She
gave me a smile thin enough to pass for a scar.
It
was a clear case of premature jocularity. From the second he'd
figured out that I wasn't there to lease a yacht, he'd dropped the
jovial sales facade and moved with practiced speed from simply
insolent to downright unpleasant.
I'd
spent an hour and a half in Vito's, down the hill from Swedish,
nursing a coffee and going through Heck's notepad, as the late lunch
crowd came and went. Heck had covered a lot of ground without getting
much accomplished. The yacht leasing agency had seemed as good a
place as any to start.
"Do
I have to call security?"
"Easy
there, Scooter," I said, showing a palm.
While
his right hand danced above the phone, he used his left to jab at the
pale blue business card on the counter. Each word punctuated by a
jab.
"All
questions about the accident need to go to our attorneys."
The
embroidery on his pink Ralph Lauren pullover said this was a Chipper,
not a Scooter, but what the hell? He was a compact little fellow,
about thirty, with a pitted face, a fair hair-helmet so stiff it
appeared to be shellacked, and a pair of the smallest feet I'd ever
seen on an adult.
"You
must have an earwax problem," he added.
"I
told you, I don't want to talk about the accident.
I
just want to have a few words with the person who leased them the
boat."
"Same
answer, bub. The bossman himself leased that one, and he's not
talking to anybody, so beat it."
"Why
don't we ask him?" I suggested.
"Why
don't you shag your ass back out that door?"
"I'll
tell you, Scooter, I'm not much impressed with your idea of customer
service."
"That's
your problem, dickwad."
I
leaned forward on the counter and beckoned him closer. When he
declined, I spread out, letting my forearms push a pile of glossy
brochures off onto the floor. They fanned out over his little feet,
which began doing something akin to the Ali Shuffle.
"How
clumsy of me."
He
got louder. "All questions about the—"
I
interrupted him by walking around to the open side of the sales
counter.
"—the
accident—" he stammered.
"You
say that again, Scooter, I'm gonna mess up your hair."
He
turned toward the phone, dialing finger poised. I stepped closer.
"I
wouldn't," I said quietly. He replaced the receiver with a
bang.
"Come
on man," he whined. "I don't want any trouble. We had a
whole meeting about this crap. I'm sorry about those kids, but it's
my ass if I tell you anything. Mr. Richmond said—"
"Then
call Mr. Richmond," I suggested for the third time.
"I
told you, man, he hates being bothered if it's not an emergency."
"Trust
me, Scooter, as far as you're concerned, this is an emergency."
As
he turned to the phone, he betrayed himself with the slightest of
sneers. The buttons clicked.
"If
you're calling security, my friend, I'd suggest
you
reconsider. I'm self-employed. I've got nothing better to do than
wait outside for you for the next couple of weeks. Unless you plan on
this being your last day on the job, and then like moving to another
state, you'd better be calling this Mr. Richmond."
His
shoulders visibly sagged as he depressed the button and redialed.
After half a minute of apologetic mumbling and kowtowing, Chipper
returned the receiver gingerly to its perch.
"He'll
be right down."
"Thanks,"
I said, leaving the business card on the counter. It was identical to
the one I'd found with Heck's notes. I turned on my heel and walked
back out the door toward the afternoon sunshine of the marina.
"Fuck
you very much," he shot at my back.
I
repaired to the nearest bench to catch a little sun and admire the
view. From the Northwest, the gleaming monoliths of downtown
Seattle appeared to be under attack from giant insects. These days,
the Port of Seattle completely surrounds the spot where the jagged
Duwamish River empties into Elliot Bay. A swarm of bright orange
loading cranes stood sentry, seeming to ring the downtown core like
modern engines of siege.
This
had been the original Seattle. A hundred years ago, Doc Maynard and
his cronies had simply called those bootsucking tidal flats the Sag.
Prior to the regrade, that area had been the only place our founding
fathers could, at low tide, get down and walk on the beach. The
contemporary Doc Maynards called it the Gateway to the Pacific Rim.
I
was pulled from my ruminations by the sound of leather soles on the
cement behind me. Richmond was a big, florid man, flushed with the
good life. His hair was wet, combed straight back. He wore a sport
coat over a pink shirt and gray slacks, penny loafers. No socks, no
tie. After unbuttoning the double-breasted blue blazer, he sat
heavily next to me on the bench, his bulk springing the central steel
support slightly.
"Chipper
says you threatened him, Mr.—"
"Waterman.
Leo Waterman." I offered a hand. Without hesitation, he took it
in his oversize mitt and moved it up and down, eyeing me.
"Waterman's
a rather famous name around here. You any relation to Wild Bill
Waterman?"
"My
father," I admitted.
"Hell
of a character, if you don't mind me saying," he said.
"So
I understand," I said.
Predictably,
Richmond had a story.
"I
remember one year, it was just after the war, late forties, early
fifties, some time in there, he led the Candidate's Parade down
Fourth Avenue dressed up like Mahatma Gandhi." He slapped his
knee. "He was leading this mangy old goat on a leash. Everybody
loved it. It was swell. I'll never forget it."
