. The coat sagged. He shook his head again. His damaged ear quivered. He held out his hand.

  "Gimme it back." The gun snagged several times as I fished it out. He set it on the ground at his feet, reached into his left sleeve, pulled out a combat knife, and in one smooth motion yanked up my coat and cut the right-hand pocket out. He retrieved the automatic, thumbed off the safety, and gave it back to me.

  "Now just stick your hand down through the pocket and carry it along your leg. Anything happens, shoot right through the coat. You need to get rid of it, just drop it and keep walking. Got it?" I said I did.

  We wound our way down the walkway toward the far baseball diamond where the meet was scheduled to take place. Just as we came out of the trees into the field area, he stepped off into the bushes.

  "Where are you going, partner?: I asked. Wrong move.

  "First of all, Waterman, don't pump yourself, I'm not your partner. Second of all, you just go make the meet. I'll be around. I'll meet you back here when it's over." He stopped. "Remember, the safety's off. Don't shoot yourself. I'm not cleaning up your ass either."

  He was gone. I stood for a moment and watched him slither through the shrubbery without making a sound. Impressive.

  Floyd was right. There was only one guy waiting for me. He stood right out in plain sight, leaning against the backstop of the distant baseball diamond. I stayed in the trees, skirting the fields until I was behind the first-base dugout. My head was filled with the sound of my own heartbeat.

  He was old. Seventy. Maybe. Black. Immaculately attired in a brown cashmere overcoat and highly polished loafers.

  I stepped hurriedly from the bushes, strode across the diamond. And set the briefcase on home plate. Without the weight of the case, my free hand vibrated uncontrollably. I stuffed it in my other pocket.

  "It's all there," I said, backing away in the direction Floyd had gone.

  "I'm sure it is, my boy, but what say we just have a peek." He had a strange, lilting English accent.

  "This is the end of it," I said.

  "No hurry now, it's a fine night, is it not?" he said quickly as I started to leave. I had my right hand strangling the automatic inside the cutout pocket of my coat. I kept on backing up until I had the dugout screen between us.

  "Tell your people my client did his end. He's righteous in this. From here on, it's not our problem. There's your money. It's over."

  "We'll need to - "

  From the woods on our left, the sounds of breaking branches echoed across the diamond. The old man waited. Nothing happened. Silence.

  "I'll need to count to it," he said, trying to buy time.

  Before I could answer, a sound like a muffled cough rose out of the thicket directly behind home plate. The old man flinched. His impassive face broke for just an instant. He knew something was wrong.

  "Feel free," I said. "Just sit right down there on home plate and count yourself a home run. I'm out of here."

  "Wait now," he said, picking up the briefcase and popping the latches.

  I stood my ground. He pawed through the contents. A couple of minutes passed. Another cough seeped from the woods.

  The old guy kept pawing at the money, sneaking looks around. Silence. He started to speak but had lost sight of me in the darkness. The wind of the Sound suddenly picked up, turning the leaves inside out, filling the air with the smell of pine, drowning out any sounds from the nearby thicket.

  I kept backpedaling until I figured I was out of range. He was still fingering the money and looking for me when I turned my back and double-timed it down the walkway.

  Floyd joined me right where he'd said he would.

  "Three," he said. "Two in the park and one in your backseat."

  We exited the park and crossed the street. I looked in the Mustang. Empty. Floyd inclined his head slightly toward the bushes behind my car.

  Peeking out from among the roots of a massive azalea were a pair of shoe soles, the right one worn all the way through to the yellow sock.

  "I didn't figure you wanted to ride home with him," Floyd said. Before I could catch my breath, he said, in a voice I'll never forget, "You gonna hold that auto in your hand all night, or are you gonna pay me?"

  I handed him the automatic and dragged the five grand out from inside my pants. He didn't so much as look at it. Just put it in his pocket.

  "Better do a little cleanup on the interior in the morning."

