Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (24 page)

"Well," he said., "Saturday night we had maybe twenty guys.
We stationed them from where we lost them at the market all the way up to Denny.
But they didn't go that far. They cut down toward Westlake."

"How do you know they're not driving all the way to Canada, for
Chrissake? This is the dumbest - "

George looked hurt. "Hey, Leo, we many be drunks, but we're not stupid.
All these years working for you, we learned a few things. Soon as they started
acting weird, we checked the odometers in the vans. It's the same every night.
First night when they came back, they left the van unlocked. We checked the
mileage. Ten miles round trip." He looked sheepish. "Second night,
that was Sunday, they locked up all the vans. We couldn't see in. Norman had to
kick in a window." He shrugged. "Ten miles again."

"Go on."

"Anyway," he continued, "last night we had a whole shitload
of people. We started up on Westlake and stationed everybody all the way up
over the University Bridge."

"And?" He had me going now.

"And they crossed the bridge and turned right. That's where we lost
them. I used the last of the money this morning to get a shave and a haircut so
I could take a cab along the same route. I made the driver check the mileage.
It's four and a half miles from here to the other side of the University
Bridge. Wherever they're going can't be much more than half a mile away."

He folded his hands in his lap and waited. I noticed then that he had a
minor case of the shakes. He picked up on it.

"We're okay, Leo. A little shaky maybe, but we'll live. Hell," he
added, "Ralph's beginning to form complete sentences. Who knows, another
week on the wagon, he might even make sense."

"Close the door," I said.

George pulled it to. "Where we going?" he asked. "I told
Norman I'd meet him and some of the others. We were gonna start walking up
there early. It's a long ways. We're out of bus money, so I figured we'd better
- "

"We're going to get you some money," I answered. "Where's the
nearest phone booth?"

"Far end of the second lot." He pointed south. I wheeled us down
to the pay phone and left George in the truck. I called Tim Flood. Frankie
answered.

"Frankie, it's Leo."

"It's about time we heard from you. Tim don't like to be paying people
he don't hear from." I didn't have time for the speech.

"The shit's about to hit the fan, Frankie." Always professional,
Frankie cut the shit. "Wadda you need? You need the twins?"

"Maybe later on the twins. Right now I need money."

"How much. Where to?"

"Two grand. I'll send somebody."

"Gimme a half hour."

"His name's George Paris."

"One of your bums?"

"You should hire such good bums, Frankie. He'll be there in a half
hour. He needs it in cash."

"No problem."

"Something else, Frankie."

"What's that?"

"I'll do what I was hired to do, but - "

"I know you will, Leo." I could feel his smugness through the
phone.

"This thing has branched out. I'm attracting some serious heat."

"Professional or official?" he asked quickly.

"Official."

"No sweat."

"I may have to tell them who I'm working for."

"do what you have to, Leo. It's not a problem."

"You may be getting some visitors."

He stopped me. "Fat chance, Leo. You just take care of the girl."

"One more thing."

"What now?"

I told him what I needed done and why.

"It's in trust. We can't take it back."

"Can you tie it up?"

"I'm sure the legal eagles can arrange something."

"Do it," I said.

He hung up in my ear.

Once back in the truck, I fished a twenty out of my wallet and handed it to
George. "Cab fare," Is aid. I wrote Tim's address on a piece of paper
and handed it over. "Go to this address. Ask for Frankie. He's got two
thousand dollars for you." George eyed the address.

"This Frankie wouldn't be Frankie Ortega, would it?"

"In the flesh."

"You have interesting friends, Leo."

"Look who's talking." We yukked it up together.

I checked my watch. Noon, straight up.

"I need to go, George." He started to get out. I stopped him.
"First off, George don't let anybody take any chances. Stay safe." He
nodded. "Secondly, be careful with the money. Some of these people, you
know," I stammered, "when they've got their pockets full, you know .
. ."

"I know," he said sliding out the door. He stopped. "This is
for Buddy, Leo. But" - he held up a finger - "whenever this is over,
there's going to be one hell of a party." I didn't doubt it.

