Cast in Stone (38 page)

Last
year, I'd bailed Tim's granddaughter, Caroline Nobel, out of a mess.
I was hoping he still felt grateful.

Frankie
Ortega had worked for Tim Flood for as long as I could remember. Tim
liked to call Frankie his arranger. If you got behind in your
payments to Tim, Frankie arranged for your furniture to disappear. If
you still didn't get your vig paid on time, Frankie arranged some
sort of colorful maiming. A broken arm, something like that. Nothing
too serious. Nothing fatal. The dead can't pay.

He
was back. "So what do you need?"

I
told him.

"That
shithole belongs to Pinky Taylor. He's got this nephew of his, Marty
something, running it. Marty's an asshole of the first order. You're
right. They ain't gonna tell you shit. Most likely they'd hit you up
for some change, feed you a bunch of crap, then try to sell your ass
to whoever it is you're looking for some more. That's how they
operate."

"That's
what I figured. You think you can convince him?"

"I
said he was dumb fuck, Leo. I didn't say nothing about him being
suicidal."

Point
made, he changed the subject.

"You
know, the kid's doing good. She enrolled at the Evergreen State
College this year."

"Great."

"Still
got that ecology bug up her chimney, though. Tim's got us recycling,
for chrissakes."

"Responsible
citizenship," I said.

This
got what passed for a laugh from Frankie Ortega.

"Yeah,
that's right. Okay, Leo. Tim figures we owe you one. You be there at
seven-thirty. You're gonna want to get right in there after we leave,
while Marty's still got the fear of God in him. He's a dumb fuck. You
give him some time to sit around and think about it, he's gonna get
stupid again."

"I'll
be there."

At
seven-thirty sharp, Frankie and the twins came marching up Pike
Street, under the red, blinking LOANS sign, parting the regular
citizens like a plow through a spring field. Whoever had invented the
business suit had never intended it to cover anything as large as the
twins. If you'd never seem them in action, their blocky bulk,
combined with their remarkably splayfooted stride, could have
been comic. If you'd seen them work, suppressing a smile was easy.

All
hundred and sixty pounds of Frankie Ortega was resplendent in a light
yellow suit, white tie, brown-and-white two-tone shoes. He left one
of the twins outside while he and the other went in. As he stepped
through the entrance, Frankie flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED.

The
place was called the Pleasure Palace. It had occupied this corner of
Second and Pike since sometime back in the sixties, a leftover
from the sexual revolution. Upstairs they offered peep shows and
movie booths. Downstairs it was books, magazines, and equipment. Two
mannequins in full rubber gear cavorted in the front window. They
were having a handcuff sale. This week only.

George,
Ralph, Harold, and I were waiting across the street in front of the
Drug Emporium.

"So,
what are you guys gonna do when the city takes the house?" I
asked casually.

"Big
Frank says they got some rooms on his floor down at the Franklin
Hotel," offered Harold. "We was thinkin' of movin' in
there."

"That
way, we could stay together," Ralph said.

"Who
else would put up with you two?" George asked.

The
door of the Pleasure Palace burst open. A customer, horn-rimmed
glasses, was suddenly propelled sideways out the door. He stood
blinking on the sidewalk. A green sport coat sailed out the door onto
the sidewalk. He picked it up. For a moment, the guy thought about
rushing back inside. Then he looked to his right. The sight of the
outdoor twin glowering at him was all the motivation he needed to get
moving up the street.

The
other four customers came out in a knot. All middle-aged white men,
they came stumbling out into the street looking dazed. I was watching
a little bald guy trying to dislodge his shirttail from his zipper
when Harold piped up. "Hey, Leo," he said. "Ain't you
related to the guy in the blue suit?"

I
shifted my attention to the guy in question. Cousin Paul stood on
Second Avenue adjusting his tie. I started across the street. As I
approached from the rear, he turned to leave and ran smack into me.

"Howdy
cuz," I said. "The businessman's lunch? What's your
office—three, maybe four blocks from here? You do this often?"

He
was dumbfounded. "Oh . .. Leo . . . I—you— I—it's not what
it seems. I—"

I
patted his shoulder. "It never is, cuz. It never is."

George's
voice came from behind me. "Should we check him, Leo? See if his
shorts are on backward?" The crew yukked it up.

Horrified,
Paul took me by the shoulder and pulled me aside.

"Now,
Leo, you wouldn't, you know how Nancy is—"

"My
lips are sealed," I promised with a big grin.

"Come
on now, Leo. This isn't funny."

"I'll
cut you a deal, Paul. You forget about lunch on Wednesday and all
that trust fund shit, and I'll forget about this. How's that?"

His
relief was palpable. "You mean it?"

Before
I could answer, Frankie and the indoor twin were coming out the door
of the Pleasure Palace.

"Duty
calls," I said to Paul.

Frankie
twitched his perfect little moustache at me

and
followed the twins back up Pike. I grabbed the sticky door handle and
went inside.

Tony
Moldonado would have loved the place. The right-hand wall was
dedicated to books and magazines. As nearly as I could tell, no
fetish was left unaccounted for. Standup racks ran down the center of
the store. Videos of all types adorned the racks. Dickman and
Throbbin'. When the West Was Wet. Rumped and Dumped. California
Reamin'. Romancing the Bone. Call Me Fido. Jesus.

