Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (28 page)

"I'd bet they run like hell."

"Exactly."

It didn't take long. I don't know what spacesuit told the officers out
front, but whatever it was had the desired effect. Within two minutes, both
patrol cars were burning up public property back the way they'd come. I took
the opportunity to ask a few questions.

"Excuse me, as much as I hate to be dim, I still don't understand what
is going on here that's worth killing people over."

Hayden turned quickly. "Are you kidding me? Didn't you hear what
Neville said/ Maybe fifteen hundred, two thousand drums." He turned back
toward the window.

"So what?" I said to his back.

"So?" He swiveled again. "So, it costs about a thousand
dollars per drum, minimum, to legally dispose of that type of material. A
thousand times fifteen hundred is - "

"A million and a half or so," Daniel piped in. Hayden nodded.

"Eight sites. Over a million dollars a site. Jesus," he muttered,
overwhelmed by the enormity of his own figures.

The little parking lot was quiet for the first time in hours. Even the radio
had stopped its infernal squalling. The humming of the coolers had suddenly
become audible. Hayden heaved a sigh.

"Okay," he said. "You two get out of here."

We started to move; he stopped us. "This is it, Waterman. This is the
end of the deal. As much as I appreciate the help you've been, I can't - I mean
- I need to put some - "

"Distance."

"Yes, distance. I need to put some distance between us here. I'm sure you
understand."

"Distance is just what Daniel and I had in mind," I said.

"I mean distance," he said solemnly. Ever since he'd run the
numbers by me, I'd been waiting for this part. I'd offered him a cookie. He
wanted the whole jar. Wendy had been right. He was a bureaucrat to the core.

"You're out of this," he continued. "You're not going to see
your names in the papers tomorrow morning. You understand what I'm telling you?
I never heard of you. Understood and agreed?"

I understood completely. This treat was too good to share. There might even
be a cushy Washington, D.C. job in here somewhere.

"I understand," I said.

Daniel stretched and flexed, working out the kinks on our way out to the
camper. The sky was bruised, a layered molten gray, holding the promise only of
something different.

"I noticed you didn't say you agreed," Daniel noted as soon as we
were well out of earshot.

"Most astute of y you, Daniel. I try not to lie."

"That's good, Leo. Lying's bad for the spirit."

Perhaps it was intended as a cautionary peek at purgatory. Maybe that's what
he had in mind. Or maybe the guy was just having trouble orating himself all
the way to any sense of moral resolution. Considering Buddy's lifelong slide
from grace, this was a definite possibility. Either that or the priest was just
long-winded and didn't have sense enough to come in out of the rain. He droned
on.

A westerly gale mixed the icy, slanting rain with the last remaining leaves
into a blenderlike frappe that swirled around heads and down collars as we
stood dripping by Buddy's grave. The water that had entered my collar had, by
this time, found its way all the way down my sleeves and was now dripping off
my hand. Buddy was the only one present who was dry and comfortable. He'd have
liked that.

The crowd was divided into sections. Hard by the right of the grave, Buddy's
three somewhat interchangeable ex-wives jockeyed for position. Each veiled in
black, each with an umbrella-toting limo driver who stood respectfully one pace
to the rear, bending forward, struggling to keep the umbrella functional in the
swirling maelstrom as his stout charge elbowed and upstaged her competitors
shamelessly, like a well-oiled finalist in a bodybuilding contest, posturing
through one last collective attempt to impress the judges.

None of that reserved, stiff-upper-lip, WASPish mewling into hankies. No
sir. What we had from the ex-wife section was the Super Bowl of sorrow, as each
writhed, moaned, mumbled, and tore desperately at herself in an all-out attempt
to outgrieve the others.

The most substantial of the three women zealously held down the central
position. Her periodic spasms of lamentation were invariably punctuated by an
imploring tilt of the head toward the heavens, followed quickly by a violent
thrusting of her substantial elbows outward and toward the rear. This position
both lent a martyrlike quality to the pose and, not coincidentally, served to
keep her smaller rivals bobbing and weaving about in a manner that would have
been the envy of many NBA centers.

