Cast in Stone (8 page)

My
legendary record for anticipating women remained unblemished.
I'd expected something salty, maybe a maritime version of Mammy
Yokum. Trim and elegant, she was more like Celeste Holm than Granny
Clampett. Her long gray hair in a French braid, she was immaculately
clad in a yellow cardigan with wildflowers embroidered on the
yoke, freshly pressed jeans, and matching blue Keds. She hopped
nimbly out onto the dock.

"Yes?"
she said, smiling.

"Are
you Wendy?"

"I
am. Wendy Kroll. How can I help you?"

"I'm
trying to get a line on a young girl who's been hanging around the
terminal for the past few weeks. Her name—"

"Norma?"
she anticipated me.

"I
think so."

"Oh
Lord, what happened to that poor thing now?" "You haven't
seen her lately then?" "I've been worried to death."
"Any particular reason?" She mulled the question over. "I'm
afraid Norma just may be one of life's victims, Mr.—"
"Waterman. How so?"

"That
poor child wasn't all there, Mr. Waterman, Nowadays they don't call
it retarded any more. I don't know what the current term is. You had
to talk to her for a while to see it. On the outside, she seemed
fine. Always happy and smiling. She made a little money running
errands, doing odd jobs. Folks kind of felt sorry for her, invented
things for her to do. If you

caught
her at the right moment, though, or brought up the right subject,
this blank look would come into her eyes. She'd go off somewhere by
herself and you could see that she just wasn't all there."

"Any
idea what her last name was?"

"Whatever."

She
saw my confusion.

"I
swear that's what she always said. Whatever. Whenever I'd ask her,'
she'd say, 'Whatever. Norma Whatever.' And then she'd laugh and laugh
like it was the greatest joke in the world."

"When
was the last time you saw her?"

"It
was about two weeks after—" She pursed her lips. I waited.

"It
wasn't Norma's fault, Mr. Waterman. She was just eager to please. It
was that animal. He's the one who should have known better. I wanted
to call the authorities, but Norma kept saying it was her fault. All
her fault, my fanny," she sputtered.

"What
happened?"

When
thoroughly confused, ask general questions.

"I
made my usual stop at the ladies' room in the terminal office on my
way down to the Biscuit. So I won't have to go back before lunch."
She gestured toward the boat. "The Biscuit doesn't have a head.
She was more of a hobby for my Marty. That's . . . was my husband.
Forty-four years. I come down every day to do maintenance. You'd be
surprised how much needs to be done on an old scow like this. It's
nice and quiet down here, too," she added as an afterthought.

Putting
an index finger to her lips, she looked back at the Biscuit with new
eyes. "You know, it's funny, Mr. Waterman. I never used to like
it down here. It always seemed so cold and damp to me. But now
somehow I can feel more of Marty here than anywhere else. I
think it's because he sr ent so much

time
here in those last years before ..." She looked back to me,
surprised, as if I'd been the one speaking.

"Listen
to me prattle on. A sign of old age, I'm afraid. Anyway, I heard this
sobbing from inside the ladies' room. The door wasn't even locked.
There was that poor child sitting there, pants down around her
ankles, just bleeding up a storm. At first I thought she had, you
know—" I indicated that I did. "But then I could see that
it was more than that. She was hurt."

"And?"

"I
took her right to my doctor. She didn't want to go, but I insisted. I
practically had to drag her." I waited. "She'd been used
terribly, Mr. Waterman. She was just raw everywhere down there. Dr.
Conger wanted to call the authorities, but Norma simply wouldn't hear
of it. Kept saying it was all her fault. That she'd gone on board
with him willingly. Dr. Conger said there was no way we could press
charges without Norma's testimony,"

She
leaned closer, whispering.

"Doctor
also said it wasn't the first time, either. Said she was terribly
scarred down there. Internally."

"Any
idea who—"

"I
know exactly who. Norma told me. And don't think I didn't let him
hear about it. You know what that pig did, Mr. Waterman? He laughed
in my face. Called me a dried-up old hag and laughed in my face. Put
me off the boat."

"Which
boat?"

"The
Haida Queen, It's over on—" "I know the boat."

I
described my earlier encounter with the two, deckhands.

"Not
those two. They're just the hired help. Buster is his name. He's the
mate. He doesn't do anything.

Just
sleeps all day while the other two work. A big ox. No, a pig."

"Approximately
when was this?"

"I
can tell you exactly. I just got the doctor's bill the other day."

She
skipped back on board, went below, and reappeared with a white
business envelope.

"Tuesday,
September twenty-sixth," she said after extracting the contents.
"So this happened the night before, the twenty-fifth."

"And
you haven't seen her since about two weeks after that?"

"That's
right. I'm sure of the time because I brought her a sandwich every
day for lunch after that. She came over every day at noontime. We
talked. She hardly ate. Always fed most of her sandwich to the gulls.
I gave her Marty's old red Pendleton coat to wear. Then"—she
shrugged— "one day, she didn't come any more. I've been quite
concerned."

"Any
idea where she came from?"

"Up
north. That's all she'd say. Up north."

"That
covers quite a bit of ground."

"I
guess it does. But Norma had a way of not answering questions."

"Did
she share anything else personal?"

"She
said she'd recently found her momma and that her momma was better now
and had a real important job. She also said that a ship was coming to
take them all to the promised land."

