Seattle Noir (15 page)
I hate domestic cases. I hate feeling sorry for myself. I hate having no good reason to feel sorry for myself. I hate drinking half a bottle of Scotch and having it do absolutely nothing to make me feel any better.
It was all crap and bound to get crappier, especially when the newspapers inevitably picked up the story. I could see the headline now
—Local Private Eye’s Clients Murdered Right Under His Nose.
It would do my reputation a whole world of good.
The only thing that hadn’t gone south on this case was the big moola I’d gotten for taking it in the first place. I had the eleven C-notes fanned out on my desk like so many playing cards. But the longer I stared at them, the worse they looked. I’d never had so much dough look so bad. Like everything else, even the damned money was tainted. Yeah, I’d earned it, but I didn’t want any part of it. Yet there wasn’t any choice—I had to keep at least some of it, I was flat broke. I needed a couple hundred for the radios and a hundred for Heine. The rest, well, I’d just as soon eat beans for a month than hold onto it: all it would do is serve as a constant reminder of what a rank and amateur sucker I’d been.
I swilled a little more booze and wondered what I was going to do. I was giving serious consideration to donating the remaining eight-hundred bucks to charity when the realization struck me. A wonderful, happy realization that gave me such good cheer it put bells on my toes. It was so obvious.
I scooped up the dough and gladly put it into my wallet. Of course I’d keep it. This had been no ordinary domestic case. Far from it. In fact, it was a model of what a domestic case could and
should
be. It even had a happy ending.
After all, it was the first case I’d seen where each of the spouses trying to get out of a bad marriage got exactly what they wanted
and
deserved.
T
here was not a more beautiful sight in Seattle. For the present at least, I owned it: Keri seated legs crossed on the metal heater as she stared out my window. A cigarette smoldered in her hand, its smoke drifting lazily to the ceiling. Her crystal-blond hair snatched the moon and starlight and magnified it. I had some Miles Davis—
Bitches Brew
, to be exact—on the Goodwill stereo, a little scratchy, but to my liquor-besotted ears it sounded good enough. It sounded fine. And this woman… Damn! She wasn’t the kind of woman who gave me a second look, but here she was sitting in
my
room.
Beyond her the night stretched back and away, dropping from the 30th Street ridge onto the glittering surface of Lake Washington. Diamonds, diamonds everywhere. And beyond that blinked the golden lights of Bellevue; and much further to the east were the Cascades, towering snow-capped peaks. Above them the sky was radiant with stars.
It made me dizzy staring at it all. I looked back at Keri and felt even more dizzy. Then the room began swaying, and that was a different kind of dizzy altogether. I grabbed the Cutty bottle off the table for balance.
“Wanna nother drink?” I slurred, giving her my sexiest smile.
She turned and gazed at me with the same distant look she gave to the stars. “You’ve had enough.”
“But this isn’t about me,” I said, feigning indignation.
She turned back to the window.
“Ish beautiful isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she muttered, taking another drag off her cigarette. I didn’t normally let people smoke in my apartment, a second-floor duplex on 30th atop the ridge just off Yesler, but I wasn’t going to damage my odds with her. This woman could spray the whole place with skunk juice for all I cared.
“What the hell is he doing?” Her voice had a sexy rasp to it. Like Dietrich, I thought, though I couldn’t remember if I’d actually ever heard Dietrich talk.
“Who?” I was sitting on a beat-up swivel chair in front of the doorless closet I used for an office. A couple of Paul Klee prints stared at my back, and my cat, Lady Chatterley, was curled on a pillow. Her tail twitched as she chased after dream mice.
I spun the chair around, coming to rest a bit off-kilter, but Keri was still in view. I swung the chair around again. This was fun.
Divorced thirteen months yesterday, I’d been on a downward spiral with life and love ever since. Thirty-eight and working as a dishwasher at the Lakeside Broiler. I used to say I was a writer. Now I didn’t even bother. I couldn’t even say I was much of a reader. I was rapidly becoming what I did nine to twelve hours a day: a dishwasher. And believe me, that’s not how I had pictured it when I stepped onto the graduation stage in Palo Alto to receive my Bachelor of Arts in history from Stanford.
I’d met Keri earlier that evening at a bar in Fremont. I’d traveled by bus to see my favorite all-women bluegrass band, The Coal Miner’s Daughters. The friend I was supposed to meet never showed, so I began a slow beer crawl toward the end of the night. I was already toasted, which loosened me up enough to dance alone, when Keri stepped in from out of the blue and took my hand, swinging me into a haphazard rendition of the lindy hop. We ended up back at my table where I immediately ordered more drinks and launched into a nonstop narration of my life, with a few detours into Charlemagne, Pépin the Short, Redburga, and the flaws in Einhard’s biography. It was the sort of rant that usually left me talking to an empty chair, but this time, when I came up for air, a gorgeous woman was listening attentively with the hint of a smile on her lips. I ordered more drinks but she declined. I waited for her rendition of her life but that never came either. My leading questions, “Where did you grow up?” “What do you do?” “Was your mother a model?” were met with curt, polite responses. So we listened to music, and danced sloppy jitterbugs.