Fifty yards from the crest, we went out of control. I kept it floored.
Letting up would have meant backing the rig two miles down the mountain. The
roar of the big V-8 was lost in the cacophony of shuddering and vibrating going
on in the camper behind us, as everything that wasn't screwed down shook loose
and blindly obeyed the laws of gravity.

Again the truck desperately fought for traction, the tires spinning wildly
in the loose dust, nearly grinding us to a halt one moment, then suddenly
finding a purchase and pitching us randomly forward the next. I fought the
wheel, trying to keep the truck centered on the narrow dirt road.

With only the left rear wheel providing intermittent traction, the truck
refused to run true. Instead, as if remote-controlled, it angled us steadily
toward the steep, wooded gully ten feet to our right. Daniel's boots indented
the dash as he braced himself for the seemingly inevitable ride down the gully.
His hat had fallen to the floor. He left it there. He kept his eyes straight
ahead. We surged forward again, bouncing off the cut bank, showering the hood
with earth and debris, crawling upward toward the top.

Thirty yards from the top, after a particularly nasty fishtail, the right
rear wheel slipped completely over the edge. For an instant, the camper was
still as it rocked and squeaked on its springs and then, in slow motion, began
the inexorable slide into the dark woods.

Mindlessly, both Daniel and I shifted our weight to the left, as if that was
going to help. The sound of rocks scraping on the frame filled the cab. I kept
it floored.

Suddenly the drive wheel, as it passed over the berm of the road, found
solid ground and again rocketed us up and forward.

"Go. Go. Go," Daniel chanted as the truck picked up speed.

The speedometer read fifty-five. We were going maybe ten. The temperature
gauge was pinned in the red.

"Go. Go. Go - "

I kept the wheel crimped all the way to the left as we lurched forward. It
was like driving on ice. The road leveled out. We picked up momentum. The last
part, backlit by the sky, was straight up.

In the last ten yards, the forest disappeared. Blue sky and fast-moving high
clouds filled the windshield. I could hear my gear against the back of the
camper. We bolted over the top.

We were three rows into the new planting before I slid to at stop. I didn't
have to turn the truck off. It stalled on its own. The rapidly cooling engine
ticked and groaned. My hands were cramped to the wheel. I broke them loose and
shook them out. A mantle of dust settled around us.

"Trees," Daniel said through the silence.

"Little trees," I confirmed.

We sat stupidly staring at a narrow forty-acre clear-cut. Symmetrical rows
of four-foot Douglas fir seedling stretched like a scar across the ridge toward
the northern horizon. Only the ridge had been cut and replanted. The nearly
vertical sides of the mountain shimmered blue-green, untouched.

Daniel, needing a way to control his shaking hands, stretched one of bobby
Warren's maps tightly across his lap. He locked his index finger on the yellow
highlighted area. I leaned over. The notation read "6-9."

Several days in Patsy's cooler had loosened the bond between the yellow ink
and the paper. Most of the yellow had transferred itself to Daniel's finger. He
was concentrating too hard to notice.

Slowly swiveling his head around at the surrounding country in all four
directions, he finally announced, "This is right. This is what's
marked."

We got out together. The wind from the south slapped and wrapped the huge
map up around Daniel's torso, forcing him to stuff it back inside the truck. He
walked over to the nearest tree. I tagged along.

Taking the nearest branch in his hand, he ground the needles between his
thumb and his yellowed forefinger. "Healthy as hell," he said.
"Maybe four years old."

I tried it myself. He was right. No signs of disease. The needles were
pliant and firmly locked onto the branches. Confusion settled over me. I don't
know what I'd been expecting. Maybe steaming open pits of noxious waste
bubbling to the surface. I wasn't sure. Whatever I'd had in mind, this pastoral
example of excellent land use sure as hell wasn't it.

Before I could collect my thoughts, Daniel said, "Let's walk it."