An
orange beaded curtain at the back of the store partially obscured the
way upstairs. A long, high counter ran along the left side of the
store. Behind the counter, under the wide, watchful eyes of Juanita
the Inflatable Senorita, was the equipment collection. Full
executioner garb, restraints, gags, hoods, ropes, sprockets, gears,
pulleys, studded bustiers, a museum-quality assortment of faux
appendages in a variety of textures, styles, shapes, and colors, many
of truly epic proportions, some conveniently built for two, others,
as the yellowed sign suggested, "for those hard-to-reach areas."
Had I but known what I was missing.

Marty
sat behind the counter, his head cradled in his hands. His forehead
was beginning to puff and turn purple. The back of his greasy hair
stood straight out as if someone had grabbed him by the back of the
head and slammed his forehead onto the counter several times. I
pushed both pictures under his pitted face.

"You
know them?" I asked.

"What
the fuck's the matter with you?" he whined. "You didn't
have to send those animals in here. All you had to do was ask."

"Yeah.
I'm sure you would have been anxious to help."

"Hey,
man, I told the other guy. Ain't my fault the dumb fuck walks out and
gets his big dumb ass run over."

I
hustled down the counter, the lock on the gate was already shattered.
I burst through it, ran up the three steps, and started toward Marty,
who had evacuated his seat and was cowering against a wall covered
with studded dog collars. "Hey. Hey." He held his hands in
front of him. "Hey. Hey, man."

"That
dumb fuck was a friend of mine," I said quietly.

"Sorry.
Okay? Sorry."

"How
much did you beat him for?"

"Hey
man, I didn't—"

I
stepped on his right foot, which instinctively brought his bands
down, then punched him in the forehead. He slid down the wall,
dragging several leashes and collars down into his lap. The impact
shook Jaunita loose from her moorings. She fluttered down from the
ceiling, her rubicund apertures coming to rest astride Marty's
shoulders.

"How
much?" I repeated.

"Five
hundred bucks," he whispered up from the floor. "The
pictures."

"Yeah.
Yeah. I seen 'em both. Him just .once. Her a bunch of times. They was
mostly mail order, though." I stepped back to give him room.
"The address."

Keeping
his eyes on me at all times, he clawed himself to his feet and pulled
a small black metal box out from under the counter. He picked through
the cards, finally pulling one half-way out. I reached over and
pulled it free. "Thanks," I said. Flat on her back now,
Juanita seemed to be whistling.

I
read the address. I should have known.

The
interior Of the house was dark, illuminated only by the glowing light
switches that flickered from within the darkness like the narrow eyes
of forest creatures. I pushed the doorbell. Nothing. I tried again,
this time longer. A momentary change in the scant light suggested
movement in the back of the house. I knocked.

After
a moment, I could feel her presence behind the door. "Mrs.
Swogger, it's Leo Waterman," I said. Nothing. "From
Seattle. I spoke to you and your husband a while back."

"I
remember."

"I
know it's kind of late, but I'd like to have a word with you."

"My
husband isn't home."

"That's
okay. It's you I wanted to talk to."

I
thought I heard her breathe. "Please," she said. "You'll
have to come back when my husband is at home."

"If
I could just have a few words with you—"

"Please,"
was all she said.

"He's
never home when she's around, is he?"

Her
next breath I heard for sure. "I don't. .. please don't."

"Help
me stop her," I said.

I
had my left hand on the front of the house, so I could feel her lean
heavily against the wall. "You

don't
have to live with this," I said. "Nobody should have to put
up with this."

Any
response was obliterated by the deep booming of bass notes as a black
Mazda pickup truck, windows tinted solid black, its frame nearly
dragging the ground, rounded the corner immediately to the north and
cruised slowly down the street, away from where I stood. I shifted my
weight from foot to foot as I watched the purple taillights recede.
The lights disappeared around the corner. I listened as the
booming bass notes spread their sonic ripples in ever more distant
circles, finally giving way to the rushing sound of the wind high in
the fir trees.

I
was about to speak again when a rattling chain from inside stopped
me. The door opened a foot. Her eyes were wide. Her long hair was
unbraided, hanging loose about her like a prayer shawl. She clutched
a white terrycloth bathrobe hard at the neck.

"Please
go," she said through the crack.

"I
can't."

"He's
my husband." "Not when she's around." She nodded at
the floor. "Where are they?" I asked.

She
shook her head slowly. "You mustn't judge him by this, Mr.
Waterman. He has needs . . . he . . . he's done so much good."

"I'm
sure he has."

"He
just can't break free. She .. . she won't—" "She never
lets anything go. With her, nobody gets out alive."

Katherine
Swogger's eyes were full now. She released the door and stepped
back into the room. I followed her in, closing the door behind me. I
reached over and switched on the floor lamp to the right of the door.
Her face was all lines and shadows and sorrow. These weren't her
first tears of the evening. She turned her back on me. We stood that
way for a long time.

The
furnace kicked on, sending warm air up my right pant leg. I moved oif
the heat register, across the room, intending to put a comforting
hand on her shoulder.

"Don't,"
she said, before I got there.

"How
long?" I said. "How long are you going to let this thing
tear your life apart? It's time for it to stop. Help me, and I'll
stop it."