His
black pants were too tight. The little black zip up boots replete
with four-inch Cuban heels made him wobble as if on ice skates. He
led us on a circuitous path through most of the sparsely peopled
restaurant, finally coming to a halt at an isolated little table in
the back bar.
Either
he'd taken offense at my reservations joke or these people were
taking the concept of a nonsmoking section to a whole new level. With
its stunning view of the back wall, this table would have been
perfect for Bartleby the Scrivener. I, on the other hand, had been
thrown into better places.
Figuring
I'd used up my obnoxious coupons picking on Hillary, I was,
however, prepared to be agreeable about it.
"I
think you better handle this," I whispered to Rebecca. "I
seem to be having one of those days."
Duvall
could always be counted on in a pinch. Like myself, she dined out
alone quite a bit. Astute single diners quickly come to realize that
table allocation is a highly relative business. Left to their own
devices, headwaiters will generally try to make it seem as if they've
been holding this lovely table next to the garbage chute just for
you.
Without
a word, she turned on her heel and went back into the main dining
area. "How about this one?" she asked as nicely as
possible, indicating a table beneath the northernmost porthole.
"You
would be very happy with this table," our host reiterated,
gesturing back toward the isolation chamber. "Is no smoking."
"We
would definitely be happier with this one. We'll take our chances
with the smoking," she said firmly.
He
wasn't a bit happy about it, but for want of an alternative, went
along with the program.
Before
he could skate off, we ordered cocktails. An unblended Margarita, no
salt, for Duvall, a Jack Black on the rocks for me.
"I
don't think he liked you," she said.
"Today,
he'll have to take a number."
I
quickly changed the subject.
"Is
this your mom's yearly pilgrimage down to her sister's?"
"Two
fabulous weeks with Aunt Rhetta in beautiful Lincoln City," she
confirmed. "I put her on the bus this morning."
"Didn't
say she was never going back down there?" I asked.
"That
happens every year. They'll be threatening to murder one another by
Wednesday. As I understand it, it's all part of being sisters."
Rebecca
was an only child, the product of an alcoholic, short-lived
relationship between her Mom, Letha, and an abusive merchant marine.
Throughout grammar school, Rebecca had always been the ragged little
girl who knew the answers to everything but wasn't a pain in the ass
about it. Her mother had worked three jobs to get Rebecca through
medical school. As if in penance, Rebecca had never married, choosing
instead to see her mother through old age. Letha, for her part, was
taking full advantage of the fealty. She was older than mud but
healthy as a horse.
"What
did you want to pick my brain about?" Rebecca asked.
"Nick
Sundstrom."
"Are
you sure, Leo? Before dinner? You tend to get a bit queasy."
"Nothing
graphic. Just the basics."
"What's
it to you?" she asked.
I
told her about it. Rebecca listened in such a way that I always felt
I was the only one on her desert island at that moment. When I'd
finished, she reached over and patted the back of my hand as it
rested on my glass.
"I
remember when you got fired from the boat. You were so sad. It was
like somebody shot your dog. Except you didn't have a dog."
"I
wanted one, though."
"I
know you did," she sympathized.
As
if on cue, our drinks arrived. We sipped and twirled. Rebecca picked
up the slack. "I didn't do the work personally, but I oversaw.
Andy Tsukahara did the actual work, such as it was."
"Such
as it was?"
"There
wasn't much to work on. Less than ten percent of either of them.
Virtually no soft tissue. What there was had been burned and
contaminated by seawater. It was pretty much either dental records or
throw the I Ching."
"No
doubt that it was the Sundstrom kid though."
"None.
The family had a lifetime of Rental records."
"And
the other one?"
She
shrugged.
"Female.
Under thirty. Childbearing years, but never had children.
Malnourished at an early age. Between five-two and five-four, about a
hundred pounds or so. A little thing."
"How
can you tell all that from so little?"
"We
recovered the pelvis. In a woman, you can tell a lot from the pelvis.
Age, size, whether or not she's given birth, all of that."
"I've
always had great respect for the pelvis."
"I
know you have, Leo. It's one of the things I've always most admired
about you."
"But
no way to confirm an identity on her."
"Compared
to what? Show me a history, and I'll tell you if it matches. Give me
a couple of blood samples, and in two days I can tell you whether
they
were
related. Give me something for comparison. With this one, we had
nothing. We ran the wife's social security number through the
national database and got nothing." "Nothing?"
"Zilch.
Not so much as a flu shot." "Isn't that a bit strange?"
"Not
really. The database isn't complete. Lots of rural areas aren't
on-line yet. She could have just fallen thought the cracks."
The
waiter arrived with our menus. We took our time picking out a couple
of esoteric Greek dishes that we thought we might be able to share.
"What
about where she worked before she got married?" I asked after
the waiter had left with our order.
"You'd
have to ask the cops about that." "Fat chance," I
said, downing the remains of my drink.
