Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca?

by G. M. Ford

  "I can't believe Bobby's dead," she said, hugging her abdomen. "I can't believe they're going to get away with it. Bobby's dead and they're going to get away with it."

  Her voice broke. It was tough to tell whether Bobby's death or the loss of her big chance bothered her more. My money was on the later. The latter I could do something about. Bobby was going to stay dead.

  "Maybe not," I said under my breath.

  "Maybe he's not dead?"

  "Maybe they're not going to get away with it."

  "Who's going to stop them? The government doesn't - "

  "We are."

  "We are? How? How are we - "

  "Get in the truck."

  "I'm not going anywhere with you - you disgusting - "

  "Fine," I said. "See you around." I started around to the driver's side. Caroline followed in hot pursuit. "Where are you going?" she demanded.

  "I'm going to poke my nose around where it's not wanted."

  "I'm coming."

  "You're not welcome." I got in the truck and started the engine.

  "I'll go to the police. I'll say you kidnapped and raped me."

  "Feel free," I said. The sex and violence combo had failed again.

  "Please. Bobby's dead." She was doing beseeching now. It worked. I thumbed her around to the other side. Pulling the handle from my pants pocket, I let her in. I handed her the handle.

  "There's an Allen wrench that fits that in the glove box. Do something useful and put the handle back on while we're riding."

  She rummaged in the glove box. "Where are we going?"

  "I'm taking you to a lovely little bar I know of up north."

  "Something romantic?" Hope springs eternal in the young.

  "Something Native American," I answered.

  Chapter 14

  Whoever said that a little learning is a dangerous thing must have spent some time listening to Caroline Nobel. The kid could talk. As a matter of fact, she never shut up. By the time we were halfway to Everett, I was prepared to dispense with the sex and get right to the violence. She'd already covered the spotted owl controversy and downtown land use planning and was regaling me on the ozone layer, or rather, the lack thereof.

  "- and soon we'll all have to stay indoors, either that or we'll all just turn into one mass melanoma." This last image was too much for me.

  I heaved an inward sigh. The sigh must have been more outward than I'd imagined. She picked up on it. "Does all of this bore you, Mr. - eh - you know, you never did tell me your name. if I'm going to be kidnapped by someone, I insist - "

  "First of all, you're not being kidnapped."

  "I most certainly am."

  "You want me to let you out? I'll let you out." I depressed the brake pedal and angled over toward the shoulder of the interstate.

  "You would, wouldn't you? Right out there here in the middle of nowhere. In a torrential downpour. You'd leave me."

  "First of all, it's only drizzling. Secondly, this isn't exactly the middle of nowhere. Something like a million people live within twenty miles of this very spot. Besides that, you shouldn't have any trouble catching a ride. The day shift at Boeing lets out in about a half hour. Try that stretching and bending routine of yours again." I stuck my chest out and wiggled it around. "I'm willing to bet you get picked up almost immediately."

  "You're despicable," she said as I pulled the truck to a stop on the shoulder of the highway.

  "Get out," I said. She screwed herself down in the seat. I reached over her and opened the door. "Get out," I repeated.

  She shook her head violently from side to side. "I won't!" If her lower lip had been sticking out any farther, I could have used it for a gun rack. I reached back over and reclosed the door.

  "Okay, then, I don't want to hear any more of this kidnapped stuff. You're along for the ride. That's it. Just do what I tell you and keep your mouth shut. Is that clear?"

  "Perfectly," she said, vivisecting me with her eyes.

  Caroline's perfect understanding lasted all the way to the Last Stand.

  After wheeling the truck into the gravel lot and pointing it back out toward the street, I shut down and put the keys in my pocket. The drizzle had turned to a light rain, darkening the dirt and gravel of the lot. The bar was humming. Twenty or thirty cars and trucks were randomly strewn throughout the lot. Good, I thought. The more people, the easier it would be to get lost in the crowd.

  "Stay here," I said, slamming the door behind me.

