Cast in Stone (10 page)

Out
of the corner of my eye I could see that Norman had extracted from
one of the lower boxes a fossilized triangle, upon which he was now
munching contentedly. I looked away.

"But
by then we were attracting a pretty big crowd," Harold said.

"We
had forty-three for dinner last Friday," Ralph bragged.

"The
neighbors went ballistic," said George with obvious pride.

"Old
lady Tollifer up the street caught Big Harvey taking a dump in her
rhodies and called the cops."

"The
jalapenos are murder," said Ralph with a wink.

"So
you gave it up?" I asked.

"Hell
no," said George. "The coupons are good till the end of the
month. We started having them delivered directly to the parks."

"Closer
to home for the folks anyway," said Harold.

"I'll
bet Domino's liked that."

"They
lost corporate sphincter control," said George. "Claimed
they didn't have to deliver except to an address."

"Mr.
James fixed that too," said Harold.

"Get
this Leo, you'll love it," said George, pulling me closer. "This
guy James is a genius. He goes down to regional headquarters the next
day with

a
camera crew from one of the local channels. Seems he's been to the
movies lately with his grandkids and seen Domino's pizza delivered to
a sewer grate in one of those movies about the mutated turtles."

"Teenage
Mutant Ninja Turtles?"

"Right.
Anyway. Right there in front of God and the cameras he asks the
regional director how come if he's willing to deliver pizzas to
anonymous amphibians in aqueducts, he's not willing to honor his
contracts with some of the city's less fortunate citizens. Says
if they'll deliver it to a grate, they damn well better deliver it to
a park. The skunk about drops his teeth."

"So?"

"Coupons
are good till the end of the month," said Harold, waving a sheaf
of coupons as thick as his wrist.

"Jesus,"
I said. "How many of those things have you got?"

"We
been getting about twenty a night just here in the neighborhood. If
you count all the other people we got looking in other neighborhoods,
we been averaging about sixty a night."

"Is
this what Ralph and the Speaker were doing at my apartment last week?
They wanted to tell me about the pizzas," I guessed.

"We
don't go near your—" George started.

The
hangdog look on Ralph's face stopped him cold. He began to scream.

"What
the fuck is the matter with you?" He waved himself off. "Never
mind, I know the answer to that. How many times have I told you—"

Having
made my point, I bailed Ralph out.

"You
guys want to make a little cash looking for something other than
pizza coupons?" I asked.

"You
got work for us?" asked George enthusiastically.

"Wadda
you need us to find?"

"A
girl," I said. "Maybe not actually find her, but at least
find out where she's been living. Maybe find a neighbor or a
roommate."

"We'll
find her, Leo," said Ralph. "Where is she?"

"If
he knew where she was, you dumbass, he wouldn't need us to find her,"
shot George.

"I
know where to start," I said.

"That's
what I meant," said Ralph.

They
waited like waifs at a toy-store window.

"Down
by the market. She had somebody let her out across the street from
the market. Somewhere you can walk to from the market."

"Lot
of places to stay down by the market," said Harold with
considerably less enthusiasm.

"Terrible
neighborhood," muttered George. "Even the cockroaches are
perverts. The place even makes me nervous."

Out
on the porch Norman was using his thumbnail, attempting to pry an
outsize piece of congealed cheese from the inside of one of the lids.

"Cockroaches
used to be four inches long," he said between bites.

"We'll
find her," said the ever-affable Ralph.

"I've
got a hundred and fifty a day to donate to getting a line on her. You
divide it up however you want."

I
fished in my wallet and came out with seventy-

three
bucks. I threw it on the table.

"We'll
find her," they all agreed.

"Got
a picture?" George asked.

"Nope,
just a description."

"Let
me get my notebook and the map," he said.

While
the boys sat at the kitchen table and mapped out a plan of attack, I
used the yellow dial phone on the wall to call Rebecca. Rebecca
Duvall, in addition to being my lifelong friend and sometime social
companion, was also the chief forensic pathologist for

King
County. I tried the office first and was not disappointed. Rebecca
lived at home with her aged mother. Having known her mother for all
my life, I could understand why Duvall worked late whenever possible.

"Pathology."

"Rebecca."

"Leo,"
she said. "I can't talk right now. I've got my hands full of
something." "Something?" "Someone," she
admitted.

"How's
about dinner? I need to pick your brain."

"You
really should try not to use that unfortunate phrase with
pathologists."

"I'll
keep that in mind. How about it?"

"I've
got about another hour here," she sighed.

"I'll
pick you up at eight."

"Sounds
good. Where?"

"No
idea. You choose," I said. "Pasta?"

"No
pasta. I've been doing brain sections all day." She thought
about it for a moment. "Let's try the Blob. We threaten to stop
every time we drive by. Let's finally do it. Hillary said it was
surprisingly pleasant inside."

"This
is the same Hillary who epoxied six kinds of macaroni to her
apartment walls and then painted over it. Random texture, I believe
she called it."

"Don't
start, Leo. She says the interior decor is nice."

"Okay,
okay. Sure, what the hell. Eight."

