Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca?

by G. M. Ford

  "Hector, it's Leo." Why in hell was I whispering.

  "Oh, Leo, Leo," he whispered back. "Chew got prolems, Leo."

  "Have I had any visitors?" Stupid question.

  "Doan come bach ere, Leo. Dey yoost left."

  "Okay, thanks Hector. Did they leave anybody in my apartment?"

  "No, but dey coming back. Mudderfokers."

  "Listen, Hector, I'm supposed to be watering Mrs. Gunderson's plants while she's away. You suppose you could take care of that for me for a few days? She'll be back in a week."

  "No prolem, Leo."

  "One more thing, Hector. When you come out in the morning, there's going to be a red Chevy pickup with a camper out in the building parking lot. In Mrs. Gunderson's slot. Don't have it towed. It's me."

  Hector giggled maniacally. "Right oonder deir fucking noses, eh, Leo? Bueno, bueno." I wasn't sure how bueno it was, but it was a start.

  Next, I called SPD Forensics and asked for Rebecca Duvall. For once, my timing was perfect. She was just cleaning up and would be with me shortly.

  "Duvall."

  "Rebecca, it's Leo." She took an audible breath.

  "I just finished up on him, Leo. He was a friend, I understand."

  "You could say that. What's the verdict?"

  "Cause is no problem. Single gunshot to the head. Point-blank range. A great deal of powder residue. Steel-jacketed, three-fifty-seven, would be my guess. I don't have anything for comparison. As I understand it, the slug exited the passenger window."

  "At least it was quick," I said. She took another deep breath. I waited.

  She outlasted me. Rebecca Duvall wasn't squeamish. Fifteen years as a forensic pathologist will eliminate one's gag reflex. I forced myself to push.

  "Just one to the head?"

  "Not exactly," she said.

  "Well?"

  "You sure you want to hear this, Leo? You tend to be squeamish."

  "Tell me." I could hear papers rustling.

  "In addition to the entrance and exit wounds, he's got two broken fingers. One a full compound fracture, the other a clean break. He's also got several nonlethal knife wounds on the front right side of his neck."

  "Like somebody held a knife to his throat and worked on his fingers."

  "That's what it looks like," she said. "Looks to me like he held out for one finger. The left index is really spiraled. The right middle's not nearly as bad." I started to speak; Duvall didn't stop. "I had to clean him up, Leo. He'd . . . ah . . . voided. That's not at all consistent with gunshot wounds."

  "So whoever it was worked on him until they got what they wanted and then shot him anyway."

  "I'm sorry, Leo, but it looks that way."

  "I need a favor," I said.

  "What?" She was on guard.

  "Hang on to him for a few days, will you? Maybe lose his paperwork until I can arrange something. I don't think he has anybody else."

  "Will do, Leo."

  "Thanks."

  "And Leo," she said, as I was about to hang up. "If it's any consolation, he had maybe a year and a half, at the outside. No more. Both his liver and pancreas were shot. His liver was the color of - "

  I interrupted. "Thanks again, Rebecca. I owe you one."

  "No. Leo. This is more like fifty-one. Speaking of which - "

  "Yes?"

  "Has Arnie braced you about this party of his on Sunday?"

  " ‘Fraid so."

  "You going?"

  "Are you?"

  "If you do."

  "I don't want to."

  Me neither."

  "I promised," I said.

  "Me too."

  "What time?"

  "Around two."

  "Don't be late."

  "See you there." Dial tone.

  Duvall had answered one of my nagging questions. Whoever had incinerated Robert Warren and tried to roast me had come prepared for both of us. The Fiat had been well hidden. Somebody had looked hard with the expectation that I was somewhere in the area. Somebody who didn't want me talking to Robert Warren. That meant that whoever it was had already been aware of Warren. I was just a bonus.

  I dialed Tim Flood's number. Trask was right. Getting lost was a stopgap measure at best. Sooner or later, I was going to have to answer some questions. Tim might as well know. No answer. Tim was apparently getting around better than Frankie let on. I headed for the Zoo.

