The Bum's Rush (26 page)

"How long has this place been here?" I asked.

Charlie lit another Kent. "Oh hell, fifty years or
so," he said. "Helen's old man Ben " He waved the Kent at me. "Helen
she's my we "

"Your main squeeze," I offered.

Charlie liked that. "Yeah, my main squeeze," he
wheezed, staring off into space. "Helen, she can't hardly work the
place no more. Got arthritis real bad. All her joints. Specially the
hips." He caught himself. "Anyway, her old man Ben Cleveland built this
place back in the middle forties, right after the war. He was a
bricklayer by trade. Helen was just a kid. A war bride. Her parents had
the property for years. Couldn't find work right after the war, so he
built this place. Turned out real good for him."

"Nice little place" seemed to be what he wanted to hear.

Charlie Boxer sat with both arms resting on the bar
circling the bar towel. He was wearing a Philippine dictator shirt, cut
square at the bottom, worn outside the pants. Two solid lines of green leaves embroidered lengthwise
down the front. Without moving, he looked at me out of the corner of
his eye and said, "I take it, Leo, that you and the Pioneer Square
Protection Association here"--he inclined his head an inch toward the
boys, at the far end of the bar--"aren't just up here in this neck of
the woods by chance. I mean, 4 much as I'd like to think this was a
social call--" He let it hang and grinned.

"I've had them out looking for you."

"For me? For old Charlie the Boxer?"

"I need to know about what you were doing for Lukkas Terry"

He lit another Kent. Probably wanted to keep the one burning in the ashtray company. A cigarette's lot
is, after all, a lonely one. "Poor kid," he said. He looked like he
was going to get mushy in that maudlin way endemic to drunks, so I
pressed.

"What were you doing for him?"

Charlie took a minute to calibrate his position.
"Lookin' for his momma," he said through the drifting cloud of smoke
that encircled his head. "He wanted to find his momma."

"How in hell did the kid hear about you?" I asked.
He looked hurt. "Not that you aren't a legend in the business --" I
added quickly.

"Damn right." He chuckled.

"But you haven't been in the business for years," I finished.

He gave me a look that said I'd pay for that.
"Tubby Moran. You remember Tubby, don't ya?" Tubby Moran had spent
forty years as a low-level grifter and confidence man all over the
Northwest, sandwiching brief, publicly mandated vacations around the
usual collection of cons and scams that kept people like him
alive. Murphy games. Pigeon drops. Kited checks. Aluminum siding.
Driveway repairs. Gutter and downspout replacement. All of it.

"Tubby Moran?" I said incredulously. "Tubby the Touch?"

"Works for his son-in-law's janitorial company.
Doin' real good. They got the contract over at the Moore. The kid was
running all over the theater, telling anybody who'd listen that he
needed somebody to look for his momma. Claimed he seen her out back in
the alley. Said she looked like a bum. Wanted her found."

"I can't believe you still see Tubby."

"Hell, Leo, he don't live but four blocks north of
here. Can you believe it? Comes in all the time. He figured, you know "
He gave me a sly look that said old habits die hard. "Rock-and-roll
star. Big bucks, and all that jazz. I figured, you know, what the hell.
Maybe a little nest egg; it was worth a try." He gave a dry laugh. "Kid
didn't even own a checkbook, for pity's sake. No cash to speak of
neither. Had to drag me over to his manager's house so's he could get
me some expense money." He snorted. "A real high roller, that one."

"Have any luck finding her?"

"Nah. I dragged my ass all over the city for a
week. Hadn't worked that hard in years. Nobody knew dick. Never got the
rest of the cash, neither," he groused. "Wasn't so bad, though. Got to
see a lot of people I hadn't seen in years. And, hell, it was good to
be back on the streets." He gave me a little slug in the arm. "Hell, I
don't have to tell you, do I?"

When I allowed that he didn't, he went on.

"Helen was having a hell of a time running the place by herself. You know, you hire help in a cash business
like this, they steal you blind. She needed me. I needed to get back.
About the time I give it up, that goofy bastard booted himself into
never-never land, and that was the end of it."

"That's it?"

"That's it," he said with a shrug. "The whole ball of wax."