  He turned and walked away. I rode with the windows down. The car smelled of mushroom soup. A little cleanup turned out to be scraping most of somebody's medulla oblongata off the backseat, the headliner, and the carpets.

  That first encounter with Floyd made a lasting impression on me. The next morning I bought my first handgun and a new car with no backseat.

  In the intervening years I'd called Floyd half a dozen times. The routine was always the same. He'd name his price and meet me there.

  He was standing next to the Fiat before I got the motor turned off. I picked the bag off the seat and popped the lock. He struggled in.

  "Jesus Christ, Waterman, get a car."

  I dropped the bag in his lap. "For me?" he mocked. "You shouldn't have."

  He pulled the zipper back and peered inside.

  "What's that?" I asked, poking the doughy mass.

  He took it out of the bag and felt it over with his hands. Then he pulled off a small piece, rolled it between his fingers and smelled it. Satisfied, he popped it in his mouth and ate it.

  "It doesn't have a name," he said, chewing slowly.

  "Everything's got a name."

  "Not this shit; it's just your basic accelerant. Been around for years. It's used to burn up things that won't ordinarily burn. The Russians used their own version on the Afghans. They were having a hell of a time burning down the villages. Fuckers live in mud houses. The mud bricks won't burn." He hefted the blob. "Except with this shit. This shit will burn down a stone building. Makes Thermite look like a kitchen match. No explosion either. Just starts burning. Fires up to damn near four thousand degrees. It'll burn underwater. Once you get it going, it'll burn in a vacuum. Really can't be put out; mostly, it just has to burn itself out." He tossed it up and caught it. I winced.

  "Totally harmless without the chemical detonators," he said.

  I reached over and fished the aluminum test tubes out of the bag.

  "The very same," he said. Still handling the material, he looked over at me for the first time. "Where'd you get this, Waterman?"

  "It was under my front seat, wired to the ignition."

  He shook his head. "Leave town, Waterman. This is serious shit. It's not all that easy to get. A Gomer like you is out of his league here."

  Before I could respond, he delved back into the bag. He unrolled the blanket in his lap and whistled. "Nice," he said, hefting the piece. "Russian. KGB stuff. I forget what they call it. Eight hundred rounds a minute, incredible muzzle velocity. Great for shooting through solid steel doors. Nice piece. Not rare though. I can get you fifty. Two thousand a whack. They're big with the local crack-dealer set."

  We sat in silence for a moment while he toyed with the piece.

  "Anything else?" he asked.

  "That's what I wanted to know."

  Floyd rolled the machine gun carefully back up in the blanket with the loving hands of a man familiar with guns. He put
it back in the bag."

  "Tell you what, Waterman. I'll take the Silly Putty and the detonators in lieu of my grand." He waited.

  "Done," I said.

  He cached the detonators in his pocket, grabbed the stuff like a loaf of bread, and got out of the car. He leaned down.

  "You better tell whoever you been brawling with to cut her nails."

  "I won't dignify that with a response, Floyd."

  "Fair enough," he said. "And I won't ask you who won."

  Chapter 10

  Four blocks down from the park, I spotted exactly what I was looking for. I wheeled the Fiat up next to the orange Dumpster, opened the trunk, and lofted the bundled-up sleeping bag up through the yawning lid. I walked around to the driver's side, got the bag with the maps and the automatic, and locked it in the trunk. A car wash was next.

  Between the washing wand the vacuum I went through the better part of ten bucks before I was satisfied. I spent a tedious half hour with a Popsicle stick I'd found on the ground, digging willow leaves out of every conceivable nook and cranny. If you didn't count the scratches in the paint, the missing antenna, or the rip in the roof, the Fiat looked pretty good.

  I checked my watch. Three-thirty. I was already screwed by the afternoon traffic. Might as well get something done. The paint and the roof would have to wait. I figured the antenna was easy. I followed California nearly to the north end, found the Schucks Auto Parts store right where I remembered it, and bought a replacement antenna and a pair of channel locks.