  I was halfway to the door when I heard the crunching behind me. She was six paces back, wearing her aviator sunglasses in the rain.

  "I'm coming in," she said defiantly.

  Unfortunately, there was no way to lock her in the truck, and although the prospect of rendering her unconscious held a certain manic appeal, it seemed a short-term solution at best. Wishing I'd left her on the highway, I gave in. I crooked a finger at her. She sauntered over, hands in her jacket pockets.

  "Okay, but stay close to me," I said. "This place isn't the Ritz, you understand me?" She said she did. "I'll handle this. You keep out of it." I reached for the door. "And for God's sake, keep your mouth shut," I added as I pulled the door open. The doorway was full.

  Most of the patrons were backed up against the front door. Only the click of pool balls rose above the eerie silence.

  What appeared to be four construction workers lounged around the pool table at the far end of the room. A staring contest was in progress. Most of the crowd was way past middle age, a fairly even mix of men and women, all of whom were giving the guys at the pool table a wide berth. A wide-body holding a cue stick spoke to somebody beyond my line of sight.

  "You want the table, you put up your quarter. That's how it works, Hiawatha. This here's America. We can come in any place we want. You don't like it, that's tough shit."

  He was dangerous-looking specimen, one of those guys you could mistake for fat if you didn't look closely. Five-eleven, maybe two-twenty-five or so, almost as wide as he was tall. Rapidly thinning brown, curly hair, narrow eye slits over a pug nose, wearing a blue work shirt, red suspenders, and muddy jeans. He chalked his cue so hard it bent, leaned over, and delicately banked the eight ball into the side pocket.

  "Next victim," he declared loudly. His three buddies passed smug looks back and forth. His last victim, an older Indian wearing a battered black cowboy hat, returned his cue to the wall rack and slowly walked back to the bar. He was the older of the two guys I'd seen before. A muffled buzz passed through the crowd.

  "Who's next?" the guy demanded.

  The pockmarked kid I'd seen talking to Robert Warren detached himself from the bar and ambled over to the table. He flipped a quarter out from under the far rail and squatted down, retrieving the balls.

  From the far end of the bar, a wavering voice rose above the rest. "You're not wanted here. Why don't you go?"

  "We ain't going nowhere, grandma. Your brave here just had his chance. What, you want to try next? The way you people shoot, it's no wonder the cavalry kept kicking your ass."

  Encouraged by the guffaws of his three-man audience, he waddled over to the older man whom he'd just defeated. Standing in far too close, he said, "Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. You beat me and we'll get the hell out of here. I beat, I get that hat. What do you say?"

  The older man stood his ground. "I don't gamble," he said evenly.

  "Well then, just what do you do? Can't get none of these so-called women to dance. Can't get nobody to play a little friendly game."

  The kid, who had racked the balls and selected a cue, interrupted the byplay. "You gonna play or what?" he asked to the guy's back.

  "I'll play when I'm ready, Tonto. It's my table. Right?" he said, without ever taking his eyes off the old man. He showed a collection of short, worn teeth to the old man.

  "You know what you get if you put six of these Indian women together in the same room at the same time?" he asked.

  "No, what's that?" said the old guy,
still holding his ground.

  "A full set of teeth." He swiveled his head toward his pals for more approval and got it. They grinned and nudged one another. He turned his attention back to the old man.

  "We played that last game for ten, right, old-timer? Where's my money?" With one meaty finger, he idly played with the pearl button on the old man's faded blue cowboy shirt.

  "I told you before we started, I don't gamble," he said.

  "It's my table. You want to play on my table, you play by my rules. I want my money," he insisted, now using both hands to unsnap the buttons one at a time, exposing the old man's bony chest.

  Before I could react, Caroline skittered across the floor and forced herself between the two men. She got nose to nose with the pool shark. She slowly ran her palms up over the guy's chest and rested her arms on his shoulders.

  "If you want to pick on somebody, big fella," she said in her Lauren Bacall voice, "why don't you pick on me." The pool shooter slowly smiled and turned again toward his pals.

