Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca?

by G. M. Ford

  "We'll hand her a place to park, Harold, that's what we'll do. Go up the street to the intersection. Turn around and face me. When you see her coming again, start walking this way. Okay?"

  "Okay," he said. "What are we gonna do then?'

  I told him. "You think you can handle it?" I asked when I'd finished. I already knew the answer. Harold had gained a certain notoriety among his peers for pulling this same stunt as a last-ditch panhandling ploy.

  "Easy," he said, grabbing the cart and wheeling up the street.

  I was backed in at an angle, which made it difficult to see back up the one-way street. She was going to be right on top of me before I had a chance to pull out. I'd have to rely on Harold. Not a pretty thought.

  Cars crept by, looking desperately for signs of someone leaving. A two-tone brown LeBaron, packed to the rafters with senior citizens, stopped just short of the truck and waited. The driver scrunched down to look up into the truck for signs of departure. I waved him on. A horn blew impatiently behind him. He rejoined the parade slowly inching its way along. When I looked up again, Harold was slowly pushing the cart back toward me along the central divider, his eyes wide, his face a collection of tics and grimaces. I started the engine.

  I opened the door and poked my head up over the truck. Caroline was three cars back. Traffic was at a complete stop. Harold was directly opposite me now, headed down to the next corner according to our plan. A burgundy minivan rolled by. Two cars to go. The cars were well spaced for what I had in mind. Every driver was leaving a couple of car lengths, hoping to get luckier than the guy in front. A yellow Toyota pickup eased slowly by. Caroline was next. I nosed the truck out into the flow. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Caroline Nobel behind the wheel. The pickup moved onward. I settled in behind, moving just far enough forward to give Caroline room to back into the stall. She whipped the little blue car in like a pro.

  The street was empty for half a block in front of me. I gunned the Chevy up to the next intersection, turned right, up a block, right again, a block south, and another right. I could see Harold and his cart a block down in front of me. The street was clear. I roared down toward Harold, who stood poised on the corner, his hands white-knuckled on the handle of the cart. We exchanged glances. The light changed. I turned right and rolled down toward Caroline Nobel.

  As I eased over the crosswalk, Harold pushed the cart out into the street. I drawled, letting the traffic in front of me move on up past Caroline, keeping one eye on the big sideview mirror. I checked the empty street in front of me. By the time I looked back in the mirror, Harold was well into his act. The cart lay on its side in the left-hand lane, its contents spread over the entire intersection; Harold was flopping around like a beached steelhead in the right lane, apparently in the throes of a seizure. Several people were out of their cars rushing over to give aid.

  I had the street to myself. I raced up the street and slid the truck to a stop in front of the Toyota, blocking any chance to escape. I walked around the front of the truck, unlocked the passenger door, and left it open. Whatever she thought I was about, she wasn't having any of it. She leaned her head out the window. Oversize aviator sunglasses covered most of her face. A designer commando. When body language failed to work, she leaned farther out the window of the little car.

  "Sir, will you please move that . . . that" - she waved a disgusted hand at the camper - "monstrosity."

  Something possessed me. I grabbed her by the front of the camouflage jacket and pulled her out through the window. It was a tight fit. I'd planned on easing her to the ground, but lost control as she cleared the windowsill. She hit the pavement hard, landing flat on her back. Her breath escaped in a single rush. The beret bounced off, releasing more blond hair than her pictures had suggested. She groaned and gagged as she fought to find her wind. Appalled at my own behavior, I picked her up by the collar and the belt and half-dragged, half-carried her over to the truck. I stuffed her onto the floor on the passenger side and slammed the door.

  I could hear her weakly trying to reopen the door as I sprinted back around the truck. The street behind the truck was still empty. Harold had attracted quite a crowd. Caroline Nobel was still pawing at the door handle and retching intermittently as I wheeled under the viaduct, hung a left, and headed south.

