Last Ditch (29 page)

BY
THE TIME I
made it down to the kitchen about twenty-five minutes later, I was
feeling better
than I had in days. The feeling that my head was stuffed with cotton
was gone,
supplanted by the sense of cranial airiness one has after recovering
from a
head cold. Not only that, but for the first time since I'd started on
this
Peerless Price thing, I had the feeling that somehow I was making
progress,
even if I didn't exactly understand how. I settled in with a pot of
coffee and
the sports section to see if maybe I couldn't have a spasm of lucidity
about
what to do next.

The
Sonics had
won seven in a row, but George Karl was still ranting about their lack
of
defense. The Seahawks were done for the season and looking to hire a
new
general manager. Rumor had it that the GM from Pittsburgh had been
talking to new owner Paul
Allen.

Halfway
through
my second cup of coffee, I noticed my slippers still adorning the heat
registers along the south wall of the kitchen and remembered the stuff
I'd left
to dry. The wallet itself was still damp around the edges, while the
paperwork
was wrinkled but dry.

I
reassembled
my wallet and its contents and stuck it in my back pocket. The
notebook, alas,
was a goner. No loss. That's why I carry thirty-nine-cent notebooks.
Over the
years, I've tried every sort of scratch pad known to man. Everything
from
hand-tooled leather journals to miniature hand-bound books. What I'd
discovered
was that, regardless of the cost, with me, notebooks all seemed to have
a
similar life span and that it was exponentially less annoying to ruin
or lose a
thirty-nine-cent notepad than a thirty-nine-dollar journal.

I
flipped to
the last couple of pages, intending to transfer anything still
readable. That's
when I saw it. The emergency number from Triad Trading's office window
on Pier
eighteen. Six-two-four, seven-seven-six-five. I walked over to the
counter and
picked up the new notebook I'd started yesterday. I flipped it open to
the
first page: six-two-four, seven-seven-six-five. The number Bermuda
had dialed before leaving last night Curiouser and curiouser.

I
wedged the
receiver between my cheek and shoulder and dialed the number. Same
deal.
Several clicks and transfers and then: "You have reached six-two-four,
seven-seven-six-five. Please leave a message at the beep." Beep. I hung
up. Immediately, the phone rang. I grabbed it. A woman's voice.
Tentative.

"I'd
like
to speak to . . ." Pause. ". . . Mr. Leo Waterman, please." She
sounded like she was reading.

"Speaking."

"Urn
. . .
you don't know me but ... I mean we met the other day at Ed's . . .
when you
were there." "Amy?" I tried.

"Yeah
. .
. you remember." She sounded pleased. "I remember," I assured
her.

"I
found
your card on the windowsill ... I was worried ... I thought maybe you
would
know ..."

"Worried
about what? What's the problem?"

"Ed's
not
here. His bed hasn't been slept in."

"Well,
maybe he's ; . ." I began. I did what people do in moments like that I
invented reasons why the situation wasn't as worrisome as it seemed.
"Ed's
a grown man ..." I babbled.

She
cut me off.
"I've been making Ed's meals for five years, Mr. Waterman. In all that
time,
he's never not been here before."

"Never?"
I repeated.

"And
his
old car is gone out of the backyard. I thought maybe you knew . . ."

"No
idea," I said.

Technically,
this was true. I didn't actually know a damn thing. I had a few
suspicions but
nothing else.

"Have
you
called the cops?" I asked.

"No.
I
don't know . . . what if Ed's just . . ." She began to sniffle.

"I'll
be
right over," I said quickly. "Don't do anything until I get there,
okay?"

"Okay."

EVERYTHING
WAS
PRECISELY as I'd left it the night before. For some odd reason, I felt
a need
to go in and check the bed for myself. The black-and-gold comforter was
unwrinkled. The pillows pushed neatly against the headboard. On the
table by
the bed, two framed photographs of the same thin little woman with
serious
eyes. From the yellowed look of the photos, and the turn-of-the-century
garb, I
figured she was probably his mother.

Across
from the
bed, to the right of the door, a collection of newspaper articles and
news
photos had been professionally framed and matted into a single large
display.
From where I stood, I figured it was probably more of the life and
times of
Bermuda Schwartz. If it hadn't been for Amy, I probably would have
missed it.

"You
seen
that?" She pointed.

I
walked over
until I was close enough to read the captions and headlines. They
weren't about
Bermuda or my old man either. They were about
me. Sports mostly. Football stat sheets. Baseball box scores. The
picture of me
when I hit the jumper at the buzzer to win the semifinals of the state
3A
basketball tournament and the one of me with my helmet in my hand and
the blood
running down the front of my face after getting our asses kicked by
Cascade in
the football playoffs when I was a high school junior. He'd documented
my every
triumph and tragedy. Standing in that quiet room reading what amounted
to a
shrine to myself, my body felt like an electric current was running
through it.
I turned back to Amy who stood stiffly in the doorway.

"Look
around the house," I said. "See if there's anything obviously missing
or out of place."

Her
face was
blank. "Like what?"

"Just
anything missing or out of place," I said.

"All
right," she said weakly.

I
waited for
her to get lost and then quickly shook down the room. Pawing through
the
drawers in the nightstand, checking the shelves in the closet and
running my
hands beneath the clothes in the dresser and as far as they would reach
all
around the mattress. I got down on my knees and looked under the bed.
Nothing.

I
was still
picking dust bunnies from the knees of my pants when Amy appeared in
the
doorway.

"Only
things I see gone is his brown coat and hat."

"Where
does he keep his phone book?"

"You
mean
like the Yellow Pages?"

