The Bum's Rush (6 page)

He grinned up at me. "Whatever you say, buddy."

After taxes, my 5 percent of the
half-amillion-dollar bond had amounted to a little under nineteen
thousand bucks. Color me irresponsible, but the combination of a sore
leg and having nineteen grand in my bank account pretty much made
honest toil out of the question.

Not only was it the most money I'd ever had at one
time in my life, but the sudden riches also served to prove, once
again, that my old man had been right to leave the family fortune in
trust until I turned the ripe old age of forty-five. Whatever his other
failings, the old boy was universally renowned as an astute judge of
character. He'd sensed in i me something less than a wild-eyed
commitment to the puritan ethic and had arranged to protect me from my
own worst instincts. The result was a trust fund of truly Florentine
complexity. For nearly twenty years the trust had rebuffed all attempts
to break it. A succession of greedy relatives, annoyed creditors, and
one incredibly determined ex-wife had squandered bales of cash, only to
be left on the outside looking in.

"I hear you had a busy night, Leo."

"Too busy for old farts."

"I'll say. Hisself came staggering in about a half
hour ago with steamer trunks under his eyes and your name fresh on his
lips. I was just going to call you."

"Really?" I checked the clock over the sink. Twelve-fifteen.

"He wants to talk to you."

"What about?"

"I've got no idea. He insists on discussing it with you personally."

"Must be a doozie."

"Hang on. I'll put you through."

I sat through a'lovely orchestral rendition of "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head" before Jed hit the line.

"Leo. I need you."

"Oh, Jed. I've waited years to hear you say that."

"I've got a job for you."

"Okay," I said.

"Strictly confidential."

"Aren't they all?"

"No. I'm serious. This isn't something I could use
one of the other agencies for. Even if I hadn't saved your miserable
ass last night, you'd have been hearing from me this morning."

"Hold the guilt. I'm yours. What's the deal?"

"I need you to get down to the city library and see
" I could hear papers shuffling. "Lynn Former. The deputy director and
chief operating officer of the library system."

"What for?"

"We've got a problem."

"We who?"

"Me, the city, your uncle Pat, the universe. Pat's on the library board, you know."

"Pat's on every board."

"I gather you two aren't close."

"You gather correctly."

Actually, my father's youngest brother, Patrick William Waterman,
and I had been out of touch since the early seventies, when during a
family Easter dinner at my parents' house, he'd caught me getting his
youngest daughter Nancyjean stoned in the potting shed. We'd have been
okay if the sight of his purple face hadn't given both of us an
incurable case of the giggles and if I hadn't been wearing her drawers
on my head at the time.

"What's the problem?"

"One of the librarians is missing."

"A lost librarian? Oh dear me, whatever shall we do?"

"It's not funny, Leo. She's not all that's missing."

I wasn't in the mood to guess.

"Some money."

"Purloined overdue charges. What's the world coming to?" "Just a bit under two hundred thou."

"No shit."

"No shit."

"How is it that a librarian makes off with two hundred grand?"

"It's a long story. Former will fill you in."

"Why the hush-hush routine?"

"Use your imagination, Leo. The Commons, man. I
know you're not in favor of the project, but the voting public doesn't
need this crap. They're surly enough as it is. We're already into their
pockets for the new Mariners stadium and the Kingdome renovations. I
don't know whether you've been reading the papers, but we're less than
two weeks from another vote on the Commons project. It's gonna be close
again. Something like this could tilt the balance. The city can't take
this kind of foolishness right now. The press will have a field day
with it."

He had a point The plan to replace the blue-collar commercial
squalor at the south end of Lake Union with an urban-renewed yuppie
paradise had been contentious from the beginning, pitting the forces of
tradition against the omnipresent army of drooling developers and
provoking political dissension among those who usually agreed. The
measure had narrowly gone down to defeat at the last general election.
Jed, forsaking his usually egalitarian stance, was a major supporter.
Being rather fond of squalor, I'd voted against it, knowing full well
that the forces in favor would surely keep sticking it on the ballot
until it passed. While it was certainly true that one couldn't fight
city hall, one did what one could.

