King City (4 page)

He drove west toward downtown in his five‐year‐old Mustang, one of the dark‐green, special‐edition fastbacks that Ford made to cash in on memories of the iconic car that Steve McQueen drove in
Bullitt
.

The car was a surprise thirty‐sixth‐birthday present to Wade from his wife, the breadwinner in the house. She worked in an advertising agency. Making deodorant seem sexy, glamorous, and exciting paid a lot more than arresting drug dealers.

He liked the 5‐speed, manual transmission and the 315‐horsepower, 4.6‐liter, 24‐valve V‐8 engine that redlined at 6,500 rpm and could hit 150 miles per hour.

He hated everything else about it, particularly the gun‐sight
Bullitt
logo embossed on the steering wheel, the metal sill plates, and the ridiculous fake gas cap glued on the back of the car.

Wade told Alison that he loved the car, of course. That was a husband’s duty. And Wade always did his duty.

But what he was really thinking was that if she thought he’d like the car from
Bullitt
, that’s what she should have bought him—a 1968 Mustang GT fastback—not a new Mustang adorned with a lot of useless plastic garbage.

This was a muscle car designed for middle‐aged men who never had any muscles of their own, who thought Neil Diamond was edgy, and who were trying to gather the courage to ask their doctors for Viagra.

So he kept it in the garage as much as possible, never listened to Neil Diamond when he drove it, and used a police vehicle whenever possible.

Now that Alison had thrown him out of the house, Wade wanted to pry all that fake Hollywood crap off the car so he’d be left with just a green Mustang. He didn’t do it because he was afraid that his thirteen‐year‐old daughter, Brooke, would take it as an act of rage directed at her mother.

Maybe it would be.

He took the curving off‐ramp to the King’s Crossing Bridge and unconsciously sat up to take in the postcard view of the suspension bridge, the river, and the downtown skyline set against the jagged West Hills.

The clump of office buildings that was downtown King City wasn’t that distinctive or memorable. It was the King’s Crossing and the five other bridges that spanned the Chewelah River that gave the city its character. And the very best view of them was from the King’s Crossing Bridge, the highest of the bunch.

At least once a week, traffic on the King’s Crossing would snarl to a standstill because some jerk slowed down to look at the view, crashed into another car, and caused a multicar pileup.

Wade had seen the bridges countless times but always took a glance north and south anyway. Each bridge was unique, a perfect example of a particular kind of engineering, and built from steel and iron mined from the West Hills.

The bridges seemed imbued with the ambition, the daring, and the tenacity that got them made. He found something comforting and invigorating about the sight.

But once he crossed into downtown, the magic was gone. The bridge spilled him right into One King Plaza, the government center, which was dominated by the stone castle that was the original city hall and a symbol of excess and ego.

King City grew quickly after it was founded, thriving on the abundant natural resources, the railroad, and commerce on the river.

By the turn of the century, the city stretched over both sides of the river. It had smoothly transitioned from a largely agricultural‐based economy into an industrial center. Steel mills, lumberyards, breweries, and various manufacturing plants lined the shores, pumping smoke into the air day and night.

But by the turn of the next century, the city’s economy was in shambles. The mines were either depleted or too costly to keep in operation. The forests and farmland had all been subdivided and developed. The steel, lumber, and other major industries had moved overseas. The Chewelah River was no longer a primary means of moving goods, and its water was so toxic that even fish couldn’t live in it.

Now the docks, railroad yards, factories, and warehouses sat vacant and rotting under the sunbaked, brown haze, the decay spreading to the forgotten, crime‐ridden neighborhoods around them that were once the city’s safest and most prosperous places to live.

That’s where Wade was going, to Division Street, once the central shopping district of the south side, the area now known as Darwin Gardens.

It was only four miles from One King Plaza and a world away.

The buildings on both sides of Division Street were two or three stories tall, the kind of Edwardian stone, brick, and concrete buildings found on any Main Street in small‐town America. Now they looked like abandoned jails, iron bars over the windows and doors, water‐stained plywood mounted where there had once been glass. Everything was shades of gray, all the color eroded away by time and neglect.