She
was a nice
girl, but I'd hate like hell to have to explain Noam Chomsky to her.

"No,
his
personal phone book. A Rolodex, that kind of thing."

"Oh,"
she said, and turned and started into the living room. I followed
along. She
walked directly to the small built-in cabinet to the left of the white
leather
chair and pulled it open.

"He
always
keeps it here," she said, rummaging around in the interior.

"How
often
does Ed go out on his own?" I asked.

"Never,"
she said quickly. "Up until a couple of years ago, he used to go away
during the holidays, but I think whoever he visited with died or
something,
'cause he hasn't gone for a few years."

I
didn't like
it. I didn't like an old shut-in being gone all night I didn't like it
that the
last number he called was a place I'd very nearly gotten killed. And I
especially didn't like the fact that it probably was something I said
that sent
him on his way.

"Here
it
is," she said.

She
handed me a
small black plastic book about three inches by five, with a gold
telephone icon
on the cover.

The
doorbell
rang. A smile split her wide face, nearly closing her eyes. She ran for
the
door. "Ed," she yelled.

She
was still
squealing as she jerked open the white door and then, as suddenly as
she'd been
filled with joy, she stood stock-still. I heard a male voice. Then
another.
Deeper this time. Every hair on my body began to rise. I started for
the door.
Stopped. Amy backed into the corner, leaving the door agape. Her eyes
were
wide. She looked my way.

Trujillo
and Wessels stepped into
the room.

"Well,
looky,
looky," said Wessels, rubbing his hands together with glee. The three
of
us stood there, looking from one to another, trying like hell not to
appear
surprised. Wessels was still wearing that ratty gray suit and didn't
look like
he'd combed his hair since I last saw him. Trujillo, on the other hand,
was resplendent
in a blue silk pinstriped suit and a purple tie. Trujillo
stepped around his partner, walked up to me and pulled Bermuda's
phone book from my fingers.

"What
are
you doing here?" he demanded.

"Me?
I
came to see an old friend. What about you?"

Wessels
jumped
in. "We're looking for Edward Schwartz."

Trujillo
shot him a sharp look.
"What we're
doing here is none of your business, Waterman."

"Ed's
not
here," Amy piped in.

Trujillo
turned toward the girl.
"And who
might you be, miss?"

"I'm
Amy
Sorenson." She said it like it was the first day of school.

"What's
your connection to Mr. Schwartz?" Trujillo
asked.

She
told him.
At length. It took her a full five minutes 216 to get back to the
present.
"And when Ed . . . Mr. Schwartz wasn't here this morning, I called Mr.
Waterman."

Trujillo
turned his attention to
me.
"Where's Schwartz?"

"No
idea," I said. "Maybe you guys will get lucky again and somebody'll
deliver him to the precinct house in a shoe box."

"Turn
around," Trujillo
snapped.

"Why?"

He
raised his
voice. "I said, turn around." I stayed put. "What for?"

"I'm
arresting you for interfering with a police investigation."

"Oh,
gimme
a break, Trujillo.
How bogus."

He
looked back
over his shoulder at Wessels, who reached to the back of his belt and
produced
a pair of handcuffs.

"Turn
around," Trujillo
said again.

I
heaved a sigh
and did as I was told. Wessels stepped forward and clamped the cuffs on
me hard
enough to stop circulation, grabbed me by the back of the neck and
marched me
out onto the porch, across the street and stuffed me in the back of
their
silver unmarked Ford.

IF
YOU GO to
the King County Jail, you stay for at least six hours. The county
doesn't get
reimbursed by the state for inmate stays of less than six hours, so it
doesn't
matter a whit what your infraction was, or how many of your friends are
waiting
with bail money clenched in their sweaty palms. You do six hours.

The
drunk held
his arms in front of his face in the Muhammad Ah peekaboo defense,
bobbing and
weaving in his sleep, warding off dream blows. He'd been that way all
night. He
had the back end of the cell all to himself. Projectile vomiting will
generally
increase the size of one's personal bubble. For the past hour or so,
he'd been
making his peace with Mary, whoever Mary was. Or at least he was trying
to.
Even in his hallucinations, Mary wasn't going for it.

"Swear
to
God I'll change," he blubbered. "I can do it. I know I can. You'll
see, Mary. This time . . ."

He
tried to
stand, slipped on his own purple puddle and fell heavily onto his right
side.
He rolled in it.

"No,
don't
say that, Mary. Don't say that. Swear to God, I'll change. This time .
.
." His words trailed off. Small snores started. I hoped he was doing
better in his dreams, but I somehow doubted it.

Quincy
the
Rasta man and I shared the small cot nearest the cell door. He'd been
stretched
out on the cot when they'd pushed me into the cell. About the time the
drunk
first started spewing, Quincy
sat up and invited me over for tea and sympathy. I accepted. Since
then, we'd
alternately made conversation and watched the drunk like a TV. We'd
decided we
weren't renewing his option for another season.

Quincy
was holding forth. It was
my own fault.
I'd been curious, so I'd asked. I'd seen these guys in the streets for
years,
and although the politics bored the shit out of me, I'd had a few
questions I'd
been dying to ask. This was the best chance I was going to get.

"My
dreadlocks are an antennae, mahn. Dey give me perspective on the moral
bankruptcy of de West, of Babylon.
Dey de visible rejection of the assimilation process. The black man
have no say
in it. He just supposed to find a way to fit in."

He
waited for
me to argue.

"How
do
you get them to stay that way?" I asked.

"You
rub
dem with coconut oil and palm oil and den beeswax, and den you start
curling
dem. You do it right, dey stay dat way."