  We shot past Harold, who by now was sitting up. I blew the horn three times in the prearranged signal. The good Samaritans didn't know it, but a miraculous recovery was about to take place. Caroline had her head up on the passenger seat, working hard to stifle the dry leaves that racked her body. She was groping blindly for the missing door handle.

  "The door doesn't open from the inside, Caroline. Relax and get your breath back. We're going to have a chat."

  The mention of her name got her attention.

  "Who - " Her body jerked in another series of spasms. A thin line of spittle hung from her lower lip as she rested her head on her arms. Her sunglasses hung from one ear. "Please," she moaned. "Please - I don't know what you - "

  "Shut up and catch your breath," I said. She groaned.

  I'd spent the better part of an hour this morning scoping out a spot close to downtown where Caroline and I could have our little talk in relative safety. We were almost there. I pulled up to the double gate that separated the street from the heavy construction equipment being used to complete the new I-90 on-ramp. Taking the driver's door handle with me, I got out, unwound the thin piece of wire I'd used to put the chain back together, and slid the gate open.

  Caroline made a pathetic attempt to kick me in the face as I got back into the truck. I hit her hard in the shin with the door handle. The leg retracted. She made small whimpering sounds. I drove the truck through. Got out, closed the gate, replaced the chain, and drove the truck back behind a line of cement mixers.

  Again taking the door handle with me, I walked around back and let the tailgate down. Caroline tried to kick out the side window but couldn't muster enough leverage. I pulled her out by the coat collar and walked her stiff-legged around to the back of the truck. I sat her on the tailgate. She telegraphed a kick to my groin. I stepped back. Her hair covered her face. Only the eyes of a cornered animal were visible through the blond tangle.

  I dug a handkerchief out of my pocket and held it out.

  "Here, wipe your mouth." She hesitated, then took it.

  Frankie Ortega was right. The pictures didn't do her justice. Even disheveled, white as a ghost, with a line of spit still clinging to her chin, she was beautiful. She swept her hair back with one practiced hand.

  "Look buddy," she tried to snarl. Her perfectly clipped diction made snarling sound ridiculous. "I can't imagine what in hell you think you're doing or who you conceivably could be, but this is kidnapping. If you'll let me go, right this instant, I won't - "

  "Funny you should say that, Caroline."

  "Say what?" She hesitated. "How do you know my name?"

  "Buddy. You called me Buddy. This is about Buddy."

  "How do you know my name?" she demanded.

  "Heck," I said, "I even know your mother's name." She started to speak. "Gene," I said. "Gene Constance Nobel." I had her going.

  "What are you, one of those degenerates who follows people around?" She looked me up and down. "I must say, you certainly look the part." Her regal bearing had made a recovery.

  "No, actually Buddy's been following you around."

  "Who's this Buddy, goddammit?" Her voice wasn't made for swearing either. "Is that how you and Buddy get your jollies, following people around, or going through their garbage maybe? Maybe you're - "

  "No," I said evenly, "all Buddy got from following you was dead."

  "Dead?"

  "Every bit as dead as Robert Warren."

  "Robert Warren. Who is Rob - "

  "Young Indian guy. Big red Ford pickup."

  "Bobby?" she gasped. "Dead?" I'd made a dent in the veneer.

  "Bobby won't be making your little meeting anymore."

&n
bsp; "You're full of - how do I know - " She looked at me closely. "You're not kidding, are you?" She got to her feet, wandering in a circle.

  "Sit," I said. She leaned back against the tailgate. "No. I'm not kidding."

  She combed her hands through her thick hair again as she digested the information. "Dead?" she said again.

  "Dead." Traffic noises made their way to the forefront as silence settled in on us.

  "How?" she asked softly.

  "Somebody burned his house down, with him inside."

  "Burned?" She thought about it. "How do you - "

  "I'm asking the questions here," I said. Silence again.

  "Listen you, please - "

  "I'm going to listen. I'm going to listen while you tell me what you and Bobby have been meeting about that was so important that it could get two people killed."