  I began to nonchalantly wander down the length of the bar toward the back of the room.

  "Well, look what we got here, fellas." More grinning and nudging. He leaned the cue against the bar, wrapped both arms around Caroline, and pulled her in close. "Well," he said, "now ain't you a hell of an improvement on these other sows."

  With a lecherous wink to his pals, he pulled her roughly in a planted an open-mouthed kiss on her. Caroline, of course, responded with passion. Is topped in my tracks. Jesus Christ.

  As he ground his mouth against hers, one of her hands crept lovingly to the back of his thick neck and mussed the sweaty curls plastered to the back of his head. The pool shooter redoubled his efforts.

  Suddenly, as if overcome by emotion, Caroline went completely slack. As she slid from his embrace, only her teeth, firmly locked on his tongue, kept her from hitting the floor. For a second or two, her entire weight was suspended from his tongue. Purple in the face, his eyes bulging, he forearmed her to the floor and staggered about the room, clutching his mouth, bellowing like a bull.

  I used the diversion to walk the length of the room and get a two-handed grip on the cue he'd left leaning against the bar.

  "Eeee bib mee. Eee bib eee," he howled incredulously as he examined the blood that now seeped through his fingers and covered the backs of his hands. Blood poured down over his chins.

  I watched his throat work as he swallowed blood and tried to work his tongue back into the warm, soothing confines of his mouth. No go. She'd torn something loose. His tongue hung from his mouth like a piece of raw, lacerated liver. Gingerly, he tried to push it back in with his thick fingers. Bad idea. The pain nearly took off the top of his head. Water poured from his eyes as he released his tongue and clutched his temples, staggering about in small circles. He howled again and started for Caroline.

  His watering eyes opened wide as he lumbered back across the floor, his massive arms outstretched, his fingers reaching for Caroline, who was still sitting on the floor. Using both her hands and feet, she skittered crablike backward toward the door. she wasn't going to make it.

  When he got even with me, I tried to conk him on top of the head with the thick end of the cue, but he saw it coming. At the last instant, he stood straight up. The cue hit him directly in the mouth. I cringed.

  He went down in a heap, his hands clawing at his mouth, his feet turning him around in circles on the floor as if jet-propelled. If it weren't for the horrible, high-pitched keening sound that was coming from somewhere deep inside his body, he would have looked like he was break dancing.

  Mindful of the three others, I turned quickly back toward the pool table. No need. They stood ashen against the back wall. The pockmarked kid had a gleaming Buck knife in his hand. Several other men had formed a loose circle around the trio. Without the big guy, these three weren't shit.

  I checked o Caroline. She had regained her feet and was vigorously wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

  "Way to stay out of it," I said.

  "Somebody had to do something," was her muffled response.

  And older woman at the bar reached over and handed Caroline a beer. Caroline used it like mouthwash, swishing and swirling it around in her mouth. Satisfied that she'd gotten the last vestiges rinsed out, she was at a loss as to what to do next. Apparently she didn't want to swallow it. I couldn't say as I blamed her. Equally apparent, spitting was not part of her private-school background.

  With her cheeks bulging, she looked at me and raised her eyebrows. I pointed to the guy on the floor. She looked at me again as if to say "Are you sure?" and I nodded. She leaned over and spat the beer on the pool shooter, who by now had stopped circling and was slowly rocking to some internal rhythm. The move was greeted by a standing ovation from the crowd. That left the other three.

  I walked to the back of the room. Nobody had moved. The kid still held the knife down by his side, neither brandishing it nor putting it away. As I shouldered my way to the front, the three guys tried to press themselves through the wall.

  "You better get him to a hospital," I said to none of them in particular.

  They stirred but didn't move. "Don't worry," I said. "I wont let her hurt you." Laughter rippled behind me.

  The shortest of the three, a rat-faced guy in engineer overalls and a grease-stained John Deere hat, slowly made his way around me, keeping himself as far from the kid with the knife as possible. The others followed.

