Not Dead Enough

by Warren C Easley

  “Two zip,” he said.

  We battled back and forth, but he won the first game easily. I took the second by one basket, but only because I began to back him down and use my height to score in close.

  My left arm was throbbing and I was still breathing heavily when I said, “You’re good, Santos. Newberg could use you at point guard. Ever think about playing?”

  He shrugged and looked down at his shoes. I could tell by the gesture that he had thought about it.

  “What’s stopping you?”

  He continued to study his shoes.

  I waited.

  He lifted his head but avoided eye contact. “High school sucks, man. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m invisible there. Anglo kids, Anglo teachers, all in their little Anglo club. He flicked his thumb in the direction of the book on the table. “It’s sorta like in that book you loaned me. The dude’s trying to survive in a place he doesn’t belong. That’s the way I feel.”

  I caught his eyes. “That kid didn’t quit, did he.”

  He shrugged. “I can’t play with a police record, right?”

  “Wrong. As long as you’re in school, you can play. And you don’t have a record yet. We’re going to ask the judge for probation at your hearing. If he grants it and you stick to the terms, they’ll wipe the slate clean.

  “They do that?”

  “Yeah, if you do what the judge orders and you don’t screw up again.”

  Santos didn’t say anything, but he looked like I’d just removed a couple of sandbags from his shoulders.

  I left him splitting firewood with Archie watching over him and drove to Newberg to run some errands. On the way, I called Fletcher Dunn, but he didn’t answer. As I was finishing up, my phone chirped.

  “Have they caught that son of a bitch yet?”

  “Afraid not,” I answered, recognizing Dunn’s voice. “How are you, Fletch?”

  “I read about the shooting of that deputy in Eastern Oregon. Damn shame.”

  “Yeah, well, at least every cop in the Northwest’s looking for him now.”

  “That’s good, but you’re not letting your guard down, are you, Cal?”

  I chuckled. “You’re the second person who’s asked me that this morning. That’s why I called. Remember that singer you told me about—Sheri North? I want to find her.”

  “You think she can help after all this time?”

  “I don’t know. She was the mistress of the head honcho at the dam. You never know about pillow talk.”

  “You look over in Washington like I said?”

  “I looked in the whole Portland-Vancouver area, then both states. There’s no listing for Sheri North. Lots of Sharons and Shirleys, but I have no way to sort them out. Of course, like you said, it could be a stage name.”

  There was a pause. “You know, the guy you should talk to is Stan Abelman. Know him?”

  “The jock on the twenty-four-hour jazz station?”

  “Right. He’s a walking encyclopedia about the Portland music scene, past and present. He might know something.”

  I described my meeting with Stephanie Barrett next and asked Dunn for another favor. I wanted the inside scoop on the Gorge casino project, the key players, particularly anything he could find on Barrett, and the amount of money that was likely to change hands. I could have asked Philip to go through his dad for this, but I figured I’d get a straighter story from the ex-newspaperman. Dunn jumped at this like a cub reporter.

  After Dunn and I signed off, I drove back to the Aerie. Santos had finished splitting the stack of logs I’d left him with and was weeding the ground around my blueberry bushes. The day had turned sunny, so he ate the lunch I made him out on the porch. I looked up Abelman’s number and got him on the third ring. That’s the beauty of Portland—its celebrities are in the phone book. He was very cordial. He knew of Sheri North but had no idea where she was now, or whether that was her real name. He did, however, remember the name of her manager—a guy named Harry Voxell—although he was pretty sure Harry had passed away.

  There was only one Voxell in the Portland phone directory. I had just about hung up when a woman answered, somewhat out of breath. “Hello, this is Lydia.”

  Telling her the true reason for my call would have taken too much time, so after introducing myself, I said, “I’m doing a retrospective on the early Portland jazz scene. I’m wondering if you’re related to Harry Voxell.”

  “Um, yes I am. I’m his niece.” The voice grew cautious.