He took one side. I took the other. The cut was maybe two hundred yards wide
and half a mile long. We methodically walked the perimeter, each of us
occasionally venturing a few rows into the planting, our solitary footprints
the only blemishes in the neatly furrowed rows. Each little tree had the
biodegraded remnants of a plastic tape around its base. A couple were in good
enough condition to make it obvious that they'd once said something, but none
were good enough to read.

I had about given up when Daniel and I met up at the far end.

"Nice planting job," he said. "One of the nicest I've
seen."

"That's what I was thinking."

"Planted in June of eighty-nine," he said casually. I was in no
mood for Holmesian deductions. My fear and frustration boiled to the surface.

"Did you sniff the dirt or something, Daniel? Is this some miraculous
dating technique known only to indigenous peoples?"

He smiled and reached in his pocket. "Naw. I found this piece of the
Everett Herald half buried in the ground a ways back. It was between two rocks.
Kept it out of the weather."

He produced a yellowed piece of battered newsprint from his pocket and
handed it over. Sure enough, barely legible, at the top of the page. June
sixteenth, 1989.

"So, maybe the notations are dates."

"That's what I'm thinking," he replied. We were hell on the
obvious.

We mulled this  over in silence, as we picked our way back to the truck.
By the time we'd gotten all four maps unfolded, the inside of the truck was
full; we could no longer see one another.

"What's the oldest date you've got on yours?" I asked.

"Four-dash-eight," he replied after a great deal of rustling.

"I've got a seven-dash-seven," I said.

"What's the newest?"

We rustled, folded, refolded, and cursed for several minutes. Finally Daniel
announced, "I've got a nine-dash-one. That's last month."

"Newer than anything I've got," I said finally.

"New or old?" he asked.

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"New's only a few miles up the road."

"Let's try that one," I said, starting the truck.

It took another five minutes of folding, cursing, and refolding the maps
before I could see out the windshield.

Everything was the same. Logging road twenty-eight-dash-two-five was, to all
intents and purposes, the same rutted track from which we'd just descended. Not
as steep, but nearly as ugly. The truck, burdened by the top-heavy times
threatening to topple completely over. No sweat. After our last ride, this one
was a walk in the park.

Everything was the same. Newly planted ridge. Smaller trees.

"Well," started Daniel, "we were right about dates."

"Still got the little orange plastic tapes from the base of the nearest
seedling. I handed it to Daniel. "Greenside Up, Everett, Washington,"
he read.

"It's a start."

"That's one of ours all right," he said, turning the little orange
ribbon over in his fingers. "I hope you didn't damage the tree getting it
off. They're quite delicate when they're this young."

I assured him we hadn't damaged the little buggers. His name was Herb
Stratton. Sole proprietor of Greenside Up. He was short and slim. Not skinny,
but incredibly wiry and athletic. A pared-down pile of bone and sinew. He'd
compensated for his totally bald pate by growing a black, bushy Smith Brothers
beard. Four earrings in his right ear. His age was anybody's guess. He could
have been twenty-five or he could have been fifty-five. There wasn't enough of
his face showing to tell. Only the twinkling blue eyes.

"What else can you tell us from the ribbon?" I asked.

"Everything. I keep it all on the computer." A Macintosh flickered
gray on the desk behind him.

"Would you look this one up for us?"

"Don't need to." I thought maybe he was smiling behind all the
hair.

"It was the last job we did .only finished about three weeks ago."

"Nice work," said Daniel.

"A no-brainer," Stratton replied.

"Why's that?" I asked.

"We only had to replant the ridge. The tribe's one of the few timber
owners who have any sense of decent land use. Unlike most of them, they've got
more sense than to screw up the drainage and the fishery. They leave the slopes
alone. It's the slopes that are a killer to replant."

I started to speak, but he anticipated my question. "You've never lived
till you've hand-planted some of those slopes, man. A dozen men can barely
manage four acres a day." He shuddered visibly. "This one"
-  he waved the orange ribbon - "we did the better part of forty
acres in a day and a half. It was like that on all of them."

"All of them?"

"Sure. We've done seven or eight of them in the past couple of years.
All of them perfect. Great access. All graded flat. Not even slash piles to
work around. Neatest sites I've ever seen."