W Is for Wasted (9 page)

“How do you know this?”

“Everybody knows. Bums been camping there fifty years or more. Started as a hobo city during the Depression. Guys out of work hopped on trains and went clear across the country, riding the rails. They used to elect their own mayor and everything. Access road is their escape hatch, in case the cops bust in.”

“How do you know there aren’t twenty guys up there?”

“Because the Boggarts invaded the place and that’s how it is now. Everybody else took off. Nobody wants to mess with them three. They’re bad news,” she said.

“What if they happen to be there?”

“They won’t be. I just got done telling you. They’re busy manning the ramps at this hour because people are coming home from work, happy to pass out dollar bills to bums claiming their car’s broke down. Can’t they figure it out? There isn’t a
car
. Bums don’t have cars.”

“I love your confidence,” I said.

“Fine. You don’t believe me? We can check the off-ramps first to make sure all three Boggarts are accounted for. Camp’s deserted, we go in and grab the stuff. Ten minutes max and we’re outta there.”

I could feel a roiling anxiety rise through my body like nausea. “This is a bad idea.”

“You got a better one?”

When I didn’t reply, she went on in a warning tone. “You don’t help, we’ll just turn around and find someone else. I want that backpack and I mean to have it.”

“Come on, Pearl. Would you cut it out? This is ridiculous. If you’re that desperate for a backpack, you can buy one at the nearest army-navy store.”

“Not like this one.”

“And why is that?”

She broke off eye contact. “You don’t need to know.”

“What, like there’s a secret compartment where Terrence kept his Sky King decoder ring?”

“Go ahead and make fun. That backpack is valuable.”

“I’m not moving an inch until you tell me why,” I said.

Felix looked from me to Pearl and back. “Her lips is sealed,” he said, “But mine ain’t.”

She squinted at him. “Would you shut your mouth? We’re having a conversation here that’s no concern of yours.”

He leaned closer to me with a proud smile, like a little kid who swears up and down he can keep a secret when he can’t.

Pearl banged him on the head, but it was too late.

“Backpack’s where Terrence hid the key to his safe deposit box.”

“A safe deposit box,” I said, making a declarative sentence of it instead of a question.

“Like at a bank,” he said, as opposed to those at the laundromat.

I closed my eyes and let my head sink in despair. If Terrence had a will . . . which Dandy claimed he did . . . he probably kept it in a safe deposit box. Which might also contain information about his ex-wife and kids and any final wishes he might have about disposition of his remains. This was exactly what I’d been looking for for the past four days. “I don’t know how I get caught up in shit like this.”

Pearl said, “Atta girl! Now you’re talking.”

I slid in behind the driver’s seat. Felix squeezed into the back while Pearl crushed her cigarette underfoot and then settled into the front. I felt a flutter in my chest like I’d swallowed a hummingbird. I turned the key in the ignition, put the Mustang in gear, and pulled away from the curb. I took a right on Milagro and moved into the lane that ran parallel to the freeway, allowing southbound cars to merge with oncoming traffic. In the interest of being thorough, I took the first exit, which emptied just shy of the bird refuge. I’d never seen the bums work that area and I realized now it was because that particular ramp was too close to home. If a patrol car cruised by, there was no way to disappear without the risk of drawing attention to their camp.

When cross-traffic allowed, I got onto the southbound on-ramp, which was clear of panhandlers just as the other on-ramps turned out to be. I suppose the reasoning was that people getting
onto
the freeway had a fixed destination and were therefore focused on the drive and less inclined to interrupt the journey for donation purposes, whereas those getting
off
the freeway, their progress halted by traffic lights or stop signs, had more time to read the signs beseeching motorists for help and thus were more likely to haul out the old wallet or change purse.

I drove an elongated figure eight nearly a mile in length, cruising the ramps where the Boggarts typically stationed themselves. I noticed I’d freely adopted Pearl’s term for the panhandlers, which seemed tidy and to the point. I didn’t believe they were “bad fairies.” I wasn’t even sure that they were
bad
, but the word “Boggart” had a certain air to it that seemed to encompass the minigang of thugs. By trekking back and forth, we spotted two of the three bums. I came back around to the Cabana Boulevard off-ramp, slowing as I exited. At the bottom of the slope, sure enough, the third Boggart was standing on the berm, holding a battered cardboard sign. Crudely lettered in pencil, it read:

Down on my luck and hungry

Any small donation appreciated

God Bless

Pearl said, “That’s the one had the backpack.”

I gave him points for correct spelling. With just an occasional glance to my left, I kept my gaze fixed on the car in front of me. I already knew the fellow by sight. He was tall, with the muscle mass of an athlete whose trophy days were done. I placed him at six feet with a build that had probably been pumped up by steroids once upon a time. His head was shaved and he wore a red baseball cap that he removed from time to time so he could smooth his bald pate before settling the cap back into place. He wore jeans and a red flannel shirt, the nap worn thin at the elbows but otherwise looking like a proper safeguard against the chill. His expression was blank, revealing no negative reaction to those who passed without making a contribution. Maybe next time around the stingy ones would feel guilty enough to hand over a dollar bill. Meanwhile, he was prepared to stand there without complaint until some righteous driver passed money to him through the window.

