Last Ditch (19 page)

Triad
Trading
Company ran low along the bank, directly under the bridge. A rippled
wooden
structure from another era, whose loose collection of add-ons meandered
its way
in stages from the container yard down to the riverbank fifteen feet
below.
Ahead of me in the gloom, a mobile construction shed with the word
OFFICE
stenciled on the front stood dark and empty. To its right a sagging
metal
warehouse loomed up into the darkening sky like a monument to rust.

No
lights. No
cars. No nothing.

I
pulled the
Fiat into the narrow alley between the office shed and the warehouse
and rolled
nearly out to the end. In front of the car, ten feet of gravel driveway
sloped
precipitately down toward the river. I jammed the Fiat in reverse,
pulled up on
the e-brake for all I was worth and then turned off the engine and
stepped out.

The
evening sky
was the color of a bad bruise, and it was ten degrees colder here by
the water.
My breath plumed out in front of me like steam. Pushed by the wet wind,
the
rain felt like it could cut my face and the cold, rather than being
external,
seemed to emanate from deep within my bones.

I
walked past
the front of the car and looked down into the black water, watching the
raindrops pit the glittering surface and then disappear into the flow.
Two
hundred feet away, across the Duwamish, a green-and-white Washington State
ferry was in dry dock. A motorized scaffold hung from the side. Two
welders and
two sets of tanks were sending dual showers of sparks spewing down into
the
water below. Above the sparkling streams, the lighted decks were alive
with
workers in green rain gear and yellow hard hats.

I
pulled my
jacket tighter around me and walked back up the alley to the office.
The
sticker on the steel door declared that the building was protected by a
Brinks
Security System and that trespassers would be prosecuted to the fullest
extent
of the law. In the window, a hand-lettered sign said: IN CASE OF
EMERGENCY CALL
624-7765.1 pulled out my notebook and wrote the number down.

I
crossed the
alley to the big sliding door on the side of the building and found it
fastened
with a serious new lock and chain. I started making my way around to
the front,
trying to stay close to the building and out of the rain, keeping my
inside
hand on the rough metal siding. I kept my eyes on my feet, stepping
carefully
over and around the dangerous collection of shattered pallets, twisted
rebar
and discarded metal banding material which the years had deposited
along the
sides of the structure.

I
slid along
the front of the building, walking past a huge pair of electronically
operated
roll-up doors, all the way to the far end, where I peeked around the
corner.
Right in front of my face was a small concrete landing leading to a
blue metal
door. Just for fun I reached out and tried the knob. It wasn't locked.
I
swiveled my head around to make sure I was alone in the yard, took
several deep
breaths, pulled open the door and casually stepped inside.

High
in the
ceiling, a double line of fluorescent lights ran down the length of the
warehouse, bathing the center of the room in a murky green glow, while
leaving
the periphery in near darkness. The room was filled with shipping
containers
about half the size of those out in the yard. Blue, with TRIAD TRADING
stenciled on the side. In the narrow central aisle, a pair of yellow
Hyster
forklifts were parked back-to-back.

Against
the back
wall, what I imagined to be the warehouse supervisor's office had been
built
high up off the floor above a pair of restrooms. The interesting part
was that
the lights were on upstairs. I stood still, my hand resting on the
doorknob. At
the far end, inside the office, the light wavered once and then a
moment later,
moved again. Unless I was mistaken, somebody was moving around in
there. I
eased the door closed behind me and started for the light.

I
slipped
between the forklifts and walked all the way down to the far end. On
the right,
a rickety-looking set of stairs rose in two sections to the office
above. I
fished the Prudential card out from my jacket pocket and started up. I
figured
I'd make like I was lost. Tell whoever was up there that I was looking
for
their neighbor Western Cold Storage. Maybe have me a little look around
while I
was at it. Us private dicks are real tricky that way.

It
wasn't like
I was tiptoeing or anything, and it's sure not as if the stairs didn't
make any
noise. On the contrary, the ancient risers creaked and groaned with my
every
step. I definitely wasn't looking to surprise anybody. Folks can get
downright
dangerous if you scare the hell out of them. I figured for sure whoever
was up
there was going to hear me coming from a mile away. That's because I
figured
whoever was up there probably had ears. Silly me.

He
was sitting
at a yellow Formica table reading the newspaper, following the lines
with his
finger, his lips moving as he read his way down the page. He was tall
for a Chinese.
Maybe six foot five or so. His narrow eyes were set close to a bumpy
red nose.
The area around his mouth was chapped and dry, and he had a serious
split in
his lower lip. About sixty, he'd grown his salt and pepper hair
unusually long,
into what I believe used to be called a pageboy hairdo. Kind of looked
like
Sonny Bono back in the heyday of Sonny and Cher.
Back when Sonny still had hair and Cher still
had a nose.

I
was
ruminating on his retro look when he reached up to scratch the back of
his neck.
In the process, his hand moved the thick curl of hair hiding the side
of his
head, and I could see that he didn't have an ear on this side. Just a
scabrous
black hole in the side of his head, red and puckered, pulling at the
surrounding skin, creating the sense that the whole side of his face
was about
to disappear down the hole. Unsure now, I shuddered and stepped back
out of the
puddle of fight at the top of the stairs.

I
looked to my
left, and thought about backing all the way down the stairs. And I
might have
done it, too, but in that instant, some primitive inner sense alerted
him.
Suddenly, his eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open. He looked up
from the
paper, directly at me, and our eyes locked. I smiled and held up the
business
card. Never fails. A piece of the rock. Well . . . almost never.