Neither
would anyone else. Seattle was like a reformed drunk, pious and
sober, but secretly nostalgic for its wild youth. I'd heard all the
stories so many times that the line between how I remembered him and
the stories I'd been told was forever muddled, leaving me with a
blurred image of the old man that was, I suspected, more apocryphal
than real. I changed the subject.
"Nice
name-—Chipper."
"Yeah,
if you're a beaver," he said, studying the water. "Nasty
little fellow."
He
shrugged. "He's my Helen's third attempt at connubial bliss. If
I don't keep him working, they'll move back in with us."
"I
wouldn't really have hurt him," I confessed.
"Too
bad."
We
sat in silence gazing out at Elliot Bay, still and
unbroken
in that brief lull between morning and evening breezes. I watched a
bufflehead. The small diving duck flicked beneath the surface, stayed
an eternity, and then popped back to the surface twenty yards from
where it went under.
"I'm
sure you understand why we can't talk to anybody about the accident,"
he said finally.
"How's
about off the record?"
He
looked at me like I'd just hawked a lunger onto his shirt front.
"What's
your interest in this, anyway, Waterman?"
I
fished in my pocket and produced a business card.
"Working
for?" He pocketed the card.
"The
Sundstroms."
"Then
how in hell can it be off the record?" He spat disgustedly,
beginning to rise.
I
laid it out for him. The missing money. Heck's suspicions, the whole
unlikely tale as told to me, culminating with the truck hitting Heck.
He settled back, resting his arms along the top of the bench, rocking
slightly.
"You're
being straight with me?" he said.
"I've
told you the story just like it was told to me."
"So
your interest in this has nothing to do with litigation?"
"I
don't do insurance work. I can't guarantee anything about what
the Sundstroms might do later, but right now this is about peace of
mind."
"And
the Sundstroms don't think it was an accident?"
"They
don't know what to think." "That makes three of us."
"How so?"
"I've
got half a million invested in that vessel. Just had it completely
refurbished. Brand new twin Cummings three-seventies. New water,
propane, satellite dish. The whole works, inside and out. I checked
that boat out myself. You know, if you want something
done
right . . . Five of us took it up through the San Juans to Vancouver.
Some of the best men I've got, been with me for years, went over
every inch of it. I've been in this business for thirty years.
Believe me, Risky Business was leaking nothing."
"Sometimes,
with boats—"
"And
she wouldn't take on any crew, not even a pilot."
"You
offered?"
"Hell,
I insisted, but she didn't want to hear about it."
"Why'd
you back off?"
"Don't
think I haven't asked myself that one." "And?"
"First
of all, that particular boat was damn near foolproof. We try to set
them up that way. If you're going to lease boats to the public,
they'd better not be rocket science. Everything electric. Directions
for everything. Hell, you've got about fifty thousand pounds of boat,
with less than four-foot draft. It's not easy to fuck up in a
fifty-two-footer. Motor during the day; put up at night; don't hit
anything too hard. Not much to it. It had every kind of safety gear
in the world. VHF, radar GPS, depth sounder, autocom-pass,
autopilot—the thing was loaded. Hell, it had a Whaler with a
fifty-horse. Like I said, pretty much idiot-proof. Even Clarence
could have gotten the thing down to Baja without a problem."
"Clarence?"
He
jerked a thumb back to the rental office. "Chipper." I
smiled. He continued.
"Then
their credit check came in. Golden, even without the Sundstroms, who
as you're probably aware could buy this whole damn marina and then
some. The kids had more than the boat was worth sitting in the bank,
which makes your tale of the missing money even more interesting."
"It
was sitting in the bank when they leased?" "Seafirst.
Downtown branch." "What day was that?"
"I
don't know offhand. But we can find out."
I
rose with him as he pried his bulk from the bench. I'd been so
engrossed in our conversation that I hadn't noticed that Chipper was
standing thirty feet behind us, midway between the leasing office and
the bench, slapping a black, polished fish billy into his palm.
Richmond
sighed again. Chipper hopped from foot to foot.
"Should
I call security, Dad? Or should we handle him ourselves?"
Richmond winced.
"Get
the Sundstrom file. Make a copy of the lease agreement and of their
credit report and bring them out here," he growled. "And
put that thing back in my desk before I have Mr. Waterman here floss
your teeth with it."
Chipper,
although visibly crestfallen, scurried to oblige.
"And
you wonder why some species eat their young."
"You
said she didn't want to hear about a crew."
"Yeah.
Didn't seem to me the Sundstrom kid cared much one way or the other,
but the girl didn't want any part of it."
"That
didn't set off any bells for you?"
He
chuckled. "Now there, Waterman, just when I was beginning to
think you were a man of the world," he chided. "How many
married men you know are running their own lives?"
I
thought it over.
"Exactly
zero," I said.
"Then
you see my point. If I refused to lease to every guy with a wife
jerking his chain, I'd still be renting rowboats and cutting herring
plugs."