First Avenue (31 page)

Sam placed the paddle behind him so that it was like a bridge between the kayak and the dock. With the paddle for support, he lifted his butt out of the boat and onto the dock. He sat there a moment and looked up at her while his feet remained inside the kayak.

“Pull the bow in a little, will you?”

She had let the rope go slack, and the front of the kayak had drifted a few feet from the dock. She pulled it in.

He crawled onto the wood planks, grabbed a handle on the kayak, and pulled it carefully onto the dock. He rubbed his hand gently beneath the bow as though caressing its body.

“I hit a log out there,” he explained. “Didn’t do any harm though.”

“What would you do it if it had done some harm?”

“Paddle like hell. Not likely it would sink, though. See. The ports here in the front and back are sealed. They make air pockets that help it float.”

“I thought those holes were for extra people.”

“Might be a little cramped. Want to give it a spin? I have an extra paddle.”

“Not this morning. I’ll wait for a nice day with sunshine.”

“Might have to wait a while, then. I heard on the news last night we have a storm coming.”

“When?”

“Sometime tomorrow.”

“Great. Just in time for my days off.”

“Hey, that’s right. This is it for you, isn’t it?”

Sam turned to the kayak and began tying it down. She nodded her head although he was not looking at her. He still had two days to work.

“Anything happen last night?” he asked, still bent to his boat.

“No, but I spent quite a bit of time around the Donut Shop. There was nothing going on.”

He looked at her then.

“
Mike
went home at
midnight
, so I spent a little extra time there.”

“Good.”

“I paid attention to the back stairway like you said, but I didn’t see anybody hanging around there.”

“I didn’t want to bother you at home, but I thought you should know about it.”

“You didn’t bother me. I appreciated the call.”

“I might be taking this secrecy thing a little too far,” he said. “But somebody might accidentally say something and spill the beans.”

“I won’t spill the beans,” she said.

“I know.”

He clamped a padlock on a rusty chain that secured his boat to the dock and stood up beside her. She glanced down to the kayak, to the spot caressed by his hand, then out to the water where the storm was coming. In the fog there was nothing to see.

The fog canceled the preview of morning on the Olympic peaks. Although traffic was increasing on the Viaduct, it seemed distant, slowed, and subdued. He did not want to leave. Everything he needed was here—the sound of Silve in the kitchen, the smell of the adobo sauce, light, warmth, solitude, pen, and paper.

He had been working on the poem of the breadman, but the poem was done. It was no longer a reason to stay. If Silve would come down, he would have a better reason. They could share the coffee, talk about the weather, and watch the car lights in the fog. But Silve had not come down all morning. The old man was behind in his work. And you, he asked himself—
Sam
the Policeman? Where are you with your work? The name did not flow as well as
Nate
the Breadman.

When
Sam
put his dollar beneath the cup on Silve’s shelf, the old man stepped away from his stove and wiped his hands on his apron.

“Leaving already?” Silve asked.

“It’s almost six,”
Sam
said.

“Is it?” Silve asked in surprise as he looked at the clock above the stairs where
Sam
stood.

“You’re working too hard,”
Sam
said. “Do you have some help coming today?”

“Yes.
David
will be here any minute now. You have met him.”

“
David
is coming back?”

“For a little while. Until the girl starts. He knows what to do.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Yes, so you don’t have to wash the dishes again.”

“I didn’t mind that.”

There was hope in the kitchen again. There was always hope in the kitchen. Sometimes down in the dining room, there was not as much hope.
Sam
pulled open the kitchen door and looked outside as though there might be something hopeful there, too. He saw the fog drifting down the ramp, waiting for the doors to open.

“I’ll see you later,”
Sam
said.

“Yes sir,” followed Silve’s familiar voice.

There were already trucks on
Pike Place
. He walked slowly on the cobblestones until he found
Henry
behind a flatbed truck at the south end of the Market.
Henry
was loading crates of vegetables onto a hand truck. His arms shook and sweat dropped from his nose each time he bent over.

“Looking good,
Henry
,”
Sam
said as he joined
Henry
at the back of the truck. One more crate would make a full load on the hand truck.
Sam
grabbed one end of the crate and helped
Henry
stack it in place. The driver, who was on the bed of the truck shoving back the vegetable crates, stopped working. He was unsure if the policeman was on a friendly stop or not, despite the smile on his face.

“You found yourself a good worker this morning,”
Sam
told the driver. “I hope you can keep up with him.”

Henry pushed the hand truck to a nearby produce stand. He was not yet certain of the tilt that gave the best leverage.

