The Bum's Rush (31 page)

"You haven't gambled it all away, have you?"

"Excuse me? What did you say?"

"I know about you," she said musically. "You just
bring me that money, mister." Before he could speak again, she told him
where to bring the money and broke the connection. The Goths gave her a
standing O.

She shivered once as the sound of shoes came down
the black path at our feet. George climbed the dark stairs and squatted
below us. He was winded and bleary-eyed.

"Everybody's in place," he huffed. "The big monkey-- what's his dumbass name."

"Cherokee," I helped out.

"Yeah, he took a couple of laps looking for
citizens. Told Waldo to get lost or he'd kick his ass. He jimmied open
the women's crapper. He's in there now."

"Which way does the door open?"

He thought it over. "Out."

I told him what to do. He liked the idea. "We ought
to leave him in there for a few days. Those crappers have been closed
for twenty years. There ought to be some serious livestock living in
there by now."

"Just make sure he doesn't get out until we're ready."

George gave me a two-fingered salute.

"Where is everybody?" I asked.

"Normal and Ralph are down there in the trees." He
pointed east, behind the band shell. "Judy and Frank are on the far
side of the grass under one of them picnic tables." He gave a dry
chuckle. "They started making like they was doing the hokeypokey every
time the big monkey came by. Even Godzilla wanted no part of that shit."

Nobody was better than the crew when it came to
surveillance in public places. The old, the poor, the addled, have
become so unpleasantly endemic that our species has systematically
learned to shut down those portions of our brains that recognize their
existence. In Seattle, the destitute and the depraved have become so
prevalent that the crew could loiter places for days on end without
attracting unwanted attention. They seemed to operate from beneath a
cloak of cultural invisibility. They were there, but they didn't count.

"Harold?"

"He's holdin' Selena's hand back at Ms. Duvall's house."

"You've got Rebecca's cellular?"

He yanked it out of his pocket. "Just like you said."

"The second anything starts, you call the cops. If
you even think anything is going to start, you call the cops. You
understand what I'm saying here?"

Without a word, he picked his way back down the
stairs and disappeared into the gloom. It was five to ten. I turned
toward the girl. "You ready?" I took the shaking to be affirmative and
helped her to her feet.

"What if he doesn't come?" Her eyes were the size of saucers.

"Then he's who you think he is, and we're probably going to end up explaining to the heat why we were trying to shake him down."

"And if he does?"

"Then he's who I think he is, and unless we fuck up, he's going to be the one doing the big-time explaining."

"Well, I guess we'll see, then, won't we?" she said and turned away.

As she started down the steps, I moved up onto the
path that surrounds the reservoir, walked about thirty yards west, and
slipped down into the thick bushes. I stayed low and duckwalked out to
the front of the shrubbery. I was forty yards from the lip of the
bandstand. The hundred-year-old bricks had been tagged so many times
that the spray paint had come to form something abstract and vaguely
impressionistic. Beth appeared from the left and walked slowly to
center stage, where she wandered about in small circles, hugging
herself.

I could hear the water falling behind me as the
aerator fountain in the reservoir frothed and recycled its brackish
charge. A black Mazda pickup buzzed up the park road toward the top of
the hill and the main entrance, the buzzing of the engine eventually
losing itself in the overhead rush of the breeze.

Beth's pacing was becoming more frenzied, taking
her nearly to the edges of the stage, back and forth. Five miles later,
she stopped, put her hands on her hips, and looked impatiently in my
direction. I stayed put. She returned to walking back and forth.

Conover was late and lazy. It was ten-fifteen when
he pulled the Range Rover to the curb at the right of the band stand
and turned off the lights. Beth Goza stopped
walking and focused on the car like a pointer. The engine hummed
quietly. He stayed inside. She looked my way.

I'd coached her to stay out in the open, not to go
anywhere near the car, but her anxiety seemed to be getting the better
of her. She began to walk toward the road. I reached for the 9mm and
began to rise. Suddenly, as if reading my thoughts, she turned back my
way and stopped. She took an audible breath, stuffed her hands into her
jacket pockets, and strode back to the center. I settled back down on
my haunches and waited.