I swirled the dregs of my drink in the glass. "Glad to see things are working out as good as they are for you, Charlie," I said.

He sat up and looked around. "Best gig I had in
years. Helen's a good woman. Steady." He slipped off the stool. "I'm
damn lucky to have her," he pronounced.

I offered a hand. He took it. His grip was soft and dry. "It was good to see you again, Charlie," I said.

The boys had gathered about us. It was handshakes
and pats on the back all around. Free booze made you a viable
presidential candidate, as far as these guys were concerned.
Sainthood--perhaps. We all moved toward the door together.

"Sorry I couldn't be of more help," Charlie said as he used his bundle of keys to let us out the front door.

"Don't worry about it," I said.

The five of us milled about the sidewalk as the
locks clicked behind us. The moon was on its way down. Ralph, Normal,
and Harold linked arms and went weaving out into the street. George
stayed at my shoulder. "You see what I mean?" he hissed.

I was dumbfounded. "What?"

"You see how quiet Ralph was? Ain't said anything
real dumb in almost two days." He shook my shoulder. "Wouldn't even do
his Elvis impression, and ya know how proud he is of that."

"He'll come around," I assured him.

I stretched toward the heavens and yawned as I
walked diagonally across the street toward Jed's Lexus. Heavy Duty Judy
and Big Frank sat on the low cement wall that marked the park's
boundary, passing a bag-shrouded bottle between them. The air was
heavy, the heady scent of equatorial dung rolling over the neighborhood
from the adjacent Woodland Park Zoo. As if to play counterpoint, the
muted trumpet of an elephant blatted twice, followed by the strange dry
call of a large bird.

"Judy found him," George whispered as we crossed the street.

I pulled out a fifty and handed it to her. "Good
work," I said. "Good work all around." High fives all around. I refused
a pull at the bottle. "Anybody wants a ride to where they're going
better get in the car," I announced. " 'Cause this train is headed for
home." n

It was a state cop's wet dream. George, Ralph, and
Harold squeezed into the rear seating area, with Big Frank spread out
over their laps like an acrid afghan. Rear vision zero.

Norman, who generally filled any passenger seating
area beyond capacity, had somehow scrunched up and back to accommodate
Judy's loose-jointed bulk, most of which had melted over the console
and onto the floor. The tiara rested in my lap. Her booted feet bobbed
in the breeze. Mercifully, she'd passed out, staring straight up at the
headliner with only the suggestion of a smile decorating her otherwise
cherubic countenance. The primal stench I had attributed to the Zoo was
now in the car with us. I stifled a laugh and turned the ignition.

Whether we violated state visibility constraints was open to question. That we exceeded highway load limits
was beyond debate. I eased the car from the curb. The steering wheel
passed a scant quarter inch above the tip of Judy's nose. I started to
giggle.

"You heard me. That's exactly what Sarah asked
me this morning. Her exact words. We're going down to Larry's for a
coffee cake and she looks over at me and goes, 'Jed'--very
serious-like, you know, and she says--'Have you been transporting wet
sheep?' "

"If she has doubts about you, old buddy, tell her
to hire me. I used to do divorce work. Either that, or you could just
move to Montana."

"I'm serious, man. I left the windows open all
morning, I've got those little pine tree things hanging everywhere, and
the damn car still smells like old meat."

I searched for an excuse. "It was late. There were
a lot of us. Some of them were ... big and ... somewhat indisposed." I
wondered if they'd found Big Frank's shoe yet. Remembering the ride
home, I suppressed a grin.

"It smells as if some of them were wildebeest."

"Take it down to Smith's and get it detailed on me," I offered.

He huffed and puffed a bit more and then changed the subject.

"I have, of course, resigned from the library board."

"Of course."

"I spoke--off the record--to several other members, and we all agreed that, all things considered, this
is unquestionably the best way to handle the situation. I've assigned
Marty Kroll to the Mendolson woman's case. Kroll's a real go-getter. It
wouldn't be right for me to be directly involved as her attorney."

"Aren't you on rather shaky ground here? I mean, like, legally and ethically and other minor details?"

