The Bum's Rush (14 page)

"Sorry, Hector. You should have called, man, I would have "

"Called? I chould hab called? Who de fock jew
kidding? I been trying all damn day. You on that focking Web all de
time. Not eeven da pope can call you, Leo. You
out dere focking around all de time." He passed the envelope under my
nose. "Dat's how dey get your brain. Dat's how dey control you. Dat's
what dey gonna make happen. Gonna control your brain tru de wires."

I knew better than to ask exactly who "dey" was. Ask him that, and you could be here till dawn.

He stopped waving the envelope and pressed it
against my chest with two hands. "Eeet come about one o'clock," he
said. "I gotta run. Just got a call. My broder Rueben, you remember
Rueben ''

I said I did. Rueben and I had once spent eighteen
hours handcuffed to one another, but Hector seemed to feel that a
mundane moment such as that was insufficient to engender recall.

"Hees daughter Elena, she just go into labor up at
Providence. Rueben gonna be a grandpapa." He started for the door and
then turned to wag a finger at me. "Jew see, dey could call me and tell
me of dis, so I could be part of de joyous event. I'm not out dere on
dat focking Web all de time. Si? Gotta go."

I stood with my back to the door, listening to
Hector whistle his way down the hall. When the tweeting faded, I walked
into the office and punched the button on the surge protector. The
screen went black. The room fell silent. I wandered back into the
kitchen, leaned my elbows on the counter, and pulled the strip on the
envelope.

It wa there when I fired the machine up in the
morning. The little musical tone announced that I had mail. I checked
my electronic mailbox. One message.

Date: Sun, 18 Feb 96 14:45:42 EST

From: "Kara L. Robinson"

Subject: Re: Your query

To: Leo Waterman

Hi Leo,

DorothyL is an e-conference for the discussion of
mystery literature, films and television. It is high traffic,
enthusiastic and often overwhelming. The subscribers are extremely
knowledgeable about mysteries and tend to welcome "newbies" with open
arms. Just remember though, off-topic postings are severely frowned
upon, as are flaming and general rudeness. Let me know if you want to
know more.

I went into the kitchen, started a pot of coffee,
and returned to the office. I cracked my knuckles, stretched my back,
and began to type.

Date: Sun, 18 Feb 96 08:17:56 EST

From: Leo Waterman

Subject: Re: Subscribing to DorothyL

To: "Kara L. Robinson"

Kara:

Thanks for the quick response. How do I get connected to DorothyL? Best, Leo Waterman

Short and sweet. Send. Shutdown. When I heard the
modem click off, I picked up the phone and dialed Jed. He picked up on
the third ring. His voice sounded as if he had hooks caught in his
throat.

"Jesus, Leo, what time is it?"

I looked back over my shoulder at the clock on the stove. Oops. Eight-twenty in the a.m. "Just a little before nine," I lied.

"Isn't this Sunday?" he asked.

"Some places," I hedged.

I could hear him sitting up in bed. "You found the Mendolson girl."

"Not exactly."

"How not exactly?"

"Exactly not at all."

"Then what in holy hell are you calling me before eight-thirty on a Sunday morning for?"

"This library thing " I started. "This is a straight deal, right? You're not holding anything back from me, are you?"

"Like what?"

"Like something that would give somebody an uncontrollable urge to run my miserable ass over."

I had his attention now. "Really? Like with a car?"

"A van, actually. But yeah, a lot like that."

"You okay?"

"A scrape here and there, but otherwise I'm okay." "I swear. The job is just what it seems to be," Jed said. "When?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Must be about something else. Can't be the library."

"That's what I figured. I just wanted to be sure."

"Oh?"

"I've been doing a little poking around in something else. It seems to be making somebody real nervous."

"So it would seem," Jed said. "You want to tell me about it?"

I did. He stopped me right away. "Whoa," he said.
"Listen, man, I liked her too, but that doesn't make her Lukkas Terry's
mother. We have no way of knowing that this woman is even who she
claims to be."

"Oh, she's Selena Dunlap all right. I got her one
and only driver's license picture last night. It's her, Jed. Younger.
Happier. But it's sure as hell her."

