Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (16 page)

The four center aisles were devoted to environmental groups themselves.
Forver Green, Save the Japanese Trout, the Eco-Defense Fund, the Wilderness
Alliance, Voices of the Rainforest, Save the Salmon, the Natural Fiber
Alliance, the Snake river Preservation Society. On and on. Stop wearing furs.
Stop animal testing. Criminalize hunting and fishing. Stop reproducing.
Adherence to the first aisle alone would have reduced me to an incontinent,
celibate, barefoot vegetarian nudist. I trudged on, leaving no booth unvisited.

If Tom Roman's notion as to the disunity of the movement wasn't apparent to
me by now, midway down the second aisle I got the message.

Sandwiched between the glitzy offerings of the National Audubon Society and
the Sierra Club was a small booth that flagged itself as BARF. Businessmen
Against Recycling Forever. The tiny red, white, and blue booth was personed by
a thick-necked bald guy, whose aggressively folded arms and scowling visage
seemed to be keeping folks away in droves. This man, I decided, deserved equal
opportunity.

"Hi," I said. He checked me out from head to toe. I must have
passed whatever test he was running. He leaned forward, resting his heavy,
hirsute forearms on the counter.

"You had enough of the bullshit? You ready for some facts?"

"Okay," I said. God save me, I thought.

"There's always been a hold in the goddamn ozone layer. All this crap
about aerosol cans is batshit. Garbage employs over three million God-fearing
people in America. Recycling is economic suicide. There's been a gradual global
warming pattern going on for the last ten million years. The darn planet used
to be covered with ice, for Chrissake. The greenhouse effect is bullshit.
There's more wildlife in American forests now than there was when the pilgrims
arrived. Conservation is bullshit. The only goddamn way you can effectively
harvest a forest is by clear-cutting it. If loggers had to go around - " I
lost patience.

"So what do we need to do, instead of all this?" I waved around
me. "What do you propose we do?"

"We need to use everything up as quick as possible."

I boggled. "Why?" was all I could manage.

"Simple." He refolded his arms and rocked on the back legs of his
chair. "It's good business. Business is what America is about. It's what made
us the greatest nation on earth. Business is technology-driven. Technology is a
response to need. The more need, the more technology. About the time we start
running out of things, the rate of technological advancement will increase
beyond belief. Necessity is the mother of invention, you know. About the time
we run out of oil, well, hell, some fag scientists will figure out how to get
energy out of dirt. When we run out of - "

I backpedaled quickly, hoping to lose myself in the crowd. I retreated until
my butt hit the table across the way. Mercifully, the stream of traffic picked
up and shielded me. I turned around.

Friends of Singing Waters. Two elderly women. The one standing by the
counter was diminutive and round. Motherly, creased at the wrists and elbows,
hair piled on top of her head in an elaborate bun. Old-fashioned hairpins
holding it all in place. Looked like Aunt Bee on the old Andy Griffith show.

"Can I offer you one of our brochures?" she asked sweetly.

Even sitting in the rocker, the other woman looked remarkably tall and
gaunt. A few years younger than Aunt Bee, maybe. She looked up only briefly as
the first one spoke, then immediately went back to her knitting. She must have
been knitting a tarp. Draped about her feet was a half acre of something. Yarns
of every conceivable color were woven in random fashion. Her red-knuckled hands
manipulated the needles and hooks at blinding speed.

I took the proffered brochure, stuffing it into the pile I was already
carrying without reading it.

"We protect wetlands," she said in response to my unasked
question.

"A noble calling."

"We must all do what we can to prevent the despoilment of the land.
It's a sacred duty to." She stopped. "Good morning, Mr. Romans."

"Hello, Blanche. How goes the campaign?"

Tom Romans stepped up to the counter beside me. "If you don't mind, I
need to borrow my associate Mr. Waterman here for a moment."

Without waiting for an answer, he led me to the foot of the stairs, out of
the rush of the crowd.

"Sorry to be so long."