The band finally shut it down around 1:45, and although I could still dance, after four or five additional drinks I could barely walk. When she offered to drive me home in her rusted gray Taurus, I figured we must have something in common.
“Hey, I own a shit car too,” I said. “A Honda Shivic.”
“It’s a loaner,” she said. “My Beamer’s in the shop.” She looked at me and smiled. “That’s a joke.”
As we drove, she searched the night radio realm for tunes, homing in on those lonely calls for love. This woman was playing my song.
“My parents grew up in this neighborhood somewhere,” she said as we climbed the hill toward 30th. The streetlights dropped circles of yellow light onto the street, and an occasional hooker walked her walk in them. Bobby Vinton, of all people, was singing “Mr. Lonely” when we pulled up in front of the eighty-seven steps that led to my flat.
* * *
“Who?” I said again, still spinning the chair. “Who, who?” I sounded like an owl.
“That old man.” She paused to take a drag on the cigarette. “He’s carrying buckets of dirt out of the house and pouring them into a wheelbarrow.”
I laughed. “The corner building?”
“That’s the one.”
“Ricard. He and Wanda the towering Swede own that place. Turned it into a coffee house.”
“So what’s with the dirt?”
“The place is tiny. He’s trying to expand it. He’s digging up the cellar. Going to put another room in. Maybe a pool table; home movie theater; bowling alley, I don’t know…” I started laughing, but it sounded more like soprano hiccups.
“At 1:38 in the morning?”
“Hey, they drink a lot of coffee. How should I know? Maybe he’s an insomniac. Maybe he pays himself more for working the night shift.”
She turned and stared at me. It was a hard stare, and in a momentary flash of sobriety I felt like a weak joke. Women, particularly gorgeous woman, had that effect on me.
“Come here.”
I got up obediently and caught the door jamb as I tipped too far. I righted myself and drew a bead on her. It wasn’t easy but I walked over.
“Look at him.”
Below, the streetlights illuminated the intersection in front of the shop. It was so bright that I could read the sign.
OPEN HEART COFFEE & PASTRIES
. They’d just put it up last week and the paint still gleamed. Ricard was pushing the wheelbarrow up the sidewalk to an abandoned concrete foundation, and when he got there, he turned the wheelbarrow into the weeds, pushed it to the edge, and dumped the contents. Then he wheeled it back to the front of the shop and went inside.
“Weird, huh?”
There were no cars, few lit windows. No one was around. The night belonged to itself, and we were all strangers. I had to admit it was an odd sight.
“What movie would this be out of?” Keri asked, sucking her cigarette and tipping her head back, exhaling hard toward the ceiling.
“It depends if we are in it or not. Hitchcock’s
Rear Window.
I’m Stewart in the wheelchair. You’re Grashe Kelly.”
“You’re Stewart? Not.”
“Whaddya mean
not?
” My near-perfect Stewart imitation.
“I mean we’re not in that movie.”
“Then I take the fithh. I refuthe to appear without you at my side.” I raised the near-empty bottle of Cutty to my lips.
She drummed her fingers on the heater. “He’s up to something.”
“You’re crazy. Are we going to bed?” I reached over and slopped my hand onto her shoulder but she shrugged it off with a casual flick.
“I’m going down there to find out.” She ground her cigarette into an ashtray I’d dug out of a forgotten cupboard full of my ex-girlfriend’s flotsam and jetsam. And they say history is dead.
I raised the bottle again and took a slug but there was nothing left in it. Just like my life.
A few minutes later I saw Keri striding purposefully across the intersection and walking into the yawning front door of the Open Heart coffee shop, following Ricard’s trail. This beautiful creature was beginning to piss me off, and I felt I better control her before she pissed off my neighbors. She could leave, but I was stuck here. I felt strongly enough about it that I got up and leveled one of my lamps on the way to the door.
I weaved my way across the street and paused by Ricard’s overturned wheelbarrow. I brushed it with my fingers, the kind of caress men give tools. Something solid about metal. It was a sturdy wheelbarrow, its red body worn to the metal in places by hard work. I felt like it would be a good companion, so I sat next to it on the curb. I could hear the crickets singing in the blackberries and a siren winding its way through Chinatown over on Jackson. I began talking to it but don’t ask me to remember what I said.
I have no idea how long it was before Keri shook me awake. It was a rough shake, and I stared at her glassily. Who was this goddess sent to save my soul?
I tried to ask her something but it came out something like, “Splefff.”
“Come here.” She jerked me to my feet, hooked her arm under mine, and then led me across the street and to my front steps. We made it up twenty-three, I was counting, and she bade me sit, although
bade
may be the wrong word.