  “Oh, terrific,” I said in a cheery tone to reassure her I wasn’t selling anything. “Do you happen to know how I could contact him?”

  “He passed away ten years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I paused, but she remained silent. “Uh, I’m also interested in interviewing a singer he used to manage way back in the fifties. Her name’s Sheri North. Do you have any idea how I might contact her?”

  There was another pause, as if she were considering the question. Then she answered with finality in her tone, “I’m sorry but I can’t help you.”

  “Do you know Sheri North? Is she still around?” I asked the questions in rapid fire, fearing she was going to hang up on me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “But, I—”

  Click.

  “Damn it,” I said as I threw my pen across the room. “Good thing I didn’t go into telemarketing.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  Townsend Enterprises was nested atop forty-four stories of marble, glass, and steel in downtown Portland. Owing to the tint of the stone, I’d recently learned, the building’s called the Big Pink by Portlanders. On Sunday evening I used the card Jason Townsend had given me to raise the bar at the entrance to the tower’s underground parking lot. I was running late for the meeting he’d invited me to. I followed a narrow concrete lane down a level and didn’t like what I saw. The parking area was poorly lit and deserted. I’d left Philip’s cannon back at the farm. After all, I didn’t have a concealed handgun license, which meant I couldn’t legally carry a loaded gun in my car in Portland. I followed the exit signs out of the place, parked on the street, and walked into the well-lit lobby. Two attempts on your life will do that to you.

  After signing in, I was escorted to a key-activated express elevator that took me to the forty-third floor like a bullet train. When the car snapped to a halt and the doors parted, I followed the sound of voices past a row of lavish executive suites to a large conference room that looked down on the Willamette River and out across the patchwork of lights illuminating east Portland. A dozen or so people were chatting and milling around. The meeting hadn’t begun.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the intrepid, fly fishing lawyer. Or is it lawyering fly-fisherman?”

  I turned and saw David Hanson standing alone at a small, self-service bar with a glass of wine in his hand. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes red and overly moist, and there were a couple of wine spots on his pink oxford button down.

  I joined him and offered my hand. “Hello, David. Actually, either term fits,” I said with a smile I had to force just a little. “How’s the campaign team shaping up?”

  “Oh, just peachy. Did you come bearing the dam-removal plank, perchance?”

  “Uh, yeah, I plan to raise the issue.”

  He gave me a crooked smile and swayed slightly. “Good fucking luck with that.” Then he walked away.

  Winona came in a few minutes later wearing a tastefully understated skirt and blouse and high, black books. An uncut chunk of turquoise dangled on a silver chain around her neck. It was the only part of her outfit hinting at the other world she inhabited.

  She hesitated as if trying to decide to join me at the bar. Then a voice called to her. “Winona. We’re over here, dear.” It was Royce Townsend.
He waved at her, then scanned his eyes past me like I didn’t exist. She smiled tentatively and walked across the room to join him, his son, Jason, and several others. I couldn’t help but notice the warm embrace Jason gave her.

  I was a little surprised to see the liquor flowing at what was supposed to be a working meeting, and I spotted an open bottle of Beaux Frères Reserve on the bar. I may have been new to the state, but I knew a good Oregon pinot when I saw it. I poured myself a glass and joined a group standing near a wall of windows overlooking the Willamette.

  “Mr. Claxton, you decided to come.” It was Sam DeSilva. His shaved head gleamed in the overhead lights, and his dark eyes rested on me with something less than fondness, although, in truth, it may have been the look he gave everyone. He stood between the female artist and the economics professor I’d met at Townsend’s dinner party. The artist’s eyes were slightly unfocused, but it didn’t appear that she’d drunk as much as David Hanson had. Not yet, at least.

  “I didn’t know my attendance was in question,” I answered with a smile laced with a measure of ambiguity.

  “Well, I know you’re a busy man with your one-man law practice way out in, where is it, Dayton?”