Both Pearl in the front seat and Felix in the back had turned their heads to the right as though studying the view from the passenger-side windows. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Boggart’s focus drift in our direction and fix on Pearl, conspicuous by reason of her size and the telltale black knit watch cap. He squinted at the sight of her. He had no reason in the world to think we were up to no good. Then again, like the paranoids in every walk of life, he had no reason to think we weren’t. He tracked the rear of the Mustang as I turned right onto Cabana. It might have been my Grabber Blue 1970 Mustang he found so fascinating, but I doubted it.

I continued around the big bend in the road and took a right at the next light, turning onto the street that fronted the zoo, which was closed for the day, its entrance barred by a gate with a wooden arm. The parking lot was empty, and even at a distance I could see the wrought iron gates were locked. The turnstiles behind them were in shadow.

Felix leaned forward, arms on the front seat, talking into my right ear. “Keep on this road around to Milagro.”

I did as instructed, wondering if this was how a bank robber felt when he’d been assigned to drive the getaway car. There was a produce market on the corner a couple of blocks farther on. It was open for business seven days a week with an expansive parking lot on the far side. I’d passed the market any number of times. I’d even shopped there on occasion, impressed by the lavish displays of fresh fruits and vegetables. I caught the scent of celery as I drove by—I swear I can smell celery half a block away—and wished I were eating a bowl of homemade vegetable soup instead of being cooped up with a homeless pair who reeked of cigarettes. I turned right onto Milagro and then right again into the parking lot.

The Union Pacific rail lines run between the highway and the periphery of the lot, which was topped with a mix of gravel and asphalt. There were ten or twelve cars parked close to the market, but the remainder of the lot was empty. I drove to the far end, where I could see the pavement shrink to a narrow road that snaked upward and out of sight. I followed the road. The hill rose gradually with trees on either side forming a canopy overhead. The roadbed was not quite wide enough for two cars to pass, but I didn’t picture much in the way of traffic.

I kept my speed to a minimum as I trundled along the lane. I was driving maybe two miles an hour, noting the backside of the zoo structures as they appeared to my right. It was odd to see the facility from this perspective. Where the public areas were defined by walkways that wound among the animal enclosures, the hinterland was all business: garages and storage sheds; lengths of fence that could be moved and bolted into place where needed; service trucks, fork lifts, and utility vehicles; artificial jungle plants and fake boulders that could be called into use to create the illusion of the wilds. As a child, I’d ridden on the narrow-gauge kiddie train that circled the property, so I’d seen glimpses of the same inner workings.

I let Pearl direct me to a spot along the fence she said was closest to the camp.

“You better turn the car around in case we have to get out in a hurry.”

“What hurry? The guys are gone,” I said.

“But supposing they come back is all I’m trying to say.”

Oh great, I thought. I would have liked a place to pee, but it was too late for that and the urge was probably only a manifestation of a creeping attack of nerves. There was scant turning-around room available. I only succeeded by constantly backing up and inching forward, with Felix standing where I could see him in the rear- and side-view mirrors making hand gestures to signal left, right, and stop. Give the fellow an orange plastic baton and he could have offered the same guidance to an airline pilot arriving at the gate.

When I’d completed the 180-degree reorientation, I pulled on the emergency brake, killed the engine, and got out. The fence was a heavy-duty chain link with poles buried in concrete containers at ten-foot intervals. Someone had used cable cutters to open a seam that ran up along the side of one pole. The section of fencing was still bent upward where it had been pressed into use. Right away I thought about that high school geometry concept I never imagined would serve me in real life. The pole and the ground formed a right angle, with the hypotenuse measuring a lean thirty-six inches. Pearl was wider than a yardstick and I wasn’t sure how she’d manage to condense her girth sufficiently to fit through the gap. However, this invasion was her big hot idea and I wasn’t about to volunteer to take her place.

It looked like the emergency exit hadn’t been used for some time. The weeds were thick and the ground underfoot was spongy, a natural mulch of decomposing leaves and bark. The smell suggested decay, not of flesh but of plant material. Felix and I pulled up the stiff triangle of fencing while Pearl got down on her hands and knees and then lowered herself on her stomach. Being prone didn’t seem to make her smaller or more compact. Pearl’s fake leather jacket added mass to her already bulky frame. The raw cut tines of chain link formed a crooked line. Some of the tines pointed down and some upward, like the traffic teeth at a parking lot exit, intended to discourage you from changing your mind and backing up.

Felix said, “Whyn’t you take your jacket off?”

“Why don’t you shut your trap and let me do this my way?”

Felix and I exchanged a look and he shrugged.

She managed to hunch her way through the opening at an agonizing pace, but Felix and I knew better than to offer further tips. On the other side of the fence, she struggled to her feet and brushed herself off, dislodging dirt and twigs. Felix left me to hold up the flap of fencing while he slipped through after her.