  Her mental wheels were turning so fast I could almost hear then spinning. Behind the curtain of hair, a single blue eye glazed over as if a switch had been thrown somewhere. She gave me her most dazzling smile. Time for Plan B. Plan B always worked.

  Still leaning on the tailgate, she slowly shucked off the camouflage jacket, with just enough arching to make her ample breasts strain the yellow T-shirt she was wearing beneath the jacket. She continued stretching with a certain feline grace, gazing out from under her hair to make sure I wasn't missing the show. She slid down to the ground, turned around, and bent over farther than necessary to put the jacket on the tailgate. She lingered, bent at the waist, the seat of her designer jeans taut.

  When she assumed that I was thoroughly distracted, she mule-kicked backward and took off running. I tripped her. She sprawled on her face in the gravel. I set her back on the tailgate. She spat on my shirt. "I hate you," she screamed. "You have no right."

  "Bobby had a right not to get fricasseed in his own home. Buddy had a right not to have somebody torture him and then shoot him in the head. Those are the rights that we're going to worry about here today, Caroline. You understand me, honey. Your rights, my rights, they don't matter much to me right now. You hear what I'm saying?"

  I didn't get an answer. She sat on the tailgate, carefully picking gravel from her palms. She made one last attempt at what had always worked before. She stood and put her arms over my shoulders, drawing her softness up close to me, resting her head on my shoulder. I could fee her warm breath on my neck. "I'm sorry about your friend," she whispered, rubbing her pelvis against me.

  I put one hand on her breastbone and shoved her back onto the tailgate. The truck rocked. She tried looking hurt and offended. I ignored her.

  "What did you and Bobby have going?" I asked.

  "Bobby was my fiancé. We were going to - "

  I stuck my finger right up in her face and wagged it back and forth. "Spare me. I'm not buying that crap. Your boyfriend is whoever's standing in front of you at the moment. Now let's get real here, or I'll - " I stopped myself. A mistake. She was quick.

  "I suppose you like beating up women?"

  "I get hard just thinking about it," I snapped. Another mistake. Immediately, she got feline on me again. She got languidly to her feet.

  "Maybe you'd get off from whacking me around a little, huh? Would that do it for you?" She stepped in close again and fixed me with her veiled eyes.

  "No," I said quietly. "I like ‘em dead. Right after they start to cool off, that's the way I like ‘em." She pushed off of me.

  "You're disgusting."

  She'd tried sex. She'd tried violence. Then she'd tried sex and violence. She was out of ideas. She sat heavily back on the tailgate and ran through her options. The truth was not high on the list. She heaved a sigh.

  "We were going to catch them red-handed."

  For some reason, I felt less than informed. "Trying to catch whom doing what?" I asked.

  "The dumping." My blank expression seemed to exasperate her.

  "We wanted to find out where it was coming from."

  "Where what was coming from?"

  "The stuff they were dumping."

  "What were they dumping."

  "I don't know."

  If at first you don't succeed. "Who was dumping it?" I asked.

  "I don't know that either."

  "What do you know?" She thought it over.

  The girl was persistent, if not imaginative. I figured she'd just seen entirely too many Lauren Bacall movies. She dredged up what she must have imagined was her most seductive look, a hint of a smile, eyes at half mast, lips slightly parted. I shook my head. She pouted, flounced once, and then casually looked up to see if maybe that was working. Her expression suggested that she'd forgotten about pouting. Pouting and flouncing worked sometimes too. She was hopeful. Not this time. She heaved another sigh.

  "Bobby knew about some dumping of illegal waste. He knew a bunch of places where they were burying it, up around Marysville." She affirmed herself with a bob of the head. "Can I go now?" I think she was serious.

  "Dumping what?"

  "He didn't know. Bobby said he was going to check local water samples to see if he could find out."

  "What water samples?"

  "From one of the towns up by where they're dumping." Impatient.

  "What town?"

  "I don't know."

  "And you don't know who it is that's supposedly doing this dumping?"

  "No. I tried to follow one of the trucks yesterday."