In the brief flash of the dome light, I could see
that Conover was clad in a pair of gray stonewashed jeans and a black
leather jacket. Leaving the car running, he clicked the door shut and
walked around the rear. I stepped out of the bushes and began moving
down the tree line, staying in the shadows, holding the automatic down
by my right knee as I shuffled forward. As I'd hoped, Conover was so
focused on Beth Goza that I was nearly in his pocket before he noticed
me. When he turned my way, I held the gun up above my shoulder,
eliminating any doubt as to what I was carrying.

He stopped three paces short of the girl and swung
his leonine head back and forth between us. "And what is this?" he
wondered out loud.

"That's what we're here to find out," I said.

"This is a very troubled girl " he started.

I waved the gun in his face. "Show me what's in your jacket pockets," I said.

"My pockets?"

"Is there an echo out here? Show me," I said. "Slowly."

As he pulled the pager from his left jacket pocket, he pushed the button. A dull thump came from behind
the bandstand. Then another, louder this time. Muffled shouts, and then
a series of Aythmic crashes began. Conover kept looking over his
shoulder. I helped him out.

"Cherokee will be spending just a bit more time in the ladies' room than he anticipated."

He looked around, confused. "What?"

"The other pocket. The right pocket now."

His hand stayed put. His car suddenly stopped
running. His head jerked around just in time to see Earlene and Mary
scurrying off into the darkness with his car keys. Frank and Judy were
on their feet now, closing the circle from the south end. My feet could
feel the force of the blows being delivered to the rest-room door. I
could hear the sounds of shoes and strain. He suddenly pulled his hand
from his right pocket I aimed the gun at his head. The hand was empty.

"What's in the pocket?" I repeated.

"You're going to be sorry for this. Do you have any idea "

I stepped right up to him, grinding the barrel into
his forehead, cutting him off. "If I'm wrong, I'll apologize later.
Empty the rucking pocket." He stood stock-still.

"Put your hands on your head." He did it.

"Beth," I said. "Reach in his jacket pocket. Be careful."

Hypnotized by the gun, she obeyed, slipping her hand into the jacket and coming away with a small brown paper sack.

"Open it," I said.

She placed the bag on the edge of the stage.
Instinctively, Conover started to move. I pressed harder with the
barrel. "Don't," I suggested.

When Beth Goza turned around she was using only two fingers to hold a large syringe with red markings.
A blue plastic safety cap protected the business end. Her
disappointment was palpable.

"In case she had a migraine?" I asked Conover.

His jaw muscles worked overtime, but no sound was forthcoming.

From behind the bandstand, the shouting grew
louder. The timbre of the blows became sharper and the sounds of
struggle more intense.

I grabbed Conover by the collar and forced him to his knees.

"Lie down. All the way," I growled.

He unlaced his fingers and complied.

I handed the 9mm to Big Frank. "Protect the girl," I said. "If he tries to get up, shoot him in the leg."

I sprinted around to the right, just in time to see
the first rusted hinge pop, allowing the door to swing free at the top,
making it impossible for Norman and Ralph to keep the door in its
frame. As I stepped up to lend my weight to the project, the door burst
from the frame, sending Ralph reeling backward and burying me beneath
Norman's bulk, which was in turn buried beneath the door. Cherokee's
great weight drove the wind from my body as he ran across the shattered
door and then turned back to face us. He paused just long enough to
sneer down at me.

I'm sure, in his own mind, Ralph thought he had
Cherokee just where he wanted him. Somewhere, he'd found a stout
four-foot piece of tree limb, which he held straight over his head like
an ax as he moved forward. With a mighty grunt, he brought it down,
swinging for all he was worth. Cherokee never even flinched. He merely
hunched his shoulders and allowed the blow to be absorbed by his
overdeveloped pile of trapezius muscles.

The limb shattered. Ralph stared dumbly at his
hands. Cherokee reached out, wrenched the remaining piece of stick from
Ralph's shaking fingers and backhanded him across the face with it.
Once in each direction. Ralph staggered back, turned a clean half
circle, and went down in a pile.