"That doesn't make her anybody's mom," he pointed out.

I told him about old Chuck Bastyens's story and the stainless steel plate Tommy Matsukawa had in the jar.

"We'll need documentation," he said.

I agreed and went on with my story. He stopped me
again halfway through. "How in hell did anybody find out you were
poking around in her paperwork?"

"Damn good question. Whoever it was knew, like,
instantly. Hell, my old man couldn't have found it out that fast on his
best day. I only bought the death certificate day before yesterday.
Whoever this is must have serious connections."

"All the more reason to be careful," he said.

I finished my story. I knew he was with me when he said, "I am, after all, the woman's attorney of record."

"You most certainly are," I agreed.

"It's my duty as an officer of the court to see to it that her rights are represented as vigorously as possible."

"Yes, it is." *

"We wouldn't, after all, want to be participants in
yet another example of corporate greed run amok at the expense of the
rapidly disappearing middle class."

"We certainly wouldn't."

"Okay, then," he said. "As your attorney, I advise
you to watch your ass at all times. There's gonna be some noses
seriously out of joint when I stick the monkey wrench in the works
tomorrow morning."

"Trust me, I shall pay the utmost attention," I said, gently massaging my shin.

"I'll file a restraining order first thing on
Monday, which by the way, Leo, in this part of the globe, is tomorrow.
So if you don't mind "

I said I didn't. Before I could hang up, he said,
"And, uh, Leo, you don't suppose you could put in a little time on this
case I'm paying you for, do you? Just in your free time, say." Click.
Hmmm.

I cleaned up my breakfast mess, grabbed my keys off
the hook, and headed for the garage. The newspaper articles I'd
collected on Lukkas Terry said he'd recorded the much anticipated
Crotch Cannibals in a state-of-the-art recording studio attached to his
manager's house. What better way to spend this glorious Sunday morning
than meeting Mr. Seattle Rock and Roll himself, Gregory Conover?

Everybody knew the story. Wangled a late-night DJ
job on KXR when he was only twenty. Back in about fifty nine, Top 40
format. Separated himself from the pack when he began to promote
rock-and-roll shows at the Spanish Castle, an old roadhouse about
halfway between Seattle and Tacoma. My personal connection to Gregory
Conover was the summer of sixty-seven. The summer of love, when he got
the city to let him use the old band shell in Volunteer Park for a
series of concerts. He combined local acts like Crome Syrcus and Magic
Fern with California acts like Moby Grape and the Quicksilver Messenger
Service and set the town on its ear. What I remember of it was great.

He'd had his ups and downs, disappearing from the
public eye for most of the seventies, unfortunately surfacing only long
enough to buy a white disco suit and matching belt and pronounce
himself the Northwest Disco King. Six months later, not being one to
let art cloud reason, he'd been right up there shoveling disco records
into the fire when they'd staged Disco Inferno Night down hi the King
dome parking lot. Whatever he may have lacked in consistency of vision,
he more than made up for in continuity of effort. No craze was too
crazed. No fad too fucked.

By the time the mid-eighties rolled around, Gregory
Con over found himself on the outside looking in. To the local punk and
grunge players, he was just a nasty
reminder of the omnipresent sixties, which, as far as they were
concerned, relics like Conover and I could feel free to stick where the
sun didn't shine. They were looking for walls to break down; they
wanted to thrash rather than embrace that which had come before. Who
could blame them? Rock and roll was never meant to be polite.

Conover went back to doing his radio program,
classic rock now. Led Zeppelin and Traffic. Never missing an
opportunity to rail embarrassingly about the myriad failings of modern
music. Until that day when a skinny kid dropped a two-dollar tape on
the desk in front of him and said his name was Lukkas Terry.

Four albums later, the rest was history. Once more,
he was the man. The man who, if the papers were to be believed, stood
to end up with no less than half of Lukkas Terry's estate and royalty
checks once the current court case got sorted out. He had moved from
being the ringmaster to being the Godfather. All things considered,
this was a man I needed to meet.