  “Dundee.” I swirled the wine in my glass, took a sip, then held the glass up. “Where this stuff’s made.”

  Sam’s eyes seemed to sink into their sockets. He smiled without mirth. “Oh, that’s right. Farm country.”

  I swallowed a comeback. The economics professor, sensing the escalating tension, said, “Do you know Bettie James? She has a great restaurant out your way.”

  “She’s a good friend,” I answered, thankful for the intervention. “The Brasserie’s my home away from home.”

  Sam slipped away from the group while the professor and I made small talk. A few minutes later, Sam called to me from across the room to join him, Royce, and Jason Townsend. Royce wore a silver sweater below an elegant black blazer. The color of the sweater matched his hair and eyes, although his eyes were paler and not particularly friendly. His son wore chinos and an open neck shirt. His trademark smile was in place, but the muscles in his face were tight.

  Sam waited for the handshakes and greetings before saying, “Look, Claxton, we know you’re loaded for bear tonight about the dam-removal issue. We’ve decided to kick that can down the road for the time being. We’ve got more critical issues to deal with right now.”

  I glanced at Jason, whose face had lost some color. I said, “I’d just planned to raise the issue tonight. See what the group thought.”

  Sam replied, “I know, I know. But we’ve got some strong enviros here tonight. If you bring the subject up, it’ll consume the evening, I guarantee you. We don’t want that to happen.”

  I looked back at Jason, who’d dropped his eyes. “You agree with this, Jason?”

  “Uh, yeah, I—”

  Royce interrupted his son. “We can examine the issue later in the campaign. We just don’t think this is the proper time to raise it.”

  I watched Jason, waiting for him to finish, but he averted his eyes and said nothing. Finally, I said, “Okay, gentlemen, whatever you say,” and with that spun on my heels and walked away.

  I saw Winona at the bar and joined her. I offered my hand, and she hugged me instead. After looking me over, she said, “How are you doing, Cal?”

  I felt a flush of the intimacy we’d shared at her grandmother’s. “Better, thanks to you. Grooms is still in the ICU, but she snuck a call to me. Looks like she’s going to make it.”

  Her face brightened. “That’s good news. What about the sniper? How could he have gotten away out there?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s pretty resourceful.” Her face darkened, so I changed the subject. “I just heard the Townsend campaign’s going soft on dam removal.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  Before I could answer, Sam’s voice boomed out from the front of the room. “Folks, please grab a seat. We’re going to get started now.”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said as Winona made her way to the front to join Jason and his father.

  Sam kicked the meeting off with the usual thanks to the volunteers and reminders of how important the upcoming Senate race was for the future of Oregon and the whole country, for that matter. Then he paused with his hands pressed to his lips as if in prayer and said, “I don’t want to start out on a down note, but I have an announcement to make.” He drew a breath and hesitated for a moment. “Folks, David Hanson’s moving on.”

  There were groans as the collective eyes of the group swung around to David. He was slouched in a chair in the back with a silly grin on his face.

  Sam continued, “We knew it would be hard to keep such a talented guy for very long, and well, I guess David got an offer he couldn’t refuse. Right, David?”

  David raised a nearly full glass of wine. “Couldn’t have said it better, Sam.”

  Sam waited, but David said nothing more.

  “Well, we’re going to miss you, fella.” Then he told the group to stick around afterwards to wish David well, before nodding to Royce Townsend and taking a seat in the front row.

  “That was the bad news,” Royce said. “Now let me give you the good news. It’s probably a truism that politics is not very conducive to romance. But it’s the exception that proves the rule, they say. He paused, and I thought for a moment he was going to tear up. Then he looked down at Jason and Winona, who were sitting side by side, and gave them a benevolent smile. “My son, Jason, proposed to Winona last night and she accepted.”

  The audience burst into oohs and aahs as the bottom fell out of my stomach.

  Royce motioned for the couple to stand up, which they did. “Show them the ring,” he said to Winona.