He
recoiled in
terror. Throwing himself over backward in the chair and then crabbing
down the
narrow hall on all fours and sliding the accordion door closed behind
him.

I
pushed open
the office door and stepped partially inside. I went for the
understated
approach.

"Sorry
if
I scared you," I said.

I
could hear
things being thrown around in the next room.

"I'm
from—" I started.

The
door slid
back and he burst back into the room. He wore a long knit cap pulled
down over
his head nearly to the line of his lower jaw. He brandished a large
rubber
mallet, the kind they use in auto body shops to pound out dents. Up
close, I
could see that he had the scarlet cheeks of a rummy and I could tell
from the
way the hat lay on his head that he didn't have an ear on the other
side
either. I showed him my empty hands.

"Whoa,"
I said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"You
come
here to spy on me," he screamed. A string of white spittle escaped from
the corner of his mouth.

I
cursed myself
for being unarmed. After weeks of walking around armed to the teeth,
waiting
for the judge's shooters to have a go at me, I'd been relishing not
carrying
anything heavier than a pen. Bad move.

"No,"
I said. "I'm looking for Western Cold Storage."

He
began to
shift from foot to foot and wave the hammer around. "You get a good
look?
You happy now? You get a good look?"

As
a matter of
fact, I didn't like the look of it at all. This guy was out there.
Whatever
smoldered inside him wasn't something I wanted to deal with right now.
If I
wasn't careful, he'd scramble my brains. I showed him my palms again.
"I'm
going to go," I said. "I'm going to leave this card ..." I waved
it at him. "... right here on the table, and then I'm going to go.
Sorry."

"You
happy
now?" he screamed again. His eyes were wet and filled with a look of
horror usually only seen in war photos. For a moment, I thought he
might cry.

I
kept my eyes
glued on the hammer as I leaned over and placed the card on the edge of
the
table. I groped behind my back and found the knob. "Sorry," I said
again as I backed out of the room. I did the first set of stairs
backward
keeping my eyes locked on the door and then, when I got to the landing,
turned
and hustled down to ground level.

When
I turned
and looked back up at the office, he was standing in the middle of the
room
with my business card in his hand, his lips moving as he read. When he
finished, he walked over to the window and glared down at me; the
expression on
his face sent a shiver trickling down my spine. I'd seen its like
before, but
only on cornered animals. Cue the Twilight Zone theme. I turned on my
heel and
started double-timing it for the door.

I
got about
halfway to the Hysters when the lights went out.

I
stood still
in the velvet black, keeping my breath steady and even. Behind and
above me, I
heard the office door scrape open.

"Come
on,
man," I said to the darkness. "No need for this."

I
waited for my
eyes to adjust and listened to the creaking and groaning that meant he
was
coming down the stairs. The building was tight. No strips of fight
along the
roofline or around the doors.

I
felt my
throat tighten. No way I was playing blind-man's bluff with this guy. I
could
hear the slide of his feet on the floor somewhere behind me and the
hair rose
on the back of my neck. Now a low grunt.

I
opted for
speed instead of stealth, walking quickly forward with my hands thrust
out in
front of me like feelers, figuring as long as I stayed in the middle, I
was
bound to run into the Hysters before long.

Then
I heard
the noise. He was walking on top of the containers, jumping the gaps as
he
hopped progressively closer. I stood still and held my breath, hoping
to get a
bearing on him, but suddenly, he was silent, too. I had the eerie
feeling that
he could see me in the dark whereas I couldn't see my hand in front of
my face.

I
moved quickly
to my right, walking at a normal rate with my hands thrust out before
me until
I collided with a container. I put my back to the cold metal and
listened.
Nothing. I figured I'd stay put and wait for my eyes to adjust to the
inky
darkness. With the container at my back, he either had to come at me
from the
front or over the top. I kept my eyes glued to the front. I figured I'd
feel
the vibrations in the metal if he walked along the top of the box. I
waited.

My
neck
stiffened as I heard his feet slap the concrete floor. I could now make
out the
outlines of the containers lining the other side of the aisle. Inside
my head,
my breathing sounded like a fire siren.

I
worked at long
silent breaths of the same length, in and out, one to ten, one nostril
and then
the other, one to ten, focusing, taming my metabolism, until I could
feel my
heartbeat returning to normal.

I
took one
measured step at a time, carefully placing my foot and then bringing
the rest
of my weight over, trying to prevent the slap of a sole or the rustle
of
clothing. Using this method, I slowly sidestepped to the far end of the
container. More breathing.

Satisfied
that
I was under control, I hopped silently across the dark empty space and
rested
my back along the next row of boxes. The ribbed metal felt cold and
gritty
against my shoulders. I estimated I was three or four containers from
the
forklifts. The way I remembered it, the front half of the warehouse was
virtually
empty. If I could get on the other side of the Hyster blockade, I could
make an
all-out sprint for the door. He knew the place better than I did, but
was
twenty years my senior. The way I saw it, my best chance was to make it
a
footrace instead of a game of hide-and-seek in the dark. Even if he was
waiting
for me at the door, I'd be moving his way at full speed, which is
pretty much
what you want to do when the other guy has a club. You want to get
inside the
power arc as quickly as possible, like a baseball pitcher coming inside
with
his hard stuff, trying to get you to hit the ball off the handle.
Secret was to
keep your head off the sweet spot in the bat.

Turned
out it
wasn't a problem. He quick-pitched me. As I sidled to the edge of the
metal box
and groped around the comer with my hand, some vestigial sense within
me felt a
whisper of air and I knew beyond doubt that he was close.
Instinctively, I
twisted to my left. As I turned toward the whisper, I had the oddest
notion
that I heard a sob.