Cast in Stone (21 page)

"You
look great," I said with conviction.

"Us
old Aleuts, we just dry out like racked salmon."

"You
hear from Angel?" I asked.

"Moved
up to Sitka to be near the grandkids back around eighty, eighty-one,
someplace in there. Went overboard crabbin' in eighty-five."

"Oh,"
I managed.

"It's
how he woulda wanted it."

I
nodded unwilling agreement.

"You
ain't goin' in to pay your respects?"

"I
was ... I thought maybe . . . I've been ..." I hedged.

"She
done good by him, Leo."

When
I didn't respond, he went on.

"She
got him in off the water, Leo. You stay out there on the water you
end up like me and Angel. You either go down or you end up so stove
up you ain't good for no kind of work. She got him off the water.
Made him into a big man."

"He
was already a big man."

"You
know what I mean."

I
nodded again.

"You
going in?" I asked.

"I'll
see her later "

"Oh?"

"I
work for them. Her now, I guess. You know, in the warehouse . . .
Foreman. Heck ... he was . . . you know how he was."

"I
know."

"I
don't know how he found out about my hands, but he did. Tracked me
all the way to my sister's place down in Ukiah. Wouldn't leave.
Wouldn't take no for an answer. I been there damn near nine years
now. You go in and pay your respects. She's had a lot of sorrow, what
with the boy and all. She'll be glad to see you."

"I'll
go," I promised.

"Gotta
run. Gotta loada fish to get out there. Damn near everybody's down
here today. Fish don' wait. Nobody's mindin' the store. Nice to see
ya again, Leo."

"Nice
to see you too, Rudy."

We
stared at each other for a long moment before he turned and walked
out the door with that crabbed sideways waddle that old fishermen
never lose.

I
headed in to pay my respects. I didn't get far.

Four
strides into the reception room, my elbow was pinned by H. R. McColl.

"Ah,
Mr. Waterman," he said. "I was hoping I'd see you here.
Beautiful service, didn't you think?"

"Beautiful,"
I lied.

He
applied pressure to my elbow in an attempt to turn me back toward the
door. I held my ground. He tightened his grip.

"My
office will be handling Mr. Sundstrom's affairs," he said,
leveling his gray eyes at me. "If you'll submit time and
expenses to date, I'll instruct payable to cut you a check
immediately." He leaned in closer. "And, of course, a
handsome bonus for your stalwart efforts."

He
tried to turn me again. I looked down at his hand on my sleeve.

"Please
take your hand off my arm," I said.

McColl
checked the room around us without removing his hand.

"Let's
not have a scene, shall we, Mr. Waterman?"

"The
only scene we're going to have, McColl, is the scene where I beat the
shit out of you right in front of all these people if you don't take
your hand off me."

H.
R. McColl released my elbow and stepped back one pace.

"Raymond,"
he said quietly.

Raymond
stepped forward. Nice dark blue three-piece suit. Shaved head,
glistening like a giant black egg. Probably forty-five by now.
Six-two, probably two-forty in what passed for his prime, no more
than a couple of biscuits from three hundred now.

"Show
this gentleman to his car, Raymond. Firmly but quietly, please."
"Hi, Ray," I said. "Leo," he replied.

For
once, Mr. McColl was taken aback.

"You
two are acquainted?" He directed the question at Ray.

"We're
acquainted," Ray confirmed.

Ray
Townsend had had a short, flamboyant career back in seventy-seven as
a third-string offensive guard on the original, expansion Seahawks.
An eleventh-round choice out of North Texas State, he'd demonstrated
so little athletic acumen and so much heart that he'd become the guy
the fans chanted to see when the score had gotten out of hand. An
entire generation of Seattle football fans had forever etched in
their brains the image of Ray Townsend the wedge-breaker, obscene in
tight football pants, limbering downfield after a kick-off. Images of
the fearsome plastic shattering licks he'd absorbed, but most of all
of the strange, good-natured determination that dragged him
immediately back to his feet and propelled him inevitably forward,
toward the next crushing blow. Coach Jack Patera had been every bit
as unmoved by Ray's ability to absorb punishment as he had been by
the incessant chanting. Ray hadn't quite lasted that first year.

Unable
to generate any interest whatsoever in his services as a football
player, Ray used his local notoriety to start his own private
security firm. Initially, the business had taken off. Townsend
Security's yellow windbreakers had been everywhere. Once in a
while I'd see Ray himself on the tube, opening the car door for some
visiting rock star or waiting in the wings for some long-winded
politician. A couple of years later, when the whole local
economy sank in the last big Boeing bust, Townsend Security went down
with it. To his credit, Ray had done whatever it took to support a
wife and four kids. When I'd first met him, he was working as a
collector for a small-time Portuguese loan shark named Gregorio Enos.

"We
went to thug school together," I said. "Thug U."

"Remove
him," McColl sighed.

Ray
shot me an exploratory gaze. I cut him no slack. He turned to McColl.

"Won't
be quiet if he don't wanna go, Mr. McColl."

"And
I definitely don't wanna go," I added quickly.

"Remove
him now, Raymond," McColl fumed.