Just as I jerked my leg free from the door,
Cherokee pulled me close and butted me in the face. My nose exploded.
My vision went haywire. I seemed to be looking in four directions at
once. Everything was red. He was going to beat me to death with the
stick. I cowered and waited for the rain of blows. Nothing followed but
a series of low grunts.

I autofocused in time to see Norman riding
Cherokee's shoulders in an insane game of piggyback. Cherokee reached
over his back, took hold of Norman's coat, and threw him to the ground
as easily as if he'd been removing a sweater. With a great whoosh of
air, Norman hit the ground and rolled away. Blood rolled down over my
chin and onto the front of my shirt. My upper lip felt stuffed and
heavy. Norman's shirt was ripped to the waist. A swollen purple bruise
was forming along his right cheekbone. The right eye was nearly closed.
The left eye was on fire.

We moved in a tight little circle. Cherokee divided
his attention between Norman and me. Keeping casual track of me. Then
Norman. Then me again. He appeared unmoved and unhurried. Norman now
stood between Cherokee and the car. Norman made a dive for his ankles.
He never made it.

I never saw the sneakered feet move. One second,
Norman was in the air. The next second, Cherokee had anticipated the
move and delivered a roundhouse kick to the middle of the back.
Norman's own considerable bulk, augmented by the force of the blow, nearly drove him
through the sod. He bounced twice, hunched himself into a ball, and
began to gasp for air.

Cherokee hurdled the gasping Norman and started
toward the car. Working purely on instinct, I started after him, in
spite of having absolutely no idea what I was going to do if and when I
caught him.

Turned out not to be a problem. As I left the
ground in my best hurdle form, Norman levered himself up onto his
knees. We went down together in a heap. We sat with our legs tangled
and watched as Cherokee tore open the door and got in.

We scrambled up and started after him. At least I
started after him; Norman ran like he was dragging a safe. From within
the car came a frustrated scream. "Fuck!" he bellowed. No keys. He
slammed the door hard enough to set the car rocking on its springs and
began jogging uphill toward the conservatory.

"The hill's going to kill him," I shouted back at
Norman. "He's not built for hills." I hoped it sounded more hopeful
than I felt.

Cherokee jogged up the park's paved road until the
parking lot came into view and then, curling off to the right, ran
along the sidewalk, past the big piece of modem art, to the far side of
the reservoir. I was twenty yards back when he turned again downhill,
moving out among the bushes and shrubs, following the hard-packed
runner's path that wound serpentine throughout the park.

I lengthened my stride and allowed gravity to force
me into a full sprint down the matted track. In the semidarkness, the
running took on a hypnotic quality, becoming merely a series of
cadences rather than a specific action. I was gaining ground. My
strides were becoming uncontrollably long. I gave it all I had. My hip
joints felt like they were about to rotate right out of the sockets.

As he rounded the corner in front of me and reached
out to use a massive Douglas fir for support, I noticed that he was
limping slightly. My running got easier, but more out of control.

I almost piled right into him. He'd come to bay in
the darkness on the far side of the tree. I skidded and staggered to a
stop about ten feet from him. Closer than I wanted to be. He sensed it
and began to slowly make his way up the slight slope at me. He was
smiling. He beckoned. Come on. No fucking way. I backed up.

"I was hoping it was you," he wheezed. "Don't be
going nowhere. Papa's got something real special for you." He began
circling me. I thought I could hear Norman's heavy footsteps somewhere
on the path.

I kept my hands low and circled with him. We
switched positions. His back was now facing up the path. He was still
smiling. I was ready to duck or parry any type of blow. Instead, he
tackled me like a linebacker, dragging me to the ground while his
thumbs searched for my eyes. I twisted my head violently from side to
side and rolled over onto my back. Big mistake.

He rolled with me, locked to my back like a shell.
His iron forearm snapped across my throat. I pushed my chin down toward
my chest. I had no doubt. If he got a clean grip on my throat, this was
going to be over before it began. I took a chance and threw my head
back as hard as I could. I made contact with his face, and for a split
second the grip loosened enough for me to slip my whole chin under his
massive arm.