Slow Burn

by G. M. Ford

  “We’ll do what me and the old man did after she died.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We just decided what parts of the house we were actually going to live in and closed off the rest of it.”

  A chill ran down my spine as I recalled the disconnected feeling that the old man had once described as “like living in a museum.”

  I’d come back only long enough to lay him out in the front room, before the mile-long funeral procession took him up by Volunteer Park to the Lake View Cemetery and laid him next to my mother while the fire department band played “Across the River and Far Away.” I’d never set foot inside this house since that day.

  The stairs now came down in two stages, on two sides. The kitchen was where it had always been, but was completely renovated into something out of a magazine, with a half-acre center island and enough recessed lighting to land airplanes.

  The back of the house, which hung out over the cliff, was now completely glassed in, offering a panoramic view of Lake Union, the west side of Capitol Hill, and the glistening Cascade Mountains beyond. My parents had no interest in the view. The help lived on the view side. My parents had no interest in looking out; what they wanted was to make damn sure others couldn’t look in.

  Rebecca took my hand. “Come upstairs,” she said.

  I let her pull me to the second floor. We started at the top of the stairs and worked our way through the maze of skylighted conversation areas, bathrooms, walk-in closets, and as nearly as I could tell, about six bedrooms. At the far end of the hall, a master suite hung out over the corner of the house, looking both east over the freeway and north over the urban sprawl of Seattle. The room was furnished.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “It’s our new bedroom furniture.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said honestly.

  The bed was an antique. Walnut. Ornate and rounded all over in an art deco sort of way. The footboard was decorated with intricately carved seashells. The matching night-stands and the trunk at the end of the bed were part of the same elaborate set.

  I put both arms around her from behind.

  “How’d you get all this stuff up here?”

  She squirmed out of my arms and escaped. “I got Tyanne’s boyfriend and a couple of buddies to do it.”

  “How’d you know where to tell them to put it?”

  “I called the architect,” she said smugly, sounding just like she used to in school when she was the only one who knew the answer.

  “Oh, well, missy, I guess that big-time education of yours is paying dividends now, isn’t it?”

  “Except in my personal life.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I patted the bed. “Howsabout we try this thing out? A little test drive. You know, just to make sure it’s not defective.”

  She closed the nearest Levolor. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your fancy hotel room. What did you call it…a godsend. That was it, wasn’t it?” If she hadn’t been working her way around the room, closing the blinds, I would have been worried.

  I said, “I think I should tell you…I’m really not that kind of girl.”

  She killed the lights. “You can be the girl later, if you want.”

  Dixie and Bart were the first to show. By my watch, it was nine forty-nine A.M. when they came out of the elevator arm in arm and headed directly for the escalator. Dressed in a gray herringbone sport coat over a black silk T-shirt, Bart looked like the kind of kid you hoped would show up to take your daughter on a date. He kept his eyes pointed forward as if walking down a tunnel. Dixie Dormer was a sight to behold.

  If the brown suit hadn’t been spray-painted on, you couldn’t have been absolutely certain that she wasn’t wearing drawers, and if the shoes hadn’t had four-inch heels, which forced her to place one foot directly in front of the other, the unfettered thrashing of her buttocks would surely have been less noticeable than it was. The crowded lobby ground to a halt as she wobbled across the marble floor.

  When I gave George the sign, he fell in behind the pair and rode down to the street not three steps behind.

  Frank and Judy were having coffee in one of the conveniently located conversation areas around the lobby. Big Frank cocked an eyebrow my way, letting me know he was ready if anything happened before George got back. It didn’t.

  Five minutes passed before George was again at my side.

  “Who was that?”

  I told him. He wrote it down.

  “You mean the kid ain’t her son?”

  “’Fraid not,” I said.

  “They took a cab. Normal and Billy Bob are on ’em,” George announced.

  We’d given each of the crew a hundred bucks, a notebook and a pencil to keep track of comings and goings, and a stirring admonition to stay alert and sober. I could only hope.