"Eight-thirty.
And Leo—if you can manage to be less than totally obnoxious, you
may get to pick more than my brain. Mom's out of town for the next
couple of weeks."

"Should
I consider this to be an offer?" I asked. "You should, at
best, consider that to be a possibility, and wear your new
clothes." "What for, I—"

"Remote
possibility," she amended before she hung up.

As
was the case with nearly any event, including such things as sunrise,
the upcoming search for Norma had proved sufficient occasion for
a drink. The Boys passed a bottle of peach schnapps around as they
formulated battle plans. If they noticed my departure, they didn't
let on.

I'm
Sure at one time it must have had a name, some proper noun to lend
substance to the otherwise-ethereal concept floating about the mind
of its creator. The Casbah, maybe. Or Shangri-la. Something
Eastern and whimsical. Everybody I knew always just referred to it as
the Blob.

Just
as every family must have its black sheep, every city must have its
architectural monstrosity. This was Seattle's. Somewhere out there,
laboring long into the night at some menial task, was the defrocked
city employee who'd allowed this to happen. Permits had been
granted; inspections had been passed; and, in the end, heads had most
surely rolled.

Attached
like a tick to the base of Queen Anne Hill, it looked like a resort
swimming pool turned upside down. The white two-story structure
meandered aimlessly over nearly half a block. Shapeless,
formless, a series of stark stucco humps, bumps, and mounds,
punctuated here and there by small porthole-like windows, it was
seemingly the product of chance rather than design. Frank Lloyd Wrong
on acid.

The
attached lot was half full when Rebecca and I pulled in a little
after eight-thirty. For a town where, on a Friday night, you needed a
reservation at a Denny's if you wanted to avoid a half-hour wait,
this was by no means an encouraging sign.

"Funny,
but I don't see Hillary's car anywhere," I said as I opened the
car door and helped Rebecca out.

Rebecca
tried to change the subject.

"You
look great. Is this the first time you've worn it?"

The
it to which she so casually referred was my new Sunday-go-to-meeting
suit. Back in August, after months of complaining about my
unimaginative taste in clothes, Rebecca had dragged me to the
downtown Nordstrom for a complete refitting. The result had been a
navy double-breasted Joseph Abboud blazer, a pair of taupe Corbin
trousers with a highly mysterious reverse pleat, a John W. Nordstrom
Signature Series dress shirt with a Manhattan collar and French
cuffs, into which I could fit my new fourteen-carat gold Haan
cufflinks, a burgundy-ground woven Facconable tie, and a pair of
Salvatore Ferragamo loafers into which I could slip my
cashmere-socked feet. It was a hell of a deal. For little more than
three months rent and utilities, I was now the proud owner of a
completely coordinated ensemble that, until tonight, I had been
far too intimidated to wear.

"Too
bad Hillary's not here to see it."

"Hillary's
away this weekend at a Vedic astrology seminar."

"Of
course." I tapped my forehead. "How could I have
forgotten?"

"Hillary's
very artistic."

"Do
you by chance remember the last restaurant she recommended?"

"You
mean that—"

"Right.
Up in Wallingford."

"It
was called 'Healthy Pleasures,' as I remember."

"What
I remember most was how my jaws eventually went into vapor lock
from the chewing."

"Roughage
is good for you."

"If
you ate at that place twice a week, you could pass wicker furniture."

"Stop
it, Leo. If you don't want to eat here—"

I
stopped. With Mom out of town, I wasn't about to be drawn further
into another round of the great Hillary debate. Hillary was Rebecca's
childhood friend, who since her most recent divorce had rocketed
into the New Age. Each new week brought a fresh incarnation of
Hillary. Hakomi therapy, rebirthing, Rolling, Voice Dialogue,
Wildwoman workshops, hypnotherapy. You name it, Hillary was spending
Bill's money on it. I'd always figured that a woman who was working
so hard at finding herself could at least have the common decency to
first get lost.

Using
Rebecca's elbow for leverage, I mumbled an apology and steered her
toward the nearest ground-level swirl, which I presumed to be the
entrance. I pulled open the ornately steel-strapped door and followed
Rebecca in.

The
interior was a pleasant surprise. Red terracotta tiles led off in all
directions. Here and there the walls had been professionally painted
with grape arbors, palm trees, and desert scenes. A series of
cleverly placed dividers had been used to divide the hodgepodge
interior into a series of connected but intimate dining areas.

The
reservations kiosk was personed by a swarthy guy with a Zapata
mustache. His black hair gleamed. He looked like the short dark half
of Hall and Oates. I'd never gotten them straight. He was wearing a
stiff formal shirt with a pattern woven in, no collar.

"Two?"
he asked.

I
looked around. We were alone in the lobby. "Two," I
confirmed. "You hab reservations?" "Yes, but we're
going to eat here anyway." Smiling broadly, Duvall hip-checked
me. "Smoking or nonsmoking?" Guys I knew had enlisted with
fewer questions than this.

"Nonsmoking,
please."

He
came out from behind his pulpit.

"Right
this way," he said with an elaborate flourish.