The two began descending the hill, half slipping along the softened ground. A few yards farther on they disappeared into the tangle of saplings, fallen trees, and weeds. For a moment I could follow the rustle and thump. Pearl huffed and grunted briefly, and from that point on, sound was muffled and uninformative. She’d told me Terrence’s backpack was stashed in a tree and his book collection was stored in a waterproof box. How would she manage to carry both? The rest of his belongings were apparently stuffed in waterproof canvas bags, which I pictured her dragging up the hill. Surely, she and Felix would have to make more than one trip. Her claim that the job would take no more than ten minutes was patently absurd. Why is it that other people’s plans so often seem ill thought out while our own make so much sense?

I checked my watch. Not even a minute had passed though it felt like ten. The on-ramp where we’d seen the nearest panhandler was between the lanes of north- and southbound traffic, a ten-minute walk if he decided to leave his post and return to the camp. From my vantage point, I could see intermittent stretches of Cabana and a section of the parking lot across from the Caliente Café. I watched a car pull in and park. A woman got out with a jogging stroller and strapped her baby in the seat. At that distance, she was scarcely half an inch tall, an elf in my eyes.

I stayed close to the fence, clinging like a prisoner hoping to be liberated. I peered into the growth of trees down the hill from me but saw nothing. Traffic sounds didn’t penetrate the quiet. Above and behind me, the zoo property acted as a buffer, muting the low rumble of the Pacific Ocean on the far side of it. The slope in front of me dropped at an angle through the brush, extending maybe an eighth of a mile before it leveled out. The ground then rose up again to meet the railroad tracks, which were shielded from view by dense shrubs and a line of trees.

Without conscious intent, I tried to calculate the odds of the nearest bum returning prematurely. To me, the chances seemed iffy. I had to assume that on prior occasions, the Boggarts had seen Terrence with Dandy, Pearl, and Felix, sprawled on the grass, trading smokes or passing around a common jug of wine. The homeless seemed to be subdivided into smaller populations, not necessarily friendly toward one another, but not hostile either. Under ordinary circumstances, the Boggarts probably wouldn’t have stolen another fellow’s cart, but death had upset the balance in the social order and they’d used this to their advantage. Why, then, wouldn’t it occur to them that Terrence’s pals might try to recoup the loss?

As though in reply, I caught a punctuation mark of red in the parking lot below, a semicolon of cap and flannel shirt that appeared and disappeared so quickly that I blinked. Had I imagined it? I didn’t think so. Tentatively, I called out, “Hey, Pearl?”

The vegetation was so dense that the word was rendered flat, pasted against the thicket like a printed flyer announcing my alarm. As nearly as I could tell, the sound didn’t carry even one foot. I had no idea what the distance was between the point where I’d spotted the bum and the location of the camp, but what difference did it make? Felix and Pearl hadn’t been gone long enough to accomplish their aims, which meant he’d be walking in on them before long.

How could I stand at the fence and do nothing? An ambush was imminent and Felix and Pearl probably hadn’t had the good sense to designate one of them as a lookout. I would have preferred being more certain of what I’d seen. If I was wrong, I could help tote stuff up the hill. If I was right, at least they’d have
some
warning. I dropped to the ground and turned over on my back, holding up the treacherous flap of chain-link fence with one hand while I dug my heels into the dirt and used the leverage to hunch my way under.

Once on the other side, I scrambled to my feet and took off down the hill, the stern tug of gravity slowing my pace. The soil conditions created the sensation of running across a mattress, but I labored on, struggling for balance. I reached the thicket and raised my arms above my head. The undergrowth was dense and I thought I’d be wading into the brush for some distance. Ten steps more and I broke into the clearing, nearly falling over in my surprise. The first thing I spotted was an aluminum-framed backpack, propped against a tree with Terrence’s name neatly lettered on the canvas. Beside it was what looked like a seaman’s soft-sided duffel stuffed to the top.

The camp itself was a revelation. I took in the layout at a glance before I turned my attention to Felix and Pearl. The Boggarts had suspended tarps from clotheslines that neatly divided the space into “rooms,” one of which was furnished with a plastic table and chairs confiscated from god knows where. Hammocks were strung between closely spaced trees, looking like traps for airborne creatures not yet in captivity. Tents had been erected as shelter from the elements. Plastic milk crates, arranged in various configurations, served as storage for their provisions. On a picnic table sat a big insulated cooler for foods that required refrigeration. Beach umbrellas protected some of their belongings, but many items had been left in the open air with no apparent harm.

The “mess” was in a tent of its own. Hijacked electric lines were connected by a series of bright orange extension cords that disappeared in the grass. A hose with a spray nozzle lay close at hand and provided running water as long as the zoo paid its bills. Big garbage cans with the lids secured in place were marked
SANTA TERESA WASTE MANAGEMENT
, which meant that by judicial placement among similar cans, the Boggarts could have their trash picked up on a regular basis as did everyone else in town.