  Mason Reese was next. At ten-twenty, he poked his head out of the elevator, twitched his whiskers, then darted across the lobby toward the reception desk, like a possum crossing the interstate.

  “Mason Reese,” I said to George. He made a note.

  Reese strained up over the counter as he spoke with Marie, who lifted the phone, spoke at some length, and hung up.

  His business completed, he jammed his hands into his pants pockets and made for the great outdoors, with George in hot pursuit.

  I strolled over to the desk. Marie looked up with a smile.

  “Mr. Waterman, what can I do for you?”

  “What did Mr. Reese want?”

  Her eyes darted to the right and then seemed to look inward.

  I tried to make things easier on her. “You can check with Ms. Ricci, if you want,” I said. “I won’t be insulted.”

  The idea seemed to terrify her. “Oh, no, sir. N-no,” she stammered. “Mr. Reese wanted to check on a voice mail message he’d received late last night.”

  “What did he want to know?”

  “He wanted to know why he hadn’t heard the ring.”

  “And?”

  “The operator said the party had requested voice mail because it was so late. The party hadn’t wanted to disturb Mr. Reese.”

  “Does the hotel still have a recording of the message?”

  “That’s the same thing Mr. Reese asked.”

  “And?”

  “No. Not once Mr. Reese saw the red light flashing on his telephone and listened to the message.” She shrugged.

  “It automatically erases and starts over.”

  I thanked her and turned around to find Marty Conlan standing right behind me. “Something I can help you with, Leo?”

  Clapping him on the back, I said, “Thanks anyway, Marty. We’re running like a well-oiled machine.”

  “Yeah,” he snorted. “Well-oiled being the key phrase.”

  Standing over by a pair of bellhops and a luggage cart was our boy Lance, his right hand encased in a white plaster cast the size of a volleyball, his eyes locked on mine in an open challenge.

  “If your boy doesn’t stop looking at me like that, I’m going to wet my pants,” I said as I started back toward my position by the potted palms.

  “Look at him,” Marty whined. “What else am I gonna do with his big ass? Security is supposed to be discreet. Jesus, look at him.”

  “Paint the cast with Day-Glo and have him hail cabs.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I don’t know, man. Just get him out of here, will ya? He sticks out like a sore thumb.”

  “Oh, har, har.”

  George was waiting for me. “He took off on foot. I sent Red and Mary after him.”

  At eleven-ten, the brass doors slid open and Drapeman stepped out.

  “That’s one of the Meyerson security guys. His name’s Francona.”

  “Should I—” he started.

  “No, let him go. He’s not going far without the rest of them.”

  Ten minutes later, the rest of the Meyerson contingent left in a knot. Hill stepped out of the elevator first, took a quick inventory, and
moved aside as Abigail Meyerson led her brood across the floor. Hill brought up the rear. When I held up two fingers, George nodded and followed them down.

  It wasn’t long before he returned. “Had ’em a big stretch limo with the Francona fella drivin’. I sent Earlene and Harold in a cab.”

  “Who’s left outside?”

  “Ralphie, Flounder, and Hot Shot.”

  “The only ones still upstairs are Jack Del Fuego, his driver, and his girlfriend. They’ve also got a limo in the garage. I don’t see them splitting up much. We’ll send Flounder and Hot Shot after them. We’ll keep Ralph around here in case something comes up.”

  I walked over to the concierge and arranged for Frank and Judy to be able to charge food to my room. Then I went over to their table.

  “You guys go downstairs and have some lunch. George and I will take care of things here.”

  They didn’t take a lot of convincing.

  Forty minutes later, they reappeared looking fat, sassy, and unless I was mistaken, completely looped.

  “My mistake,” I said to George as they slithered back to their table. “From now on, it’s room service.”

  “They’re all right,” George assured me.

  Jack came off the elevator first. I checked my watch. Twelve-twenty, just like Rickey Ray had predicted. Today’s suit was four acres of baby blue over the same type of ruffled tuxedo shirt he’d been wearing yesterday. Rickey Ray and Candace trailed along behind him as he bounced across the lobby.