Buddy's actual friends, as usual, occupied the low ground. They had been
relegated to a spot at the foot of the grave, where a pile of sodden earth
waited for the return of the backhoe. Only their soaking, rain-plastered heads
were visible above the mound. As the unpredictable wind spiraled around the
grave site, an occasional whiff of something akin to a pack of wet hunting dogs
assailed my nostrils, reminding me of their presence.

George, Harold, and Ralph had been joined in their vigil by an eclectic
assortment of the city's more colorful street denizens. Three or four I knew.
Earlene and Mary sobbed together, arm-in-arm near the center of the group, the
green army blanket thrown over their heads offering scant protection from the
elements. The Speaker, who for this special occasion had traded in his
omnipresent sandwich board for a Hefty Bag parka, seemed to be quietly
conducting his own service, his lips mouthing their own silent benediction, his
hands punctuating the salient points. Nearly Normal Norman looked better than
usual. His enormous mane of untamed red hair, which usually stuck alarmingly
out in all directions, had been plastered onto his head, gentling his otherwise
fiercely bearded countenance into something vaguely cherubic.

Five minutes into the ceremony, while hunching up and swiveling my neck in a
futile attempt to channel the rain away from my armpits, I'd noticed the guy
under the laurel tree.

No need to wonder. This was the cops. Fifty yards of glaucomalike downpour
and blowing leaves wasn't sufficient cover for this guy. All the signs were in
place: worn overcoat, one epaulet unbuttoned and moving with the wind,
partially covering twelve acres of fire-sale sport jacket, polyester pants -
that baggy look they all develop over time. The face was a stew of melancholy
and bored cynicism. This one had started out skinny, but twenty years of
lingering over pie and coffee had pasted a gross paunch beneath his bony chest.
If he'd had a chin, it would have been a triple model. As it was, his neck
seemed to be sprouting layered goiters. I ignored him.

As if by magic, four workmen appeared from the surrounding mist and began
slipping the four ends of rope through their gloved hands, lowering the coffin
into its final resting place. I lost my bet.

Restrained by their beefy chauffeurs, the ex-wives, in a touching show of
self-restraint, limited themselves to showering the rapidly descending coffin
with a hail of wilted floral matter. As each in turn stepped forward, sniffed
dismissingly at the others, and waited into the wind, my mind heard laughter.

I watched them go, resisting the powerful urge to scratch the soaked bandage
that covered the former home of my right earlobe.

George appeared at my elbow. He seemed to be impervious to the weather. Hs
slicked-back white hair, although showing a bit more pink scalp than usual, was
still in place. The rain had loosened and washed away the layer of dust that
generally covered his shoes and outer garments, leaving behind a temporary
sheen of cleanliness and respectability.

"Seemed like the wifies was all broke up about it," he said.

"Shattered."

"These are the same three broads who used to jail him regularly for
nonpayment," he added with a snarl.

"I miss him already," said Ralph. His eyes were full.

"Seemed like Buddy was forever," muttered Harold.

"Buddy would hate us getting mushy over him," I said.

"Fuck him." Harold snuffed through a filthy handkerchief.

We lapsed into silence.

George filled the awkwardness of the moment by slipping his arm through mine
and leaning in close.

"We found out where they're going," he whispered.

"Where?" I whispered back. He went leaden, not answering.

"Leo Waterman." A sandpaper voice from behind me.

Without turning, I said, "That's me," George grimaced.

A bony hand appeared on my shoulder, trying to turn me like a top. I went
with the flow. No more than a foot separated our noses. His breath spoke of a
titanic struggle between garlic and Binaca. Garlic was winning.

"You're coming with me," he said evenly.

"Am I under arrest?"

"If you want to be."

I remembered Jed's advice on the phone last night.

"If you want me to go anywhere with you, you're going to have to arrest
me."

Harold, Ralph, and the others had wandered closer, forming a loose
semicircle around the cop and me. He checked his back. His eyes narrowed.

He reached inside his coat. Everyone tensed. He pulled out a folded piece of
paper and handed it to me. It was a material witness warrant.