"Former is expecting you at two. And Leo "

"What?"

"No paperwork. Just report to me, okay?"

"You're starting to sound like my old man, Jed."

"Scary, isn't it?"

"Fiat rate. A percentage? What?"

"Regular daily rate after we're even. You owe me
six hours at my rate. Which is" I could hear the wheels turning "a
couple of days, give or take, at yours. Let's call it two days even."
Before I could object, he added, "And that's not to mention the shit
I'm taking from my insurance company about this newly hired employee of
mine who's up in Swedish."

"There is no justice."

"Amen, brother." The line clicked, and I was back with Charlotte.

"Does this mean I should add you to the active file?" she asked.

"Might as well."

"The mean streets feel safer already."

"Thanks. Nice talkin' to ya, Charlotte." 

"Harriet wanted me to tell you that Mr. Batista's
condition has been upgraded all the way to stable. He seems to have
staged a somewhat miraculous recovery,"

Why wasn't I surprised? "Thanks again."

"She said Mr. Batista seems to be quite lucid
except that he doesn't seem to be aware that he's free to leave. He
wanted Harriet to post bond for him or to call you and get you to do
it."

"Ralph's used to being in jail, not the hospital,"
I said. "What say, for the time being, we don't dissuade him of that
little notion?"

"Whatever you say."

"Thanks for the help."

"Good to have you back, Leo."

Next, I tried the pay phone at George and Harold's
flop. I let it ring about forty times. Nothing. No chance everybody was
up and out by ten-thirty a.m. There were people in that building who
weren't finished throwing up by this time of day. Somebody must have
torn the phone from the wall again. I swilled the rest of my coffee and
headed for the shower.

The night wind had churned the overhead blanket of
sludge, mixing it, breaking it in places, sliding it east out over the
Cascades like a cavalcade of dirty elephants joined trunk to tail.

I parked the Fiat on Eastlake and walked the half
block to the Zoo. I stood inside the battered brown door and waited for
my eyes to adjust. An ornate, carved bar ran the length of the front
room and around the comer toward the Johns. The tables on the left were
deserted. The next room back contained a green acre of snooker table
and, farther back yet and around the corner, more tables, the dollar
pool tables, and the little stage.

George, Harold, and the rest of the gang were at
the far end of the bar, suckin' 'em down. The place was rilled with
shouts and laughter. The boys were the very models of consistency. They
faced both triumph and tragedy in precisely the same fashion. While
others worked in oils or stone, they had elevated to an art form the
process of perpetual swillage. It was after eleven, so you could make
book that they'd already had three, four beers just to tune the system
a little smidgen to get them vertical, as it were. And since they'd
ventured outdoors at such an ungodly hour, it was also safe to assume
that they'd all had a couple of stiff midmorning bracers usually a
peppermint schnapps or two would do the trick here. Something to keep
the gaze steady and the chin firm on their way to the Zoo. After lunch
and its obligatory cocktails, they would recharge their batteries with
an afternoon pick-me-up or four around the snooker table, which, all
things being equal, would melt right into happy hour, where, as luck
would have it, all semblance of moderation could safely be jettisoned.
On their way out at closing time, they'd snag a halfrack of beer and
split it up among them, everyone pushing three or four deep into his
pockets. That way they were primed and ready for morning. You had to
admire the fearful symmetry of it all.

Harold saw me first. "Leo!" he shouted. All heads
turned my way. The gang was all here. George, Norman, and Harold held
down their deeded stools while Earlene and Mary leaned on the far end
of the bar, blocking the gate. Billy Bob Fung was engaged in a spirited
game of snooker with the Speaker, whose omnipresent sandwich board made
leaning over the table nearly impossible. He played exclusively with
the bridge. Today's missive read: 

"You'd Probably Drive Better with That Cellular Phone up Your Ass."

"You guys heard?" I asked. It was a dumb question.
The bum telegraph worked a whole lot better than any telephone,
cellular or otherwise. They'd known for hours.