  “Del Fuego,” I whispered to George. “The girlfriend, the bodyguard.”

  George’s eyes were locked on Rickey Ray. “Jesus Christ, Leo, what happened to his face?”

  “Car accident, I think.”

  “Jesus,” he repeated as he started after them.

  “Bring Ralph back in with you.”

  I stood and watched George glide down to the ground level.

  I walked over to Frank and Judy. “You guys okay?” I inquired.

  “Okay, shit, Leo. We’re fantabulous,” Judy slurred.

  “Marvelous,” Frank agreed with a bleary-eyed leer.

  “I’m going to take George and Ralph upstairs and get them some lunch. You two think you can handle things for an hour or so?”

  “Fantabulous,” Judy said again.

  “You remember what everybody looks like?”

  “Sure,” they said in unison.

  “So tell me,” I insisted.

  And, by God, they did. They ran down all the players in elaborate detail. Judy even included several trenchant comments on what she called Dixie’s May–December relationship. I was pleasantly surprised.

  “It’s in the bag,” Frank assured me.

  “That makes three of you,” George said from over my shoulder, his voice dripping with envy. Ralph stepped in closer, hoping to soak up some of their fumes.

  “Come on,” I said, walking toward the elevators. “Let’s get you boys a little lunch.”

  I pushed the button for nine.

  “I’m going up to see the client,” I announced. “You guys have keys. There’s a room-service menu in the drawer under the phone. Order whatever you want.” I made sure I had eye contact. “Don’t get shitfaced, okay? I need you guys.”

  “Just a phlegm cutter,” George promised.

  As I watched them hustle down the corridor toward the room, I made a mental note to call room service and arrange for no more alcohol to be charged to the account. I then fished the security key out of my pocket, slid it into the slot in the elevator wall, moved it one half turn to the right, and pushed sixteen. Up, up, and away.

  Rowcliffe opened the door. “Ah, Mr. Waterman, won’t you come in, please,” he said as he stepped behind the door. He led me through the elaborate sitting room, into the master bedroom.

  Sir Geoffrey was more or less where I’d left him. In bed. The burgundy silk sheets were now slate-gray silk sheets, and he was reading instead of eating, but otherwise, everything was pretty much the same.

  He folded The Western Canon, by Harold Bloom, across his middle and looked out over his half-glasses at me.

  “Ah, Mr. Waterman,” he said, using his left hand to prop the book. “Have you had the pleasure of reading Mr. Bloom?” he inquired.

  When I allowed how I hadn’t, he let the book fall.

  “A pity,” he said. “A most ambitious work. Unless I’m mistaken, Mr. Bloom makes quite a credible argument against any and all ideology in literary criticism. These days, a most unpopular notion, you know. Pluralism and all that.” He made that shooing movement with his fingers again. “And, of course, his assertion regarding the loss of aesthetic and artistic standards is obvious to all but the most purblind supporters of this wave of multicultural jingoism.” He said “multicultural” like he was saying “stool sample.”

  I kept in mind that this was the same guy who’d said that I was a PI of some renown, that money was no object, and that the ten thousand bucks was just to get the operation off the ground. The rest was easy.

  “Everybody is out for the day,” I said.

  “Report” was all he said, so I did.

  I gave him the whole thing. Who left, how, and when.

  When I finished, he said. “This evening should be easier.”

  “Are most of them going to the opening ceremonies?”

  “All of them. Señor Alomar assures me that Mr. Reese and both contingents have reservations at the banquet.”

  “Which starts when?”

  “At nine.”

  He was right, which was good. Once the quarry was back in the coop this afternoon, I could let most of the crew go. This was ideal, because they tended to get drunker and less responsible as the day went on. That way, they’d have plenty of time to get hammered, sober up, and get back here in the morning. Timing is everything.