  I parked the truck three blocks away and approached on foot. At this point, I was nothing more than a material witness in an out-of-town investigation; I figured it would be a couple of days before anybody wanted me bad enough to start canvassing for me. Wrong again.

  I nearly walked into them. If I hadn't spent the last hour liberating license tags, I might not have noticed the tax-exempt plates. There were two of them in a blue unmarked Chevy. They probably thought they were inconspicuous, just sitting there doing nothing, parked half in, half out of a bus stop at ten-thirty at night. I crossed the street two cars behind them and doubled back toward the camper.

  Four blocks past the truck, I found a working pay phone and called the Zoo. I asked for George. I guess George didn't get many phone calls. I had to describe him. I waited. One of the cops was out on the sidewalk stretching and casually scanning the street. All I could make out was a well-tailored blue suit and the beginning of a bald spot.

  "Hello." George, tentative and smashed.

  "George. It's Leo." It took him a minute to process.

  "Oh, Jesus, Leo, have you heard about - "

  "I know, George. I need to see you guys. Are Harold and Ralph there?"

  "Yep. Oh, God Leo - those sonsabitches," he sobbed.

  "Listen to me, George. Are you listening to me?"

  "I'm listening, Leo." He sniffled.

  "Get Harold and Ralph and - "

  "Un huh."

  "Walk out the front door and turn left."

  "I don't think Ralph can make it, Leo. He's a little - "

  "You and Harold help him. It'll look better that way anyway."

  "Harold's not so good either."

  "It's important, George."

  "Okay, turn left - "

  "Walk up about four blocks. You'll see a red truck with a camper. Walk around the back and get in the camper. You got that?"

  "Around the back to the camper. I got it."

  "Make it as quick as you can." I hung up, crossed the street, and approached the camper from the rear. I unlocked the door, stepped up inside, closed all the little flowered curtains, opened the slider between the passenger compartment and the camper, and crawled through the window into the driver's seat.

  Cleverly disguised as a spastic conga line, the boys were halfway to the truck. Ralph's arms were draped fraternally over the shoulders of the other two. The trio treated curbs as if they were canyons, pawing with one foot until one or the other located solid ground and then collectively lurching onward. They wandered over the entire width of the sidewalk, occasionally bouncing off the buildings and parked cars, but careening steadily forward, until, just as they drew even with the cops, George, his attention riveted on Ralph, walked smack into a parking meter and dropped to his knees, dragging the other two with him. The nearest cop got out. I started the truck. The party was over.

  One by one, he helped them back to their feet. As the crew resumed its journey, the cop stood on the sidewalk and watched, shaking his head. The cop was tall, six-four or so, horn-rimmed glasses lending a little character to his smooth boyish face. His bald spot reflected the overhead lights as he leaned down and said something to the driver, then straightened up and resumed watching. The crew had barely a block to go when, mercifully, he finally lost interest and got back in the car.

  They stuffed Ralph in first. He lay across the tailgate with his head and shoulders inside the door and softly began to snore. George and Harold used him as a throw rug as they climbed aboard. Taking Ralph by the shoulders, they yarded him up near the front of the camper and closed the door.

&nbs
p; "Sit down fellas, we're going to take a little ride," I said through the window. George and Ralph sat in the built-in booth on opposite sides of the tiny table. Ralph continued to snore. George was livid.

  "Did you see that dumb fucker in the glasses run right into me, Leo?"

  "Never gave an inch, did he, George?"

  "That fucker was solid," he replied.

  Instead of continuing up the street past the cops, I backed the truck up, hung an immediate right, and started radically downhill toward the lake. Something bumped against the back of me, rocking the cab. I snuck a look over my shoulder. Ralph, now in the fetal position, had slid all the way up against the cab.

  "Ralph took it hard, Leo," said Harold. I was thinking that Ralph took such disasters as sunrise hard, but kept my mouth shut.

  I wound down Eastlake and parked in the deserted parking lot of a boatyard. I left the interior lights off. No sense attracting undue attention. I stuck my head through the slider.

  "How you guys doing?" I asked.

  "Not so good," slurred Harold.