  "And/"

  "I lost it. This goddamn train - "

  "Where?"

  "Down by Tacoma somewhere."

  Now it was my turn to think. A number of interesting possibilities presented themselves. "This was Friday afternoon?" I asked. She nodded.

  "How'd you meet Bobby?"

  "I met him out canvassing."

  "Panhandling?"

  "It's not panhandling when you're trying to save the - "

  "Earth," I said. "Save the Earth."

  Her eyes narrowed. "How do - "

  "So you met him out canvassing. Then what?"

  "I noticed him hanging around, you know. I saw him at the Locks one day and then down at the Kingdome the next, so I figured he must want something, so I started talking to him." She got more animated as she spoke. "He was real shy at first, but we got to talking about, the planet, you know, and how we're strangling it and all and then, like out of nowhere, he started telling me about this dumping that was going on up on the Indian reservation and how we could catch them at it and how he knew all these places where they were supposed to be planting trees but were really dumping waste."

  "So you tried to follow one of the trucks?"

  "But this train - "

  "Why didn't Robert follow the trucks himself?"

  "He tried, but it wasn't that simple. We needed two people."

  "Why?"

  " ‘Cause the truck goes two places." I was hoping that this sounded as ridiculous to her as it did to me. It did. "After they dump, they go down to this yard full of trucks and cars."

  "A depot?"

  "Yeah, it's right down the street here." She pointed back toward the north. "So they go to the depot and the driver goes inside for a while and then comes out, gets in his car, and goes home. We know, we followed one of them over to West Seattle. He just went home and went to bed."

  "What happened to the truck?"

  "They hook the part the driver's in up to a different trailer, then they hook the trailer they dumped with up to another - ah - "

  "Cab," I inserted.

  "Yes, another cab, and then they pull it off."

  "Right after the driver leaves."

  "Yes - no - well, the cab with the new trailer leaves right away, but the trailer stays in the yard for a while."

  "How long?"

  "Sometimes it's gone in the morning. Sometimes it's around for a couple of days. That's why Bobby needed someone in the city to follow the trailer. Somebody who had the number and could camp out until it got pulled out. First time, we followed the cab."

  "A
nd?"

  "It just went back to work with a different driver. Hauling lumber."

  "So that left the trailer."

  "The trailer turned out to be hard to follow. They all look alike. I mean they're not marked or anything. So Bobby marked one."

  "How'd he do that?"

  "He climbed over the fence Thursday night and put yellow X's on the trailer. So I'd be able to identify it once it left."

  "How long had this one been there?"

  "Since Tuesday."

  "Why did you guys wait until Thursday to mark the trailer? What made you so sure it was going to be around for that long?"

  "Because they hadn't cleaned it yet. They wash the trailers before they go out again. We needed to wait until it was clean before Bobby marked it or they might have washed it off. I camped out in my car for two days making sure the trailer didn't leave."

  "And then you followed it when it left?'

  "And lost it," she said.

  "Why didn't Bobby follow the trailer?"

  "I wanted to," she said with more emotion than it deserved.

  "Why's that?"

  She squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin. "It was my chance to do something to save - "

  "The earth." No sense asking her how she convinced Robert Warren to let her follow the trailer.

  "Yes, the earth. Don't you understand?" she whined. "This was my chance to do something significant, to make a difference, to - " She noticed that I wasn't listening and waved me off disgustedly. "Besides that, Bobby said he had something important to do. He was going to take it to the tribe. He said" - she cocked her head and looked at me - "he said that he sure hoped he was taking this to the right person, because there was no telling who was in on this and who wasn't."

  I gave it a minute. I suspected that Bobby's choice of a confidant may have been less than perfect. Only murder held the story together. Bobby and Caroline had barely made progress in their investigation, and already two people were dead. Somebody was abnormally nervous.

  Caroline sat on the tailgate and massaged the bridge of her nose. The adrenaline she'd produced while she was being kidnapped had worn off.