Homeless men and women huddled in the doorways and alcoves with their belongings in bulging Hefty bags piled high in rusted grocery carts. They glared out at him from the shadows like owls.

There were still a few businesses in operation on the street, all with barred windows—a barber shop, a mini‐mart, a psychic, a shoe‐repair place, and a check‐cashing operation.

Three hookers stood listlessly in front of the check‐cashing place, hoping to get a share of somebody’s paycheck before the mini‐mart did. Or maybe they worked for the check casher, who was looking for a way to get some of his cash back before it got too far out the door. Maybe it was both of those things.

An Escalade, clad in sheets of after‐market chrome, cruised by in the opposite direction, the driver slowing down to get a good look at Wade.

The driver was a Native American man, maybe in his twenties, wearing a tank top that showed off his prison‐yard muscles and his tats. His eyes had a cold, sharklike flatness that must have taken a lot of practice in front of a mirror to achieve.

The Escalade moved on and so did Wade.

The new police substation was on the corner of Division Street and Arness Avenue in a storefront that had most recently been occupied by an X‐rated video business. The sign for “Red Hot XXX‐Treme Video” was still above the door.

Wade cruised past the two‐story brick building slowly. If he squinted, he could see the words “King City Police Substation,” which had recently been etched in small gold lettering on the glass front door, right above a DVD return slot under the words, in big white letters, “Was It Good for You? Cum Again.”

He drove around the corner onto Arness.

Behind the building, a new cyclone fence topped with razor wire enclosed a small parking lot where three dented, scratched, and dirt‐covered Crown Vic black‐and‐white cruisers were parked side by side. There was a pile of broken DVD shelving beside an overflowing Dumpster. Some of it looked burned. A thick chain and huge padlock secured the gate.

Wade made a U‐turn and pulled up in front of the storefront and behind an old Buick that was molting oxidized paint.

A pear‐shaped man who looked to be in his fifties emerged from the Buick. He wore a cap from a factory that had closed down fifteen years ago and had a cigar stub in his mouth that looked like he’d been chewing on it just as long. There was a retractable key ring with a few hundred keys on it clipped to his belt, weighing down his pants below his gelatinous belly, which was barely covered by an untucked, oversized aloha shirt.

Wade got out and met him on the sidewalk.

“Mr. Claggett? I’m Tom Wade.” He offered his hand, but Claggett didn’t take it.

“It’s one thing to rent my place to the cops—everybody understands you’ve got to make a buck—but it’s another if they think we’re buddies.”

Wade looked past Claggett to the street. The Escalade had made a U‐turn and was idling at the next corner, the driver watching them. So were the hookers. Even the homeless people were peering cautiously out of their alcoves.

“Would you prefer that the police weren’t here?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think. You’re not staying, anyway,” Claggett said, going to the door. His keys jingled as he walked. “It’s a publicity stunt.”

“Do you see any reporters around?”

“It’s safer for them to read the press release than to come down here.” Claggett took his key chain, fumbled around until he found the right key, unlocked the iron grate, folded it aside, then unlocked the door. “Besides, the city only signed a ninety‐day lease. What more do I need to know?”

“You don’t know me,” Wade said and surveyed his new command.

The DVD racks were gone, but the walls were decorated with posters advertising movies like
Asscrack Bandits 4
,
Cum Cannon 23
,
and
Titfuckers on Parade
. But that’s not what caught Wade’s attention. There was a scorched section of the wall near the window, burned clear through to the framing, the two‐by‐fours charred black.

“What happened here?” Wade asked, walking over to study the damage. The linoleum below the window was curled up and bubbled from the fire, and the ceiling had black streaks where it was licked by flames. The fire had burned hot and died fast.

“The previous tenant had an accident.”

“I guess those movies really were red‐hot,” Wade said.

“
Titfuckers on Parade
is pretty good,” Claggett said.

“What did the fire department say?”

“I don’t know if they’ve seen it,” Claggett said.