"No charges have been filed," he snapped. "Nothing
is officially amiss until the final results of the audit are in. My
legal position is, if not altogether pristine, at least manageable.
Ethically, it's a bit more of a horse race. What I knew and when I knew
it could get quite sticky, but I see no other path that assures both
the library's public position and the young woman's legal position so
thoroughly."

"Wouldn't it be better if she had an outside attorney?"

"Not possible," he said. "The minute we bring in an
outside attorney, we lose all control of the information situation. The
guy could go right to the press. I know that's what I'd do. I'd play
that whole thing with the frozen bum for all it was worth. I can see it
now. Burgess Meredith as Earl. The steaming cup of latte every morning.
A little string music. This caring young woman pushed to the brink by
an uncaring society. She'd have her own news logo and musical fanfare
by the end of the second day."

"Information situation? Now you really sound like my old man."

"A man could do worse," he said seriously.

"And as long as it lasts past the vote on Tuesday--"

"Merely a beneficial side effect," he assured me.

"You got her home okay?"

"Oh yes. She called a bit earlier. On short notice,
her father and brother can come up with about fifteen thousand between
them. She's still about eighteen short. She's going to sell her car. This afternoon she's going down to her bank."

My phone line gave a click.

"Is that you or me?" I asked.

"You," he said.

It was Duvall, about as excited as she gets.

"You better get over here, Leo. Right now."

"Is there a problem?"

"She's leaving." She added, "For California."

"I thought you were going to get along famously."

"We did until I ran out of things for her to drink."

"Well, give her some more."

"There isn't any more. She got the sherry. Mom's
bottle of Scotch. The commemorative champagne. That half case of
chardonnay we brought back from California."

"The Cakebread Cellars?"

"Gone. All of it. And all that beer you left out in the garage. Likewise, gone. Leo, this morning, she was eyeing my Chanel."

"You've got to keep her around till I get there."

"You better hurry. Soon as her clothes are dry, she's out of here."

I checked the clock by the bed. Eleven-fifteen. It
had been five-fifteen by the time I'd gotten everybody to where they
were going, returned Jed's car, caught a taxi back to the Fiat, and
driven home. I sat up. Still dressed. I threw my feet over the side.
Nikes too. Just like I planned it.

"Think of something. If she gets out on the loose now, she's going to be hard as hell to find."

"We've already had one shoving match this morning.
I'm telling you, Leo, she's leaving. You get over here." I could hear
shouting in the background.

"I'm on my way." I checked the mirror. My do had survived the night except for a solitary clump that
stuck straight out to the right like a horn. The dreaded hatchet head.
Better find a hat. "I need half an hour," I said into the phone. "I've
got an idea."

"I'll do what I can," she said without enthusiasm.

I grabbed a Boston Bruins cap from the coat tree
and sprinted for the elevator. The day hadn't yet made up its mind
about itself. One of those gray Northwest mornings. 1 Overhead rode a
rippled layer of cloud, bumpy and disor- j ganized like atmospheric
cellulite, while, to the west, fifty miles out over the snowcapped
Olympics, a bright white 1 sun backlit some of the peaks, hinting of
better things to come.

I made good time. Seventeen minutes later, I slid
the Fiat I to a stop in front of the Bauhaus. She sat at the same
table, reading a different book. Snow Falling on Cedars this time. She
saw me as I came through the door and snapped the book shut.

"I need you," I said.

She curled her lip. "I knew it would come to this."

I pulled the book from her fingers. "I need you to meet 'I somebody. Right now. We have to hurry. Come on."

She stood up. "Meet who?"

"Lukkas Terry's mother."

"Me--I--why--"

"You want something out of this other than your
rent paid?" I said quickly. "You want something for that baby you're
carrying around?"

One hand crept to her midriff. "Sure I do."

"Then get in the car."

She wrinkled her nose at the sight of the Fiat.

"This is your ride?" she said. "This POS?" I didn't
bother to answer. She lasted three blocks. "What's wrong  with
this car?" she asked as we flew onto the freeway entrance ramp. "I
think I'm going to be sick."

"It's a bit out of alignment," I said. "Don't look out the front window and you'll be okay."