"No problem," I said. "I'm getting quite an education ."

"You see what I mean now? Everybody in this movement has their own
little area of interest and isn't too damn concerned about anybody else's area.
Since the environment comprises just about everything, the movement comprises
just about everything."

"How do they get anything done?"

"They don't. Big business beats them at every turn. Even some of the
products there" - he pointed at my bundle of brochures - "if it's a
good idea, if it's marketable, Procter and Gamble will be doing it next week.
There is no way to beat these guys, unless you're like the Hammer
sisters."

"Who?"

"The Friends of the Singing Waters. That's Blanche and Eunice
Hammer."

"Where do I know that name from?" I asked.

"They've been around forever. What you probably remember, though, is
their father, Willis Hammer."

"Chemicals."

"Right. The man who almost singlehandedly killed Commencement Bay. Had
three pulp mills dumping directly into the Sound. Back in the sixties, he was
the first guy ever totally shut down by the EPA."

"Right." I snapped my fingers. "This was the guy who tried to
shoot it out with the marshals when they came with the papers."

"That's the one. Got himself killed right out at the front gate of his
own factory."

"Kind of ironic that Willis Hammer's daughters would be running
something called the Friends of the Singing Waters, don't you think?"

"Old man Hammer must be spinning in his grave," he laughed.
"Don't be fooled by the lyrical name or the Grandma Moses routine. I only
rescued you because Blanche tends to talk forever. Those two are heavy hitters.
They're one of the most successful environmental groups around. They started
and paid for the entire campaign to recycle used motor oil in the Puget Sound
region. Turned it into one hell of a business. After the old man got killed and
Eunice - that's the one in the back with the knitting - when she finally got
out - "

"Out of where?"

"She had a breakdown after old Willis's death. It was all over the
papers. She had to be institutionalized. Tragic story. Anyway, they took the
old man's empire and turned it around backward. Turned out Daddy had
unwittingly left them everything they needed. The chemical plants, the trucks,
the bucks - everything. They've proved to be more successful at cleaning things
up than old man Hammer ever was at polluting them. Some sort of family penance,
I suppose. They're major players on the scene. Got more money than God.
Nowadays, they mostly sue people."

"Who do they sue?"

"Anybody who wants to develop anything, bar none."

"Why?"

"They're rich and dotty. Never married, either of them. Hell, Eunice
doesn't even talk. At least I don't know anybody who's ever heard her say
anything. What they do now, in addition to recycling a couple million gallons
of motor oil a year, is to litigate their sagging behinds off. I can't imagine
what their legal bills must be. They may be only private organization to ever
beat a SLAPP suit on their own."

"A slap suit?"

"Strategic Lawsuits Against Public Participation. It's a big business
fighting back. You get in their way, they slap you with a huge lawsuit. They
don't want to win; they just want to break you with legal fees. Most of the
time it works. If I remember correctly, they hit Friends of the Signing Waters
with a suit for eighty-six million dollars."

I gaped.

"What could those two old ladies have possibly done that was worth
eighty-six million dollars?"

"Nothing. All they did was try to block development on a little piece
of property up on the Sammamish Plateau. Maybe a hundred proposed new homes,
something like that. Nothing out of the ordinary. Friends of the Singing Waters
sues and tries to stop every new project. It was just business as usual That's
the point, Leo. There's no correlation between the imagined interference and
the response. They just beat people with pure muscle. No rules. They don't care
how ugly it gets. They don't care who gets hurt. They sicced teams of
investigators on the Hammer sisters. They tried to get them both declared
mentally incompetent. You wouldn't believe how ugly it got. The judge had to
close the courtroom and then seal the records. I know one of the attorneys.
They tried to claim that the old man had been sleeping with both of them for
years. When that didn't float, they tried to make out that Eunice was
responsible for several unexplained deaths in the institution where she'd been
treated. It was unbelievable."

"So what happened?"

"They finally ran into a couple of fanatic old ladies who hand damn
near as much money as they did. The sisters won five million in damages, which,
as I understand it, almost covered their legal fees."