  Sir Geoffrey Miles picked up his book, adjusted his glasses, and began to read. Years of training has taught me that when people begin reading in your presence, it’s probably time to go, so I headed out. “Bravo,” Sir Geoffrey said to the book as I cleared the doorway.

  Rowcliffe miraculously appeared at my side. The guy was scary.

  George and Ralph were at the far end of the room, mauling their room-service order. George had removed his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves. Ralph had shucked off his jacket and tucked a hand towel into his shirt as a bib. In a touching display of responsibility, they’d ordered just one six-pack between them. A Les Schwab tire commercial blared from the TV. Ralph, his mouth stuffed with cheeseburger, waved a bottle opener at the screen.

  “Bel Fuero,” he gargled.

  “What about him?”

  He chewed hard and tried to swallow. No go.

  “Ob tb.”

  “He was on TV?”

  He nodded and lifted two of the Heinekens out of the silver ice bucket. He opened one and took a long pull. I watched a ball of food the size of a gopher move down his throat and disappear.

  George was bent low over the table, a plate in one hand and a domed silver cover in the other, his nose working like a bloodhound’s. As he sniffed, his scalp reddened between the rows of his pure white hair. He put the cover down and pointed at the plate.

  “Who yakked on my fish?” he demanded.

  “That’s pesto,” said Ralph, opening another beer. “You know, basil and olive oil and stuff like—”

  George pointed with the sterling fork. “Hey, I want to hear from you, Drunken Hines, I’ll let you know.”

  It was not surprising that George was getting a bit testy. He had, after all, been up working since eight A.M. and was still sober at one-thirty in the afternoon, a happenstance of such profound rarity as to rival the millennial appearance of certain comets. He grabbed the dripping bottle from Ralph and downed it in a single gulp.

  “Aaah,” he murmured enthusiastically.

  “And lots of garlic,” Ralph added.

  George looked disgustedly my way. “Like I’m gonna be takin’ my culinary advice
from Mr. Mighty Dog here, right?”

  Ralph’s grin grew wider. “And sometimes pine nuts too.”

  “You hear this, Leo? The proud inventor of the Little Friskies Burrito is lookin’ to trade recipes with me. Pine nuts, my ass,” he muttered. “Can you believe that? Pine nuts.”

  “You don’t want it?” Ralph asked, reaching for the salmon.

  George quickly pulled the plate back. “I didn’t say I wasn’t gonna eat it, man. I just wanted to know what that green stuff was.” He peered at it again. “Kinda looks like those little piles Flounder used to leave all over the place.”

  “Remember that time?” Ralph asked.

  George leered. “The teapot.”

  “And Jimmy Young just added water.”

  “Said it had an earthy flavor.”

  They shared a touching moment of remembrance.

  Ralph stuffed the other half of the cheeseburger in his mouth and chewed contentedly; suddenly, his eyes grew wide.

  “Bere bere.” He pointed.

  It wasn’t Jack himself. It was that picture of Jack and Bunky from today’s Post Intelligencer, blown up into a lifesized cardboard cutout. It was Monday. It was Afternoon Northwest with Lola King. Jesus.

  Lola King was our homegrown afternoon slime queen. Has your mom been giving it up to sailors? Tune in today. Got gay grandparents into bondage? Next Monday. Women who love men who love mastiffs? Check your local listings. Lola was a champion of the public’s right to know…whether they wanted to or not.

  She was a boilerplate blonde with a bony, washboard breastbone which, for some reason, she had always been determined to share with the universe. She’d been on local TV for all of my adult life, and during that time nearly everything she had worn had pointedly emphasized this remarkably barren and ever-expanding part of her anatomy. The annual expansion of chest acreage had, over the years, spawned wide speculation, including omnipresent whispers that she was actually a he. L-O-L-A Lola.

  Bruce Gill, a guy I know at KOMO-TV, claims that, because she received a number of unflattering letters regarding her drooping cleavage back in the late seventies, she now tucks her tits under her arms while she’s on the air, a notion which I choose to offhandedly dismiss, since the image of her winking out from behind is more than my tortured psyche can bear.