  Forty-five minutes later, my knuckles and forearms now scraped up to match my face, I understood for the first time why reputable mechanics refuse to work on Fiats. I'd always assumed that all the Fix-It-Again-Tony and Failed-Italian-Attempt-at-Transportation jokes had merely been the work of mediocre minds without enough to do. After all, everybody needs somebody to look down on. I resolved to reevaluate that assumption.

  The little car must have been built by elves. There was absolutely no room to do anything. Even the final step of unscrewing the old coaxial cable from the back of the radio and screwing the new one on required that I put the top down so that my legs could point straight up as I disjointed my arm into the narrow gap between the back of the dash and the firewall.

  At least I had music for the ride. Although the new antenna didn't sit at quite the same angle as the old one, it worked just fine. Unfortunately, there wasn't a single thing worth listening to. The oldies channel was stuck in one of its white-boy sixties grooves, the Dave Clark Five pounding out rock without the roll. Next came "Sugar Shack," for God's sake. KPLU was engaged in heady discussion of the merits of recycling, and everything else I could find either sounded computer-generated or had lyrics having something to do with the singer's skin clearing up in the immediate future. I rifled through the glove box until I came up with a suitable Jimmy Buffet tape, rewound, and eased into traffic to the melodic strains of "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw." Ah, culture.

  I was after six by the time I rolled into the small lot next to the Embers. I let the door swing shut behind me and stood still until I began to make out shapes in the distance. Carefully, I made my way down to the far end of the bar, ducked under the little gate, and let myself into the beer locker.

  I had already stashed Robert Warren's bag behind a stack of Mickey's widemouths when Patsy yanked open the door and stuck his head in.

  "How long do I stand to do for whatever you're hiding in here?"

  "It depends. How's your past record?" I asked.

  "So-so," he replied.

  "Eighteen months tops."

  "Comforting, Leo. Do I want to know what's in there?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "Comforting. How long?"

  "Until I need it." He didn't like that. "Soon," I said.

  He turned out the light and slammed the locker door. I groped my way back to the switch and let myself out. The place was jammed. Patsy was using the speed gun, a compromise of modern bartending to which he resorted only when he couldn't keep up any other way. Patsy wasn't big on help, claimed they robbed him blind. He sneered at my good-bye wave.

  My answering machine was full. Three from Jed James, each call offering progressively more profitable work than its predecessor. Jed was like that. Taking no for an answer was not his strong suit. Probably not a bad trait for an attorney.

  Two more were from prospective clients, neither of whom gave the slightest hint as to what they wanted. They'd have to wait. The last two were the most interesting.

  "Mr. Waterman," the tape hissed, "this is Saasha Kennedy. From the hotel the other day. I was wondering if you'd give me a call at - " She rattled off an office and a home number. "I wanted to - never mind, just give me a call whenever you get the chance." Interesting, I momentarily felt bad about giving her such a hard time. She'd walked into an ugly situation without a clue. I got over it. I'd call her, but she could wait too. The last call was an attention-getter.

  "This is Detective Trask of the SPD. Call me the minute you get this message."

  I called. They patched me right through. "Trask."

  "Leo Waterman."

  "You home?"

  "Such as it is."

  "Stay there. I'll be right over." I didn't like the sound of it. I wanted one last chance to go through the apartment.

  "Listen, Trask, I was on my way - "

  "Stay there." He hung up in my ear.

  I spent ten minutes crawling around the floor looking for any type of forensic evidence that could connect me with Robert Warren. Nothing. I'd spent the night alone, watching television. That was my story. I checked last night's listings so I could be specific, even reading the little blurbs so I'd have some idea of what the shows were about. Trask barged in without knocking.

  He stood in the hall with his hands crammed in the pockets of his trench coat. He reached in, grabbed my orange parka from the hook next to the door, and held it out to me.