"We just got off the phone with old Ralphie boy," Mary said.

George ordered me a drink. I shook it off.

"The whitecoats have got him. They'll stretch his brain," Norman intoned solemnly.

"They'll have to find the fucker first," said George.

They yukked it up. Billy Bob banged the butt of his
cue on the floor and hopped about like a demented elf. The rest of them
dissolved in a wild backslapping frenzy.

"They'll mount him on a board and label his parts," Norman said as the din receded.

"They better get a big label," Earlene slurred.

This, once again, sent the crew into gales of
laughter and, of course, called for another round. Among the fairer of
the homeless species, Ralph was renowned for being, how shall we say,
nobly appointed. I heaved a sigh. I wasn't sure I could sit through
that discussion again. Harold, however, saved the day. "Tell us the
story, Leo," he said.

I tried to beg off but didn't stand a chance.
Earlene strolled over, her long face resolute. She took me by the arm
and, with great pageantry, led me over and offered me Ralph's stool.
This was the highest compliment a man could be afforded in these parts,
the alcoholic equivalent of being named a Peer of the Realm. I leaned
one cheek on the royal roost and laid out the whole story for them.
They listened, spellbound, interrupting only to call for subsequent
rounds at each turn of the action. Certainly a story of this magnitude
had to be properly washed down.

"We're goin' down to see him," said Mary when I'd finished. "They won't let us in till one," said George.

"They're waiting for me in there," said Norman.

George reached out and put a hand on his arm. "You
don't gotta go, Normal. Ralph'll understand. He knows how you are with
hospitals. You stay here with Billy Bob. Play some snooker. Before you
know it, we'll be back with Ralph."

I tried to squash this idea about them returning with Ralph.

' 'I think maybe the cops are holding him for a few days as a material witness," I lied.

"Then you better come with us," George said. "Help us get past the bulls."

"I'd like to," I said. "But I've got an appointment this afternoon."

"You workin' again?" asked Harold.

"Yeah. A little something for Jed."

George leaned in close. "Anything for us?"

"I doubt it. I'm gonna be looking for a lost librarian."

"You're shittin' me," George said.

"I wish."

"Breakin' yourself back in slow, eh? It's a good
idea, Leo. Don't wanna be hasty about anything," George said with a
straight face.

"Especially for a guy with a bad ass," added Harold.

George wasn't finished. "Yep, that's it. One little
step at a time on the road to recovery. First the case of the larcenous
librarian. Next week, who knows, maybe you can find you a florist or
something."

This one reduced them to jelly. The Speaker scratched.

Mary choked half a Seven and Seven out through her nose and out onto the bar.

"Gonna find a florist," Billy Bob Fung shrieked, hopping about. "Gonna find a florist."

They were still whooping it up when I reached the door.

"I don't like it," he said. With a flick of his
fingers, he sailed my card back across the desk, where it skipped once
on the black glass surface and settled neatly between my thighs.
Picturing what I was going to look like retrieving it, I left it there.

T. J. Former, deputy director and CEO of the city
library system, looked more like a high school basketball coach than a
librarian. His thick white hair was cropped military short. A pair of
woolly black eyebrows accentuated his even features and suggested a
youthful strength and vigor belied by the color of his hair.

"That's understandable, Mr. Former. Private detectives are usually part of most everybody's worst-case scenario."

"If we've got a crime here, we've got a crime here.
What can I say? It's unfortunate, but it happens. I'll take the
responsibility. That's part of what they pay me for. But now that we
know ... let's do the right thing, for God's sake. Let's cut our
losses. Let's get the police involved. Anything else, no matter how
well intentioned, just smacks of coverup as far as I'm concerned. Makes
me feel like Nixon."

"As I understand it, there are political concerns at work here."

He dismissed me with a wave. "Political concerns are
not within the scope of my charge, Mr. Waterman. I'm an administrator.
If I do my job properly, nobody even knows I'm here. If not " He let it
ride.