I knew where the house was the minute I saw the
picture in the paper. It was that white stone mansion that lounged out
over the side of the hill on lower Broadway. The house had always
fascinated me. From the street it seemed completely surrounded by a
stone wall, covered since my childhood with ivy. The single entrance
was an ivy-covered arch cut into the wall, barred by a black iron gate.
The look called for a monk in a hooded robe.

From the waters of Lake Union, however, the place
looked more like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, as it cascaded in a
series of vine-covered terraces down toward the lake. Whatever ascetic
quality it may have possessed from the street, the view from the west
most surely denied. 

It was a party. At eleven o'clock on a friggin'
Sunday morning, it was a full-blown bacchanalia. The street was filled
with cars. The private alley that ran next to the house was stacked.
Fleetwood Mac drifted out into the street. Something middle-aged in me
was nearly offended. I got over it in a Hurry.

I pushed the buzzer again. Up close, it wasn't ivy
at all, but instead some wiry little African vine with leathery leaves
and needle-sharp thorns the size of my thumb. Body piercing au naturel.

He waddled up the brick walk, whistling, twirling a
gold key on a silver chain, his right index finger pointed right at me
as it circled. He waddled because his thighs were so monstrously
muscled as to have nowhere to go but out. Hell, his calves nearly
touched. Spotless white shorts, just a bit too tight. Nice little woven
belt. A behemoth with a twenty-four-inch neck, maybe bigger. Easily the
biggest mass of muscle I'd ever seen in the flesh. Thinning blond hair
combed straight back. Blue eyes, almost white. A living testament to
the power of anabolic steroids and the joys of protracted leisure.

"Yo," he said.

"I'd like to see Mr. Conover."

"Your name?' "

"Leo Waterman."

He scanned the clipboard in his left hand. A
plastic picture badge was clipped to the collar of his bright yellow
shirt. It said Cherokee. I guess, with some guys, one name is enough.

"You're not here," he announced.

"I wasn't expected," I admitted.

"Then you don't come in."

I pulled out a business card and a pen. On the back I wrote "Representing Lukkas Terry's mother." I stuck it through the bars.

Cherokee used the clipboard to knock it to the ground.

"Beat it, bub."

"Bub?" I said. "You would bub a guy this early? On a Sunday?"

"What I'd do is beat your ass, you don't get out of here, bub."

I reached through the bars and snatched the badge
from his shirt. I took a step back and looked it over. "You got your
own bar code. Dude. How about that? If they run that little wand over
you, you'll come up as yourself. Could completely eliminate the need
for therapy. You ever think of that?"

Apparently he hadn't. "Gimme that thing," he snarled.

"Wait a second." I stepped over to the right of the gate.

"Don't make me come out there, motherfucker."

"Tell you what "

Cherokee was a poor listener. He untwirled the key,
stuck it in the inside lock, and came barreling out through the gate.
The second his shoulders came through, I hooked him hard with my left
arm, getting an arm under like a defensive lineman, hurrying him the
way he was already moving, using his own bulk for momentum. As he
staggered past, I stepped into the breach, pulled the key from the
lock, and closed the gate behind me. I stood two paces back, twirling
the key.

"Beat it, bub," I said.

"I'll break you," he said. "I'll tear your -"

"See. It doesn't feel good to be bubbed, now does it?"

"-and stuff it up your-"

"Especially not on a nice Sunday morning."

"-and use your tongue for a-"

I pocketed the key and left him to reflect upon the
error of his ways. If his red-faced attempt to tear the gate from its
moorings, however, was any measure of his contrition, I believed
further anger management work was going to be required.

The entire center of the house was open. Six
French doors at each end created a tiled breezeway running from street
to garden. On the right, down a short flight of stairs, what I imagined
used to be the solarium had been transformed into a recording studio.
The control panel ran the length of the room. Tilted my way, its maze
of gauges, needles, switches, and slides suggested a NASA moon shot. A
stooped guy with waist-length hair and granny glasses was fiddling with
the controls.

Out in the garden, knots of people wandered in and
out of my field of vision, clutching highball glasses and passing
joints to the throbbing of the music.
Players only love you when they
're playing
.