“About the fire,” Wade said.

“Nobody asked them. The tenant put it out with a fire extinguisher.”

“What did the insurance company say?”

Claggett snorted and waved off the comment. “The damage doesn’t come close to meeting my deductible. My rates are high enough as it is without getting them jacked up by filing a claim.”

Wade glanced at the damage. His guess was that someone had tossed a Molotov cocktail through the window. The fire would have been much worse if the bottle hadn’t broken against the bars on its way in.

“Do people here have a big problem with porn?”

Claggett laughed but managed to keep his cigar stub clamped between his lips.

“Only that they can’t get enough of it.”

That’s what Wade thought.

“Why didn’t you repair the wall?”

“The tenant moved out right after the accident and then you moved in. No one said anything about it and the lease agreement is signed, so now it’s your problem. You could cover it with one of those posters.”

Wade shifted his gaze to the rest of the place.

A chipped and beaten Formica‐topped counter ran across almost the entire width of the room, creating a partition. Wade guessed it was probably repurposed from the video store. A gate made of unpainted wood bridged the remaining distance between the counter and the wall.

Behind the counter were four gunmetal gray desks and chairs, like those found at police stations all over the city. Atop the desks were computers from the Paleolithic era of computing, phones, an old microwave, lamps, boxes of office supplies, and other equipment that nobody had bothered to unpack, set up, or organize. Some file cabinets, a refrigerator, a microwave, and four gym lockers were crammed together in a corner along with more unopened boxes and crates. There was a gun locker mounted and locked on the wall. The chief had tossed Wade the key to the gun locker that day in the park.

Wade walked through the gate and between the desks to the back of the station, where three holding cells had been built. The doors were made of thick iron mesh, and each cell contained a concrete block for a cot and a stainless steel toilet/sink combination.

All the construction work that had been done to transform the video store into an adequate police substation was cosmetically unfinished and raw. No primer or paint had been applied to any of it.

“You’re responsible for paint and improvements,” Claggett said, reading Wade’s sour expression. “I just provide the four walls and the roof.”

“There’s a big hole in the wall,” Wade said, gesturing to the fire damage.

“I didn’t say the walls and the roof would be solid,” Claggett said. “Just that they’d be there. Are your friends coming back to finish up?”

“I don’t think so,” Wade said.

Claggett looked at him. “Can I ask you a personal question, Officer?”

“Go ahead,” he said.

“What did you do wrong to end up here?”

“My job,” Wade said.

“Maybe you’re in the wrong job.”

“Or I’m in the right job with the wrong people.”

“You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

“That’s what they tell me,” Wade said.

“Or you’re a damn fool.”

“They tell me that too.”

“So which is it?”

“Could be they’re the same thing.” Across the room Wade saw a door that was ajar, revealing a staircase beyond it. “What’s upstairs?”

“An apartment nobody wants,” Claggett said. “Tenants down here usually use it as storage space.”

“I’d like to see it,” Wade said.

Claggett led him through the door and up the stairs. He unlocked the door and held it open for Wade, who walked past him into the apartment.

There was a kitchenette without appliances, a living area, and a separate bedroom and bath. The carpet throughout was filthy and stained. The walls had a piss‐yellow, weathered tinge from age and sun damage. The barred windows in the bedroom and living room overlooked Division Street.

A cell with a view.

Wade went to one corner of the living room, crouched, and pulled up the edge of the carpet to expose the hardwood floor underneath. With a little work, it would clean up nice. All the walls needed were a coat of white paint.

He stood up again. “I’ll take it.”

“You’ve already got it. It comes with the space downstairs.”

“I want to rent it for myself as a place to live.”

“You
want
to live here?” Claggett asked, incredulous.

“How does seven hundred and fifty dollars a month sound to you?”

“But you could stay up here for nothing,” Claggett said.

“You’re not much of a businessman,” Wade said. “Do you have a problem with making money?”

“I’m out of practice. I don’t get the opportunity very often.”

“Bring me a rental agreement to sign.”