  As they half-dragged, half-carried the guy from the bar, they were treated to a shower of beer and spittle as the patrons, emulating Caroline, filled their mouths with whatever was handy and sprayed it over their retreating forms. As the door swung shut, a loud cheer erupted.

  It was beers all around. Within two minutes, Caroline and I each had four or five beers thrust in front of us; the jukebox came to life, playing an old George Jones tune; a friendlier pool game got underway; the doorway cleared out as people headed back to their seats. In spite of our momentary heroic status, I was at a loss as to how to begin asking people questions.

  The older guy in the black hat wandered over. Seeing Caroline surrounded at the bar, he stepped over next to me.

  "Thanks," he said.

  "No problem," I replied, sipping a beer.

  "I didn't need any help," he said quietly.

  "Never figured you did," I replied.

  He gestured toward Caroline. "That woman of yours - "

  "Not mine." I help up my free hand. He nodded.

  "Good thing," he answered. "Too young for you anyway." He hesitated, then folded his face into a smile. "Good teeth, though."

  "Amen." We clicked beers to Caroline's teeth.

  We stood and surveyed the bar together.

  "My name's Leo," I said, sticking out my hand.

  He took it in his own calloused hand. "Daniel," he said, "Daniel Dixon."

  We returned to watching the bar. Figuring that there was never going to be a better time than this, I said, "Actually, Daniel, it's me that needs some help."

  "Not as long as you got that little panther with you, you don't."

  "She can't help with what I need."

  He looked at me closely. "What is it you need?" he asked, showing no visible curiosity.

  "I need to know about Bobby Warren."

  He took a pull from his beer. "They say Bobby's dead."

  "I know. I was there."

  "they say somebody might have burned him up."

  "They're right," I answered. "They tried to burn me up too."

  He mulled this over at length. "What makes you think I can help you?" he asked finally, polishing off his beer and setting it on the empty table beside us. He didn't give me a chance to answer. "What's done is done," he said, walking toward the back of the bar. I followed.

  He leaned against the bar and watched the pool game. The pockmarked kid shot everything like he was trying to blast it all the way through the table. Colored balls scattered like a prison break every time he stroked.
His opponent, a squat middle-aged guy with a prodigious gut, merely waited for everything to stop moving and picked his balls off one at a time.

  "The kid shoots too hard."

  "I keep tellin' him that, but he don't listen," said Daniel, never taking his eyes off the game. "That's my son Henry," he said, nodding at the kid. "Bobby was Hank's friend."

  "I know."

  "You was in that little green car over in the other lot on Friday afternoon. A statement.

  "And here I thought I was well hidden," I said.

  "I seen you," he said. I waited. Daniel Dixon spent words the way other people spent money.

  Hank Dixon wound up and plastered the eleven ball at the corner pocket. He missed. The ball caromed off two cushions and inadvertently sank the eight ball at the far end of the table. Cheers and groans filled the area. The kid hung up his cue and walked over to where we were standing. He ordered a beer.

  Daniel leaned over and whispered in his ear. Hank whispered back and then leaned out and fixed me with an appraising stare before going back to whispering.

  Before the fate of my inquiry could be decided, angry voices from up by the door rose above the din.

  First a female voice, seriously annoyed. " - the matter with you? We thought you was nice. Where you come from anyway?"

  Next a male, also a bit out of sorts. "You some kind of tree hugger or what? It's traditional. Don't you understand?"

  Then, of course, Caroline. "Poor defenseless beasts, hunted to the brink of extinction, and for what? So someone can hang their pathetic heads on their pathetic walls it's barbaric. It's - " I lost the rest in the shouting.

  Caroline stood at the center of a closing circle of men and women, gesturing disgustedly at the collection of trophy heads that adorned the walls. I hadn't noticed before, but a stuffed cougar prowled along a place of honor above the bar, a black bear head growled over the entrance, several excellent deer racks were placed strategically about the walls, and even a couple of skunks served as artwork in the place.

  Whatever goodwill she'd created earlier was now a thing of the past. Time to circle the wagons.