"You
have any idea what she meant by that?" I asked.

"Just
what she said, I guess. That she'd seen her mother and they were all
going away on a ship." "Nothing more specific?" "Norma
tended to be a bit vague." I was beginning to feel rather vague
myself.

"Did
she live down here somewhere?"

"Oh,
no. There's no living on board anymore. She had a room in the city.
Rode the Metro bus down here every morning."

"Any
idea where in the city?"

She
shook her head. "You might ask that pig, Buster. Norma said he
drove her home . . . afterward. A real gentleman, that Buster."

She
drew the collar of her sweater close around her throat.

"You
wouldn't by chance have a picture of her?" She shook her head
sadly.

"Any
obvious identifying marks?" I asked, trying not to lead her.

"Just
that big smile," she said wistfully.

I
collected a full description, wrote it in my notebook.

"Thanks,"
I said.

"You
will let me know if you find out anything, won't you? I've been so
concerned about her."

I
said I would. It was a lie. I'd come back only if the news was good,
and with the Norma's of this world, the news was never good.

Red
Bandanna and Shiner had wrestled the pipe apart and were in the
process of installing new stainless steel fittings.

"Buster
around?" I asked.

"Told
you, we don't know nothing about no girl," Bandanna said.

"Mind
if I ask Buster personally?"

"No,
but Buster sure as hell will," he smirked.

"Why
don't you rustle him up, and we'll ask him."

"Listen
Bub, you don't want no parta Buster. On a good day he's mean as a
shark, and right now he's sleeping one off. I was you, I'd get up the
road. He gave Rob here that eye for just whuppin' him at pool last
night. Do yourself a big favor and take a hike."

"Still
need to talk to Buster, I'm afraid."

The
picket-fence smirk got bigger.

"Afraid's
what you oughta be. But since you ain't, you just stay right there.
I'll fetch him for you. I surely will. Don't go anywhere now."

Bandanna
headed below decks. Shiner fixed me with his one good eye. "Mister,"
he said.

I
looked up. He underhanded the pipe wrench my way. End over end. I
stepped back and let it hit the dock at my feet, then retrieved it,
stashing it in my jacket pocket, handle out.

Bandanna
reappeared. His yellow teeth jack-o'-lanterned as he eased back
against the rail, lighting a cigarette, folding his arms. Might as
well get comfortable for the show.

Buster
burst out of the hatch, his head swiveling to find me. Moving quickly
around the skiff in my direction, he exhibited amazing dexterity for
a man of such proportions as he stepped deftly over a maze of pipe,
wire, and fittings. Wendy Kroll had been wrong. Buster was neither an
ox nor a pig. Buster was a buffalo. One of those genetically obese
men whose fifty-pound layer of fat belied the two hundred pounds of
rock-hard muscle beneath. The chilli-bowl haircut and ruddy cheeks
lent almost a cherubic quality to his face, as long as you didn't
look at the eyes. Squeezed nearly shut by his cheeks, red with sleep
and alcohol, his eyes showed all the humanity of rusted ball
bearings.

Insisting
on an audience with Buster had been a major miscalculation. Pumping
adrenaline began to give me that lighter-than-air feeling. I cured my
stupidity and reckoned how having such an easy time with the Bo Peeps
and Chippers of this world must have given me delusions of grandeur
... I should have known better.

I
silently thanked the kid for the comforting weight of the wrench
tugging at my pocket. My reading of Buster said that, without the
wrench and the element of surprise, my best chance would probably be
to assume the fetal position and hope that Buster either lost
interest or ran out of gas sometime before he pureed my kidneys.
While the prospect of hitting another human being with a four-pound
pipe wrench was repugnant to me, this alternative was even less
attractive. I took a firm grip on the handle.

Buster
hit the dock at a lope. The front panel of his bib overalls hung down
in front, the buckles banging off his massive thighs. No shoes.
Curled yellow toenails. I spread my feet for balance. Unless I
was mistaken, Buster was going to turn out to be a man of few words;
there wasn't going to be any prefight chitchat.

He
covered the distance in six quick strides; four feet from me, he cast
a porcine sneer up at the deck of the Haida Queen, making sure his
audience was in place for the main event. I chose that moment to
bounce the wrench off Buster's wide forehead. The loose parts of the
heavy wrench gave a muted clank. The shock waves of the blow rocketed
down my arm, numbing my elbow. He staggered back, clutching his head.
Before he could recover, I roundhoused the wrench, catching him full
in the temple with the flat side. He rocked once, reached out to me,
and fell gracefully onto his side, unmoving.

"Damn,"
breathed Shiner.

I
reached down and checked the pulse in Buster's thick throat. Strong
and steady. His eyelids fluttered like fallen leaves, then were
still.

Bandanna
had bumped himself off the rail and now, cigarette gone, ashes
clinging to his shirt, stared openmouthed. His gaze went from the
wrench at my side to Shiner, who was now brandishing the other
wrench, and back to the tool in my hand.

"You
better get your stuff," I said to the kid.

Bandanna
settled back against the gunnel, mouth set, arms akimbo.

"Nobody
ever whupped old Buster before. Least not that I seen."

"Nobody
has yet," I said. "Buster just got careless. I couldn't
whip him with a baseball bat."