  "Me neither," I said. "I'm gonna miss Buddy." They silently agreed.

  "Who did it, Leo?" asked George, his anger returning.

  "I don't know, but we're sure as hell going to find out." I looked for support but didn't get any, so I kept talking, "How'd you guys find out?"

  "A couple of cops, they come in with a picture of Buddy. Jesus, Leo, he had a - " George said.

  "There was a hole in his head, Leo," Harold finished.

  "Did the cops talk to you guys?"

  "Nope," said George. "They just passed the picture around until somebody, I think it was old Bill Knowles, recognized the picture. Me, I had to look again. It didn't look nothin' like Buddy. But it was . . . " He let it trail off.

  "Any idea how they knew to come to the Zoo?"

  "The matches," they said together.

  "What matches?"

  George took the lead. "Buddy was always taking all the matches from the bowl on the bar. He wasn't supposed to, Terry threatened to eighty-six him, but he did it anyway."

  "Always had pockets full of them," added Harold.

  "What for? Buddy didn't smoke."

  "Maybe he just liked to collect stuff," Harold replied with a shrug.

  "I think he took ‘em ‘cause it pissed Terry off. You know how Buddy is . . . was." George caught himself. Never speak ill of the dead.

  "What happened down at the building today?" I asked.

  "Same old shit," said George. "Regular panhandling rounds, Caroline made the regular trip down to meet the guy, except he didn't show."

  "Somebody followed her?" I asked.

  "Ralph." George jerked his thumb at the bundle on the floor. "I sent Ralph. What with the construction and all, traffic's so damn bad, even Ralph can keep up. I figured he might as well do something."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said she drove down like usual. Sat there in her car for almost an hour and then drove off," answered Harold.

  "Did she come back to the building?"

  "Nope." Together. I mulled this information over.

  "I want the three of you at your posts in the morning."

  "You mean we're still gonna . . . " George sounded shocked.

  "Without Buddy?" Harold asked.

  "How much energy do you figure the cops are going to put into somebody like Buddy?" I asked. They looked at each other. I kept talking. "The only way this is going to come out clean is if we do it. Caroline's been meeting this guy around one in the afternoon, right?"

  "Between one and two," answered George.

  "I'll be there. You guys just keep track of the building, okay?"

  I got a couple of weak okays. "For Buddy," I added. The okays got stronger, not exactly a chorus of acclaim, but at least they were willing to try.

  I dropped the crew at the rooming house. Ralph first, so Harold could lend a hand. George last, so I could have a word with him.

  I counted out seventy-five bucks. "Here's what I owe you guys. Divvy it up in the morning." He stared at the money in his hand. "Looks like you're in charge now, partner." The thought seemed to terrify him.

  "I don't know, Leo. I don't - "

  "For Buddy, George." He tried to focus on my face.

  "For Buddy," he repeated, sticking the money in his pocket.

  Chapter 12

  At seven o'clock on the dot I was awakened by a rapping on the truck door. no great cause for concern. Short of breaking out one of the side windows, nobody was getting inside. I'd put the tailgate up, effectively blocking the door, and then backed the truck right up against the block wall of the parking area. After locking the truck doors, I'd crawled through the slider and spent a miserable night freezing my ass off in the overhead bunk. I needed a new sleeping bag. First thing on the agenda.

  I peeked out through a curtains, saw Hector's smiling face, and opened the driver's door for him. He got behind the wheel. He'd brought a steaming mug of coffee, and eggs and something green wrapped in a corn tortilla. The coffee was excellent. The unidentified green substance was so spicy it made my eyes water; I choked it down anyway. Hector crawled through and sat at the table.

  He anticipated me. "Dey been back twice, Leo," he said as I slurped down coffee. "Once late last night. Again dis morning. Fockers wake me both times for de key. Dey say dey gonna tow your car off later today."

  The sleeping bag slipped to number two on the charts. I poked my head back out through the curtains. Sure enough, two bright orange SPD tags were attached to the Fiat, one on the door handle, one on the windshield.

  "Hector, does your brother still own that body shop?"