“It’s hard to watch these old guys work like that just to get enough for a bottle,” the driver said as he leaned against the wooden rack of his truck. “I guess it’s better than panhandling.”

“
Henry
’s not working for a bottle today. He’s working to pay the Lutherans.”

Sam’s explanation confused the driver, but he didn’t ask any questions. He jumped down from the back of the truck when
Henry
returned and loaded the last three crates himself. Then he pulled a roll of money out of his front pocket and unfolded several dollar bills for
Henry
.

“You won’t report us to the IRS, will you?” he asked
Sam
as he gave the money to
Henry
.

“Not my department.”

“If you’re here tomorrow, I can use you again,” he told
Henry
, and then the driver pushed the hand truck off with ease and wove his way into the main arcade.

The wages pleased
Henry
, as did the prospect of future employment. He put the money into his pocket, feigning nonchalance.

“Maybe you’re going to be too busy to watch the Donut Shop today?”

“I got time. Don’t worry about that. Maybe I can get me a few more trucks and then head over there.”

“No hurry. I’ll come by in the afternoon like yesterday after I get out of this monkey suit.”

“Kind of stands out, don’t it?”

“Kind of.”

“I been thinking,”
Henry
said. “I’m wondering if that
Perry
guy might be dealing dope?”

“I’m wondering that, too,”
Sam
said. He saw no reason to detour
Henry
’s train of thought.

“What do you figure makes those fellas push that stuff?”

“Money,”
Sam
said. “Easier than unloading trucks, I guess. But don’t get any ideas. This is honorable work.”

“Honorable work. That’s good. I like that. No sir, I ain’t pushing no dope. When you come by, I’ll be the fella with the soda pop.”

Henry’s bristled face broke up with a grin, the portrait of an amused citizen walking the straight and narrow.
Sam
grinned as well.

“I’ll come by. Same place, same time as yesterday.”

“I’ll be there,”
Henry
said.

Sam actually believed him. He began to walk away, but before he got very far he heard
Henry
calling after him. He turned to see the little man walking toward him with a piece of paper in his hand.

“This must have fell out of your pocket. It’s got this police stuff on it.”

Sam accepted the paper from
Henry
—the poem he had worked on that morning on the back of a log sheet. He felt his shirt pocket, but of course it was empty.

“Thanks. It must have fallen out when I picked up that crate.”

“I figured you might want it. Got some notes written on the back.”

Sam folded it and put it back into his shirt pocket. This time he was careful to button the pocket securely.

Bill showed up late as he had done every day. This time
Pierre
came forward to the counter and glared as
Bill
walked to the back.

“When I say ten, I don’t want it half an hour late,”
Pierre
said.

Bill looked at the clock but said nothing. It was fifteen minutes after
10:00
.
Maria
wondered why
Pierre
was upset. It had been slow all morning.

“I started but you finish the doughnuts. The girl can help. It’s time she learned.”

There were doughnuts frying in the oil when he walked out, and they would have overcooked if
Maria
had not gone to the back and turned them herself.
Bill
tied his dirty apron around him and then poured himself a cup of coffee. He stood at the front counter and looked out the window at
Pike Street
. He sipped slowly from the plastic cup and did not move from the counter until a customer walked in the door. Then he went to the back sink and leaned against it. Silently and indifferently he watched her lift the doughnuts out of the oil and place them on racks.

Why did she care about the doughnuts, she thought, as she hurried to the front counter? So what if they burned?

The customer was a man in strange clothes. He wore a green polo shirt and heavy wool pants. He had been in the day before, too. Twice she caught his eyes studying the back room where
Bill
had not moved from the sink. He bought two glazed doughnuts and a bottle of 7-Up. He was particular about having a bottle.

“Everything to go,” said the man in the strange clothes. “In a sack if you don’t mind.”

Why would she mind? She had not minded the day before, either.

By the time the customer left,
Bill
had gone to the doughnut fryer. Maybe he had felt the customer’s eyes. Maybe he was simply tired of standing beside the sink.

Maria bent down to the display counter and straightened the doughnuts inside. There were already enough to last most of the morning. Those
Bill
made would be old before anyone would buy them. Let them get old. She had four days left—three and a half. She had not told
Pierre
she was leaving, and she might not tell him. Maybe she would just leave a note, quit on Friday, as she had promised
Sam
Wright
, and forget the money. Maybe she would not even leave a note.

She remembered the boy who had walked out the first day. He had not left any notes behind. She wished she could talk to him. The boy had been angry enough with
Pierre
that he would tell her things that she could tell
Sam
.
Bill
would know things, too, but he’d probably never tell her anything.