  She held her hand up to display a big diamond cluster that glittered fiercely in the lights. Jason stood at her side, grinning proudly. For an instant she and I made eye contact. I smiled, and it was only slightly forced. It made sense, after all.

  When the group quieted down, Jason said, “Thank you all. You’re the first to know about this and, uh, we’d appreciate it if you would keep this news under your hats. We’re planning a party soon to make the official announcement. You’re all invited, of course.”

  I don’t remember much about the ensuing meeting. Agreement was reached on a proposed platform the candidate would run on, and since I sat in the back and kept my mouth shut, the issue of free-flowing rivers in the Northwest didn’t come up. This was just as well, since I was a bit preoccupied thinking about Winona and Jason’s surprise announcement. It wasn’t about Winona and me. Hell, there was nothing between us but a nascent friendship. And it wasn’t what I knew or at least suspected about Jason either. That was none of my business. It was just a gut feeling that they weren’t right for each other, that this was some kind of marriage of convenience.

  I finally managed to push the thoughts out of my head. Be happy for her. Be happy for both of them. Oregon voters will love such a beautiful couple, and they’ll probably take Washington, D.C., by storm.

  After the meeting and the well-wishing ended, I was headed straight for the bullet train down when I noticed David Hanson was having difficulty putting his coat on. I walked over to him. “Are you going to make it all right, David?”

  He looked at me and squinted. “I’m doing splendidly. But I can’t seem to get my arm in this damn sleeve.”

  I helped him with his coat, and we walked together toward the elevator. Sam had just seen an elevator full of people off. David stopped in front of Sam and swayed slightly. Sam offered his hand while trying hard to put a smile on an otherwise wary expression. “Good night, David.”

  David gave him the same squinty look and kept his hands at his side. There was a long pause. “You know what you are, Sam?”

  Sam dropped his hand and his smile simultaneously. He said very so
ftly, “What, David?”

  David extended his arm until his index finger just touched Sam’s chest. “You are a scheming little piece of shit.” Then he pulled his finger back and shook it from side to side. “No, no. That doesn’t quite capture it.” He placed his finger back on Sam’s chest. “You are a steaming little piece of shit.”

  Sam’s eyes went as flat as two worn nickels. He struggled to raise a smile but only managed a quivering ripple at one corner of his mouth. He looked down at David’s finger and started to push his hand away.

  Like the completion of a circuit in a detonator, the touching of their hands caused David to explode. He screamed with rage, lunged at Sam and raked his fingernails down his face. The move was quick and vicious. I was stunned.

  Sam cried out in pain and pushed David away. “You little faggot,” he hissed. Then he stepped forward and punched David hard in the face. There was the dull thud of bone striking bone, cushioned by layers of skin. David’s knees buckled, and I caught him.

  “Stop them, Cal! Stop them!” Winona screamed as she rushed down the hall, a look of horror on her face.

  I propped David up and got between him and Sam, whose face was streaked with vertical crimson lines. I extended my arms in both directions. “Stop it. Both of you.”

  “You scratched my eye, you son of a bitch,” Sam said in a high, tinny voice. He was panting and holding his hand over his right eye.

  David giggled. “What a shame. I tried for both of them.” The skin under David’s left eye was beginning to swell around a short, horizontal gash oozing blood.

  “Well, the deal’s off, asshole,” Sam shot back. “You can forget about it.”

  “I was never going to take your filthy—”

  “That’s enough, David. Shut your mouth and go.” It was Royce Townsend, who’d come up behind Winona. He spoke like a man used to absolute obedience, his jaw set in a rigid line, his eyes drawn down to colorless slits. He turned to Sam. “Come with me. Let’s have a look at your eye.”

  David giggled again and lurched toward the elevator. Winona said, “Cal, please take him home. He’s too drunk to drive.” When the elevator doors opened, she got in and rode down with us. In the lobby, I guided David to a bench, sat him down and said, “Stay.”