"Excuse
me, Mr. McColl, but you pay me to prevent the kinda ugly scene we're
gonna have here if me and Leo get to rollin' and scufflin' about the
floor. Leo here ain't some wino or college boy, sir. He's good. Not
near as good as he thinks"—he pinned me with his most serious
stare—"but he sure as hell isn't gonna go quiet."

"If
you're not up to the task, Raymond, I know of a number of people who
are."

"That's
entirely up to you, sir. I may get him out. I may not. Either way,
they ain't gonna be a whole piece of furniture in this place by the
time we get done. I'm not sure that's what you got in mind, Mr.
McColl. But"—spreading his feet for balance, he rolled his
thick shoulders—"you say the word and we'll get down to it."

Ray
now treated me to his most baleful and terrifying scowl.

McColl
turned and checked the crowd while he thought it over.

"Perhaps
you're right, Raymond," he said finally. "You and I shall
have to discuss this at length at some later time." It was
McColl's chance to glare.

Ray
reluctantly returned his gaze. McColl dismissed him with a wave.

"Go
see to Mrs. Van Curen, Raymond; it appears she could use some
assistance in getting to her car."

With
a nearly imperceptible bob of the head, Ray Townsend waded off
through the crowd. McColl regrouped. Without turning back my way, he
said, "Surely, Mr. Waterman, you can't expect to continue
this little charade of an investigation, now that Mr. Sundstrom is
gone. I assure you that as Mrs. Sundstrom's close confidant I shall
advise most strongly that we terminate this little sham of yours
immediately. It's all rather moot now, don't you suppose?"

"Not
to me it's not. Nothing's ever been less moot."

Ray
Townsend came by leading an aged hawk-faced woman nearly buried
beneath a mound of dead mink, smiling earnestly as he steered her out
onto the street.

"You'll
have to excuse me while I pay my respects," I said.

Marge
saw me coming. She disengaged from a small

group
of well-wishers that included her parents and pulled me over to an
unoccupied area beyond the refreshments. She looked tired and drawn,
her eyes slightly unfocused as if sedated.

"Leo.
I was afraid you hadn't gotten the message. I'm so glad you could
come. Heck would have wanted you here."

"I'm
sorry," was all I could think to say.

"He—"
she started.

"Please,"
I said.

We
embraced as if among the assembled throng only the two of us fully
understood the magnitude of the collective loss.

"I'm
going to Wisconsin later this afternoon," I said into her
shoulder.

Her
hug tightened. Finally, she released me, looking
uncomprehendingly into my eyes as if I had suddenly been speaking in
tongues.

"That
all seems so ... I don't. . . now."

"I
understand," I said. "I'll call you when I get back."

"Oh,
Leo—" Her eyes filled. "I don't know if I want to."

I
took both of her gloved hands in mine. "I want to," I cut
her off.

Her
eyes gave no indication that she'd heard me. Her mother was suddenly
at her side, whispering in her ear. When Marge turned her dull eyes
that way, I slipped off through the crowd.

Ray
Townsend was puffing on a butt in the parking lot around the corner
from the front door.

"Hope
I didn't spoil your gig, Ray."

"Lotsa
other gigs, Leo. Don' sweat. Son of a bitch is a pain in the ass
anyway. I let him, he have me standin' out on his lawn holdin' a
lantern when I ain't drivin'."

He
flicked the butt to the pavement and retrieved his handkerchief from
the hood of the gleaming

black
Acura Legend he'd been leaning against. He put a massive hand on my
shoulder, leaning in close. His breath held the asphalt-licorice odor
of Sen Sen.

"You
remember that time you and me duked it out down by where the Kingdome
is now? By the old Burlington tracks there, when I was workin' for
that fuck Enos?"

"It's
not something I could forget, Ray; I still have to shave around some
of those places."

"I'da
kicked your ass, you hadn't kept hittin' me with that pipe."

"It
was a bolt," I corrected. "A real big bolt."

"Heh,
heh, heh," Ray said, unconsciously rubbing his cheek. "Can't
recall, though, for the life of me, Leo, just what in hell it was we
was fightin' over."

"I
don't think it was over anything much at all, Ray. I was young, just
starting out, mostly serving process. As I recall, old Enos was still
holding some grudge against my old man. About the time he figured out
who this punk was that had just slapped a subpoena into his palm, he
suddenly decided that the sins of the fathers ought to be visited
upon the children, so he sicced your big ass on me."

"That
surely was a wang dang doodle."

"I
mostly remember them yarding us both up to Providence afterward, us
laying side by side in emergency, and how I wasn't up and around
for a couple of weeks."

He
chuckled again. "I 'member, Leo, how when I got home and looked
in the mirror, my head was all swole up. They had my face all
stitched up with this maroon thread. I looked like a big black
baseball."

"Those
were good days, Ray."

"They
surely were, Leo. They surely were."

Ray
and I were beginning to sound like Sam and Ralph, the sheepdog and
the coyote in those old Warner Brothers cartoons. Just a couple of
good old

boys
punching in for another day of madcap mayhem. It was definitely time
to go. "Later, Ray."

I
shook his hand again, ducked between cars, and started across Ninth
Avenue. "Later, Leo," he growled to my back.

Carl
had first objected on botanical grounds. "It's too fuckin'
green."