"I can get all the backup I need," he said.

"No need." I said it loud enough for everyone to hear.

I reached into my inside pocket. It was the cop's turn to tense. I came out
with my notebook, tore out a page, and handed it to George.

"Call this number. Ask for Jed James. If you have any trouble getting
through, tell the lady you're calling for me." He nodded. "Tell him
I've been arrested. He'll take it from there."

I checked my watch. Eleven forty-five. "You guys be at my place at four
o'clock," I added.

The cop openly smirked. "If he's not there, you boys make sure you
start the meeting without him. Waterman here won't be - " I cut him off.

"I'll be there," I said. "Four o'clock."

I made it home by three.

As we rounded the corner, the cop now paternally propelling me by the elbow,
the expression on their faces told me all I needed to know. Either they were
simultaneously passing kidney stones, or Jed was already here.

The three of them stood impatiently in the hall, leaning back, holding up
the stained pea-green walls, arms defensively folded. Detective Trask,
Detective Allen from Tacoma, and a skinny little lamb-to-the-slaughter who
turned out to be Assistant D.A. Van Pelt.

Before I even got seated, Jed started on them.

"Now as to these cretinous charges," he began.

They looked from one to another. The D.A. cleared his throat.

"At the moment, Mr. James, there are . . . er . . . no formal . .
."

Jed scooped at his papers. "Let's go," he said to me. I froze.

"If and when you fellas get your shit together, my client will be, of
course, anxious to assist you in any way possible." Big smile. We started
out.

"If he's so anxious, where's he been for the last three days?"
Trask.

"Is Mr. Waterman charged with something?" Jed repeated, halting.

"As I stated, Mr. James, there are no charge," said Van Pelt.

"Then Mr. Waterman's movements are of no concern to any of you. This
isn't Nazi Germany, you know." Jed was big on the Nazi analogies.

The two cops looked to Van Pelt for assistance. Van Pelt, hooking a finger
into his collar for relief, looked like he'd rather be peddling time-shares in
Beirut.

"We had assumed that Mr. Waterman, as a public-spirited citizen, would
be willing to cooperate in our - "

"And your notion of cooperation includes a trumped-up material witness
warrant" - Jed wrested his copy of the warrant into the air. It floated
back to the stained table, bounced once, and slipped over the edge onto the
worn linoleum floor - "served upon my client at a time of great
bereavement? This is your conception of a reasonable manner of asking the
public for help?" Silence again. "Well?" he demanded.

Trask jumped in. "We've been attempting to locate Mr. Waterman for
several days."

"Let's," snarled Jed, "deal with one abuse of power at a
time, shall we? What do you say? We can take up the matter of your illegal
entry of Mr. Waterman's domicile after we settle the matter of this -
this" - he used the toe of his hiking boot to kick the warrant over toward
the assistant D.A. - "toilet-paper travesty."

Before they could regroup, Jed seized the initiative.

"Now," he began, "so as to neither waste any more of my time
nor inflict any further damage on Mr. Waterman's already mutilated civil
rights, specifically what crime is it that Mr. Waterman's testimony might
conceivably be material to?"

"The murder of Beaumont Knot," said Detective Allen immediately.

Jed cast me a glance. "He worked for me," I said.

"I want to confer with my client alone."

They took their time. Van Pelt had to take a quick little skipping step to
keep the heavy door from hitting him in the ass whenJed kicked it shut.

"Toilet-paper travesty?" I winced as the door clicked.

He grinned. "I'm a little off my feed this morning. Have no fear. I'll
warm up." I never doubled it for a second.

"Who in hell is Beaumont Knox?" he demanded.

"Buddy."

"The old guy who - you mean - "

"Yup."

"Somebody offed him?"

"Yup."

"While he was working for you?"

"So it seems."

"You know who?"

"If id did, I'd be there."

Jed thought it over. Finally he asked, "Can you work around these
assholes?" tilting his head toward the hall.

"That's what I've been doing. It's getting hard."

"Then we better answer their questions."

"You sure?" I asked.

"Have you come up with anything substantial?"