Most
private operatives can count on minimal support on those cases that
the authorities deem to be dead ends. I, however, was the exception
to this rule. My ex-wife, Annette, was presently married to Captain
Harry Monroe of the SPD, who, I'd been given to understand, had
issued a standing directive to the effect that anyone assisting me in
any way could expect to spend long periods on the aptly named
graveyard shift in South Seattle. I suspected it was probably a
result of my failure to provide Annette with an appropriate warning
label. As a result of Harry Monroe's unceasing efforts, my niche in
the formal investigative hierarchy was only slightly lower than whale
shit.
"I'll
make some calls on Monday for you, see what the boys in blue have
come up with. What would you do without me, Leo?"
I
ignored her.
"Any
idea who's handling it for the police?"
"None,"
she said. "They probably handled it the same way we did.
Somebody junior doing the actual work, somebody senior covering their
asses. The Sundstroms being as prominent as they are, SPD will want
to have their ducks in a row."
I
caught the waiter's eye and ordered another round. The drinks arrived
with our dinners.
"What
we need to discuss now, Mr. Waterman, is how you're going to make all
this information gathering up to me."
"You
mean dinner isn't going to do it?" I asked innocently, never
looking up from my plate.
"Hardly."
"What
about my undying gratitude?"
"That
and a buck will get you on the bus."
"Have
I told you what a pretty dress that is?"
"It's
a Donna Karan."
"Stunning."
"Stop
changing the subject."
"No.
I mean it."
"If
you play your cards right, you can wear it later."
"Promises,
promises."
"You
owe me big time."
"I
don't know if I can perform under such pressure."
She
gathered up her purse.
"Look
at it this way, Leo, you're the first live one I've seen all day."
I
mulled this over as I threw bills onto the table.
"I'm
pretty certain I can compete with the dead."
"I
love a confident man."
"I
might have to agree with your mark," Carl said. "Client,"
I corrected.
"Whatever,"
he sneered. "Either the shooter is the Stevie Wonder of
point-and-shoot photography or Little Miss Tasty Trim here really
didn't want to have her mug immortalized."
His
opinion tendered, he sat back and fired up a fresh Winston. Since I'd
arrived a half hour ago, he'd smoked half a pack without ever
stubbing one out. The glowing embers of butts smoldering in the
bottom of the oily crystal ashtray could have barbecued a pork
chop. A pall of dense, drifting smoke that by now filled the upper
half of the small room was slipping steadily into my pores, glazing
me like-carcinogenic ham.
I
fanned the air around me in a pathetic attempt to see better.
Predictably, my discomfort cheered Carl considerably.
"Smoke
bothering you?" he asked.
"Perish
the thought, Carl. Not me. I try to suck up as much secondhand smoke
as I can. Especially right after breakfast."
"Tsk
tsk," he chided. "Wadda you want, to live forever, Leo? You
becoming one of these fucking yuppies, joggin' all the time? Livin'
on nothin' but ginseng root and no-fat yogurt. Pushin' out these
little turds look like rabbit pellets."
Carl's
laugh honked like an air horn.
"Is
that it, Bud? Have they finally worn you down? And here I had you
figured for the last of the old-time hard-livin', hard-drinkin' Damon
Runyon characters. This is quite a disappointment." He finished
with an exaggerated shrug. "I guess I'll have to write it off as
another blow to my already shattered idealism."
I
wasn't going to let Carl get me going. Carl liked nothing better than
a good argument first thing in the morning, or any other time of the
day or night for that matter. Carl Cradduck made casual conversation
a contact sport—as if he were on stage, playing to the very last
row, always exaggerated, larger than life, challenging the unwary to
jump into the scene with him. I stayed put. If I humored him even the
slightest bit, we'd be here squabbling indefinitely. No matter. He
started in on me anyway.
"And
will you look at these threads," he said,
twisting
the sleeve of my blazer between his thumb
and
forefinger.
'Ooooh.
Nice material," he said in a thick Central European accent. He
looked down at my feet and clicked his tongue again.
"And
will you get a load of the little Eye-talian ballet slippers. Gotta
be three hundred if they're a fuckin' dime. And what have we got
here?" He showed me his palm. "No, No. Don't tell me."
He
motored over, pulling up my pant leg, and pawed at my left sock.
"Ho,
ho, ho," he chuckled. "Really—you shouldn't have. No need
to dress for me, Sherlock. Although I do appreciate the thought.
We're strictly informal around here, or have you forgotten?"
I
hadn't known him when he'd had legs. I'd only met him afterward—the
summer after that ill-timed Christmas dinner at his sister's. After
the accident. That white instant when a couple of drunken teeny
boppers
failed to negotiate a hard left-hand turn, putting themselves under
the ground and him into the chair forever.
He'd
been running a little photo lab in South Seattle when I blundered in
one morning looking for an instant development job on some
grounds-for-divorce shots I'd just taken over in West Seattle. His
New York accent and caustic manner had quickly gotten my attention.
He'd made no move to take the roll of film I'd proffered. He'd sat
there in the chair and looked at the little yellow role as if I'd
been trying to hand him a dog turd.