“Sit!”
Sit I did. I could be a good dog if there was a bone waiting.
“That bastard,” she hissed, plopping herself next to me.
“Ricard?” I was beginning to remember things. Unfortunately, with the return of memory came a splitting headache.
“I found out what’s going on, and I don’t mind saying I’m really, really pissed.”
“Whaaa?” I wiped some stray drool off my chin. My goddess was beginning to sound downright scary.
Keri started talking, ranting actually.
“Remember I told you my parents grew up around here? Well, it started coming back to me. My grandparents owned that place.”
“What place?”
“The corner place. The place where that guy is digging. They had a business, kind of a pawn shop. I’ve seen pictures of it. I think it was called Thirtieth Avenue Resale. My dad told me once when we drove by it, and then he showed me pictures.”
“Wow. This is karmic. Or cosmic. We’re like past-life neighbors or something.”
She ignored me.
“They took in tons of jewelry from the Chinese and Japanese immigrants who came on hard times. Family heirlooms, a lot of it. My dad said much of it was jade. High-quality jade. Well, the interesting thing is,” she stabbed the air in front of her, “the interesting thing is that my grandparents stockpiled it all. Never sold it. And most of the immigrants couldn’t afford to buy it back. So they ended up with a shitload of really expensive jewelry.”
She turned and peered directly at me, an insane fervor in her eyes. “A shitload of jewelry is still in there somewhere. I know it!”
“Really?” I moved back a few inches. Her vibes were too intense.
“Yes, really,” she told me. “When my grandparents died the jewelry was supposed to go to my dad, but it never did. My parents couldn’t find it. They searched all my grandparents’ possessions, bank accounts, safety deposit boxes. They searched the store a number of times. I remember my dad saying that he thought they’d hidden it in the basement, but it never turned up. In the end they had to sell the store to pay some debts, and that was that.
“I’ll bet that old bastard Ricard found out about it,” she continued. “He’s looking for it. He knows! Maybe he even found it. That’s
my
jewelry!” She stood up quickly and shook her fist in the direction of the Open Heart. “That’s my jewelry, you bastard!”
“Shhhh! You’ll wake the landlord.”
“Screw the landlord.”
“Well,” I said, standing unsteadily, “I’d rather you saved that for me.”
“No chance, loser. I’m out of here.”
When I woke up—I think it was still morning—I went over to the Open Heart, Lady Chatterley sashaying behind me across the street, our shadows playing tag. Wanda and Ricard were cat friendly, but their cat Tufts was not, so Chatterley sat outside on a sunny bench, as if it were exactly what she wanted to do. Wanda was behind the counter smiling her Swedish mother’s smile. She’d adopted every hungry boy and girl in the neighborhood, and half of them sat crammed into little tables, their knees bumping the tops, pastries piling into their mouths.
“Morning, Wanda.” My voice sounded worse than it felt, but not by much.
“Albert. You look so pale.”
“Sun’s bad for you, Wanda. Gives you cancer. Could I have a pear Danish and a cup of coffee to go?”
“Sure.” She bent over and carefully extracted the pastry with wax paper. “Three dollars,” she said cheerfully, passing it to me.
I handed her three crumpled bills.
“Get some sun, Albert, and forget about cancer. Take some risks. You’ll have a better life. You worry too much.”
“I know.” I bit into my Danish. “Thanks.” I went outside and sat next to Chatterley and watched the neighborhood happen. As I ate, I wondered which was worse, pastries or worry. I guess you had to choose your poison.
* * *
Three weeks later the digging stopped. Since that night with Keri, I’d become more attuned to it. The wheelbarrow remained tipped against the white stucco wall next to the buckets on the sidewalk.
When I asked, Ricard had invited me down to see the progress. It wasn’t much: thirty square feet of dank, dark space propped with timbers and stinking of mold and wet clay.
When he lit the second lantern I saw an opening covered in ocher muslin. The corner of a rusted flour container stuck out. Ricard stepped in front of it and fiddled with the lantern, which fizzled out. He cursed.
“A cellar restaurant, perhaps. Some day. Like the old country.” Avoiding my eyes. “That’s it. Let’s go.”
I continued to do my thing, which was washing dishes and catching some local music. There was no more action in the girl department, and I was curiously waiting for construction on the basement to begin. Ricard had tapped local talent in Josh Bullford, who lived across the street and ran a small construction company. He’d built most of his own house, and worked fast and cheap. But it never happened.
Some salesman found Ricard laying at the bottom of the foundation with his head split open. The death was ruled accidental. Wanda collapsed into a nervous breakdown. A friend of Wanda’s tried to keep the place open, but the Open Heart closed down a few weeks later. Life went on, as it always does, even after the direst tragedies. As my uncle used to say, the bigger the rock, the more ripples, but the surface always smooths out eventually.