"So there's no way for the public to win?"

"Ah." He held up a long finger. "That's what I was hoping
you'd get to. What you wanted to know about was Save the Earth." He shook
the finger. "I don't want this to sound like I approve, because I don't.
the system may not work, but it's all we've got. Just so you understand
me."

I assured him I did. He went on.

"It's easy to look at these militant groups like Save the Earth who go
around spiking trees, destroying machinery, sinking boats, and all that stuff
and just write them off as the terminally misguided. And to an extent that's
true. Particularly with this local group. But to another extent, it's also true
that they do more for bringing the problems to the forefront than all the more
moderate groups  combined. When you think about it, even groups that have
grown into institutions like Greenpeace started out by doing some pretty wild
things. Now they use their visibility to work more traditionally."

"The ends justify the means?"

"Maybe. Or maybe like in the case of the Hammer sisters or Greenpeace,
it's just important that the powers-that-be understand that you're prepared to
follow things to the end. That you're going to do whatever it takes. Nobody,
but nobody, sues the sisters anymore."

"So what's wrong with save the Earth then?"

"What's wrong is that all the actual leaders and founders are in jail.
You remember that trawler they rammed a couple of months ago?" I nodded.
"It was Japanese. Trying to sink Japanese boats, even if they were
illegally fishing, just won't do. Hell, those people could have murdered people
and picked up less time than they did. Most of ‘em got six years."

He checked his watch. "Anyway, when they went to jail the organization
ended up in the hands of this kid Brian Bass, which is ironic, because, as I
understand it, they only let him hang around in the first place because he'd
inherited a building they could use. He's collected a couple of dozen louts and
losers around him, most of them with more money than brains, and has been
trying to make a name for them ever since. No focus. They hop on whatever
bandwagon made the news last week. They've stood outside the Opera House and
thrown blood all over women wearing fur coats. They've torn up fishing nets.
They've chained themselves to trees. They've monkey-wrenched machinery. There's
even a rumor that - " He stopped. "I better not."

"The lab at the university?"

"You've heard it too?"

I said I had.

"See, now that's the answer to your question. If they were responsible
for that, that was stupid. That's a setback. That makes everybody look bad.
They're just stupid and badly directed. You get the feeling that if they
weren't interested  in the environment, they'd be out holding up
convenience stores." He checked his watch again. "What's your
interest in all this?"

"I've got a client with a loved one who's involved."

"Loved one" didn't exactly roll off the tongue when Tim Flood was
concerned, but it was as close as I could get.

"Not good," he said. "I've got a feeling that they're
cruisin' for a bruisin', Leo. They're going to do something stupid. I've
watched these groups come and go for years. I'd like to think I've developed
sort of a feeling for it. This one smells bad to me. They're about due for a
disaster, and if they actually got away with torching that lab, all that's
going to do is encourage them." He started for the stairs.

"Thanks," I said.

"Gotta run. The rat groups are having a meeting with the mayor to hash
this all out. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Harold saw me first. When I looked up, he was wheeling his Safeway cart
madly up the sidewalk beneath the viaduct. I'd never seen him move so quickly.
The sole of his right shoe flapped like a feeding fish. The cart's bad wheel
spun in a crazy dance as the cart bounced along the ancient sidewalk toward me.
He hustled over to the side of the truck.

"Did you see her?" he asked, wild-eyed.

"No. Where's George and Ralph?"

"Back at the building," he wheezed. "She's already made one
pass. There's no place for her to park, Leo. What are we going to do?"

I'd been sitting in the truck filling out a report, periodically checking
the parking slots for the blue Toyota. I'd probably missed her while I was
working on the doors. Harold was right. The Saturday tourist trade on the
waterfront was in full swing. As far as I could see in either direction, there
was not a single empty slot.

"We'll hand her a place to park, Harold, that's what we'll do. Go up
the street to the intersection. Turn around and face me. When you see her
coming again, start walking this way. Okay?"