  "You're wanted, Waterman."

  "Always nice to feel wanted," I said.

  "A guy named Buddy Knox been working for you?"

  My stomach rose up and fluttered within my body. My extremities got instantly cold. In that instant, I experienced the same feeling that I'd had when each of my parents had the same feeling that I'd had when each of my parents had passed away. A feeling of moving one step closer to being absolutely alone. One more of the illusions of connectedness was gone. It didn't matter that Buddy was just as old drunk who worked for me. He was part of the complicated superstructure of relationships which gave me a sense of time and place and kept me getting out of bed every morning. Getting up tomorrow was going to be harder than it had been today.

  I remembered standing by my father's bedside that snowy December morning. He'd shrunk down into the covers like a puppet of himself. The cancer was eating him away.

  "School closed?" he asked, turning his head slowly toward the snowy windowsill and squinting at the bright reflected light.

  "No," I said. "I wanted to be here with you." He smiled.

  "We're born alone. We die alone, son. Got to school."

  I cut the last two classes, but he was gone when I got home.

  Trask interrupted my thoughts.

  "Well, Waterman, was Knox working for you?"

  "Yeah, why?" I already knew the answer.

  "I'm sorry," was all Trask said.

  "Where?" I don't know why. How or when would probably have been better questions. Where just came out.

  "I'm sorry for the old guy," Trask said again. "But you got no goddamn right to be putting people like that on the street. Goddammit - "

  "Tell me," I said.

  "The Tacoma PD pulled him out of the bay this morning. He was behind the wheel of a station wagon."

  "What happened?"

  "Coroner's doing a post mortem right now."

  "Duvall?" I asked. He eyed me closely.

  "How do you know, Ms. Duvall?"

  "We went to school together," I said. "Just friends,
" I added.

  "TPD says he took one from a large bore in the forehead." Trask ready my mind. "He had a notebook in his pocket with your phone number in it in several places. That and thirty-seven dollars was all they found on him."

  "How long before Duvall's finished?"

  "A couple of hours."

  Before I could speak again, "Let's go," he said. We headed to the elevator.

  "Where are we going?" I asked on our way down the hall.

  "TPD wants to have a few words with you."

  "Am I under arrest?" I asked in the elevator.

  "Shut the fuck up, Waterman," was the reply.

  I tried again when we got to the car. "If I'm under arrest - "

  "Get in the fucking car. Twice in one week with you is more than I can bear."

  Using the diamond lane and siren, we made it to Tacoma in a little over half an hour. I told Trask the story, leaving out Robert Warren. In order to exclude Robert Warren, I had to exclude the rest of the crew. The boys were unlikely to hold up under questioning. I stuck to the story that it was just me and Buddy. Trask didn't buy it. I could tell. He was doing his impression of polite.

  We pulled off the Fife exit an wound our way through the heavy industrial district of chemical plants, paper mills, sawmills, and a montage of the filthy industries that formed the economic backbone of Tacoma.

  Everything Seattle didn't want in its own backyard had been gleefully passed down the road to Tacoma. Much like San Francisco and Oakland, Seattle and Tacoma share the same bedroom, but not as equals. More like the favored son versus the stepchild. All it took was pricing a major portion of the population out of the local housing market. And take the garbage with you when you go.

  We pulled to a stop in the parking lot of a small café. No name. Just CAFÉ in white letters on a green sheet of plywood. A boat ramp led from the parking lot down into the stinking estuary. The Buick, covered with mud and debris, wrapped in yellow police ribbon like a macabre gift, was sitting sadly at the far end of the lot. A guy that had to be either a cop or a high school football coach got out of an unmarked TPD car and walked over to us. We got out.

  He was a typical twenty-year cop. Brawny, running toward fat, with a full head of salt-and-pepper curls. Looked like a perm to get more coverage. Yellow sport coat and tie, brown pants with a grease spot on the right leg.