  "Chewer. Got two now."

  "You think it would be okay if we took the Fiat over there?"

  "No problem."

  "If the cops find out - " He waved me off.

  "Yeah, yeah, and eef Geeligan was a Cubano, he'd have gotten off that focking island. Gimme de goddamn key."

  I'd offended him. It wasn't hard. Hector was touchy. I'd learned long ago that there was absolutely no way to predict what was and was not going to piss him off. A simple greeting like "Nice morning, isn't it?" could very easily be met with "Waddas chew crazy, chew tink I'm stupid, eets raining like tree bastards out dere." The good news was that he usually got over it just as quickly. I hesitated.

  "Chew think I'm afraid of the policia?" He spat noisily on the floor, narrowly missing my shoes. "Chew tink my broder Reuben afraid?"

  "Not for a second," I said hastily.

  "The last time the policia pick up my broder Reuben, dey keep him nine years. Dey donk his head in de toilet ebery day. Reuben be glad to help. Chew gimme de dey," he demanded. "I take it right over."

  I fished the key out of my pocket. Hector crawled back through and let himself out. By the time I'd gotten myself organized and was back behind the wheel, Hector had the Fiat started. I jumped out and jogged over to the car. Hector rolled down the window.

  "I'll take de bus back. Chew take care of beesnez, Leo," he said with a gleaming gold smile.

  "Neither of us is going to be taking care of any business, Hector, if I don't take these tags off the car." I pulled the two I'd seen off and checked the other side of the car. Sure enough, there was another on the passenger door. I stuffed the tags in my pocket.

  "Gimme your keys," I said.

  "Chew best not - "

  "I'll use your apartment." He fished for his keys.

  "Doan answer de phone or de door. Dey been - " he cautioned.

  "Not to worry, Hector." He threw the keys at me.

  "Worry, I doan worry. Chew tink I yam - "

  "Better get this thing out of here."

  Hector didn't require further encouragement. Still muttering, he popped the clutch and was around the corner, out of sight before I got back to the truck.

  What I needed was to have a talk with Caroline Nobel. Caroline's presence at the waterfront rendezvous on Friday afternoon said that she was unaware of Rob
ert Warren's fate. I was hoping that she'd keep showing up. Frankie Ortega's warnings notwithstanding, Caroline and I were about to get up close and personal.

  A shower and change of clothes weren't much help. I had to shave around the scratches on my face, leaving myself with a swirled appearance. The clean clothes I pulled out of my pack were, if anything, more wrinkled than the ones that lay piled by Hector's front door. at least they were clean.

  I rummaged through the pile of filthy clothes until I came up with the Post-it with the phone number that Arnie'd given me.

  "Environmental." A gruff male voice.

  "Tom Romans, please."

  "Speaking."

  "My name's Leo Waterman. I'm a friend of Arnie Robbins's."

  "Any friend of Arnie's - " He let it hang.

  "Arnie says you're a good source on environmental groups."

  "Depends on the group."

  "Save the Earth."

  "Nice choice." Silence, then: "What did you say your name was?"

  "Waterman, Leo Waterman."

  "You that detective friend of his?"

  "the same."

  "And you want info on the Save the Earth movement."

  "That's it."

  "Not surprising," he muttered. "I'm kind of busy for the next few days. How about next Monday afternoon?"

  "That might be too late." He thought it over at length.

  "What are you doing this morning?" he asked finally.

  "Not much," I said. Telling him I was presently evading the police seemed a tad too confessional a response for a budding new relationship.

  "You know the symposium is going on this week," he said. "Any other time - " If this was supposed to be informative, it wasn't. I waited.

  He sensed my confusion. "The Northwest Environmental Action Coalition meets twice a year. A little rhetoric. A little fund-raising. That sort of thing. Gives them a chance to see how little they actually have in common," he added bitterly. "Meet me there at nine o'clock. I'll get you in. We can talk. I'll tell you what I know. It may cost you lunch."

  "I can handle it."

  "Meet me there."

  "Where's there?"

  "Seattle Center. The Exhibition Hall."

  "See you."