Slow Burn (11 page)

For
organisational purposes, I'd. mentally reduced the afternoon's festivities to
simply The Three H's: hygiene, hair and haberdashery. A trilogy of tasks which,
I felt quite certain, would be best accomplished in precisely that order.

I got lucky. Seattle is a white-collar town with lots of folks having latitude as to their hours. During
the week, the freeways begin to clog at two-thirty. Fridays it's an hour or so
earlier. Holiday weekends, it starts on Thursday afternoons. I found a diagonal
parking spot on James Street and backed in.

Downtown Seattle parking meters are calibrated to parcel out their time in nanoseconds. Eight
nanoseconds per twenty-five-cent piece. I thumbed quarters into the meter until
I risked carpel tunnel syndrome and was rewarded with a maximum thirty minutes
of grudging forbearance. My relationship with the Parking Enforcement Patrol
was such that last spring I had purchased a T-shirt emblazoned with the words:
"Meter Maids Eat Their Young," which I proudly wore whenever both
circumstances and the weather permitted.

I
leaned
forward and allowed gravity to pull me down the steep face of James
Street. Halfway to the corner, I jay-jogged across both James Street
and a suddenly
empty Fifth Avenue and headed uptown toward the Y. At Cherry, I pointed
myself
downhill again, and there she was . . . the good Dr. Duvall, right in
front of
me, striding purposefully along in a shiny new pair of Air Jordans and
a
green-and-white Adidas running suit that made whisking noises as she
walked.

I skipped down
the hill, into the entrance to the cop's garage, until I was just off her
inside shoulder.

"You
believe in the hereafter, honey," I growled.

Rebecca
answered without turning. "I certainly do."

"Then you
know what I'm here after."

"Where
does that come from? That's so corny."

She reached back,
slipped an arm around my waist and yarded me up next to her. I stuck my nose
behind her ear. She smelled like- the great outdoors, according to Coco Chanel.

"Laugh-in,"
I said. "Remember? Arte Johnson used to putter along behind Ruth Buzzi,
muttering all this suggestive stuff."

"And she'd
beat the heck out of him with her purse."

"Couldn't
have that now, though, could we? Not here in the latter stages of the sensitive
nineties."

"Oh, no,
sexual harassment and all that," she said. "Why is everything sexual
harassment these days?" I asked. "What happened to regular old run-of-the-mill
harassment? Like when I just bust your balls because I think you're a jerk.
Everything's got to be sexual these days. I don't understand it."

She said,
"You're a truly unique thinker, Leo," and kissed me on the cheek.
"It's your best feature."

"My best?
You must be joking."

"Sorry,
big fella. The other one's like a baseball pitcher." She nudged me in the
ribs. "You're only as good as your next outing."

"I thought
it was your last outing."

"Not in a
buyer's market," she said.

Arm in arm, we
gravitated down Cherry, skidding to a stop on the corner of Fourth Avenue. The
crew was visible now. A blot on the urban landscape, milling around on the
corner a block north. While a couple of bums in one place were hardly worthy of
mention, a full dozen degenerates shuffling around the same corner had, not
surprisingly, attracted official attention. A blue-and-white SPD cruiser was
pulled to the curb on the east side of Third Avenue, its pair of officers out
and milling about, enjoying the late sunshine and trading pleasantries with the
crew.

"Uh-oh,"
Duvall said.

"Not to
worry," I assured her. "They can handle it. They get a lot of
practice."

By the time
we'd covered half the distance, Norman had stepped up on the low brick wall
surrounding the Rainier Club and was waving his arms wildly about.

"What in
pity's name is Norman doing?" Rebecca asked, picking up the pace and
dragging me along.

"Preaching,
I suspect. That’s what they do when they're told to disperse. They claim
they're having a church service."

I could hear
the voices now. Norman, usually quite soft-spoken, was orating at top volume.

"Also in
the day of your gladness, and in your solemn days, and in the beginnings of
your months, ye shall blow with your trumpets over your burnt offerings . .
."

The older cop
was leaning back against the fender of the cruiser, enjoying the show as the
rookie tried to assume command.

"I'm not
tellin' you again, Red. You get your big butt down from there or you're goin'
to jail," the young cop hollered.

He was
peach-fuzz-fresh out of cop school, his hair still cut military-short. He
didn't have to shave more than a couple of times a week and his training hadn't
prepared him for anything quite like Nearly Normal Norman. At six-seven and
about two-sixty, Norman cut an imposing figure. The rookie kept looking over
his shoulder at his partner, who was using a pen knife to clean his
fingernails.

Norman
saw me coining and stopped spouting.

"Brother
Waterman," he bellowed. "Will you witness and testify for the
children of the Lord?"

I raised my
right hand. "I will," I swore.

The cop turned
on me like a rabid Chihuahua.

"You want
to go with him?" he demanded. "You looking to spend a little time in
the lockup?"

"I've got
a better idea, Officer," I said. "How's about if they all go with me
instead?"

"Where
would you be taking this . . . this . . . group?"

Red Lopez's
voice rose above the crowd. "Your momma's."

"Who said
that?" The cop strained to see over the crowd. "It was Joe,"
said Ralph solemnly. "Joe who?"

"Joe
Mama," they yelled in unison.

While they
yukked it up, the kid stiff-legged it over to his partner and began whispering
heatedly in the older man's ear. The veteran cop just smiled and shook his
head. Not in my patrol car. No way.

Normal
hopped down from the wall. "How
was I doin'?" he asked.

"You
oughta have you a TV program, Normal," Mary said.

"I didn't
know you could quote Scripture, " I said.

"I been
prayed over a lot," was his reply.

I counted
noses. George, Harold, Ralph, Normal, Mary, Earlene, Flounder, Red Lopez, Billy
Bob Fung, Hot Shot Scott, Big Frank and Heavy Duty Judy. The gang was all here.

"Let’s
go," I said, taking Rebecca's arm and starting up the street. Rebecca
giggled at my side.

"I can't
believe we're doing this," she said "Look at it like they're your
scout troop, or something."

Wide-eyed, she
peered back over her shoulder at the crew, silently mouthed the words
"scout troop" and nearly collapsed with laughter. I dragged her up
the street.

Normal
strode out ahead, using the parking
meters like conveniently placed walking sticks. The rest of the crew followed
along piecemeal. Scott, Billy Bob and Red lagged behind, passing a bag-shrouded
pint bottle among them. I pretended not to notice.

I stopped on
the next corner and waited for stragglers. When the multitude had reassembled,
I gave them the program.

"Everybody
here is going to get paid a hundred bucks a day plus expenses," I said.
Always start with the good news. That's my motto.

As expected,
this statement was met with wild acclaim.

"Everybody
gets a whole new set of clothes."

More cheering
and calls for a drink.

"You've
all done this before, so everybody knows the drill." I had them eating out
of my hand. Now for the bad news.

"But,"
I continued, "this job is a little different than anything we've done
before, because of the neighborhood we're going to be working in. It's a bit
outside our usual stomping grounds."

"Where's
that?" Frank asked.

"Up at the
top of University. The Olympic Star."

"Oh,
hoity-toity," Earlene said, dancing about.

The cruiser
rolled slowly by. The older cop was behind the wheel, leaving the young guy
free to glare out over his arm at us.

"I'll
remember every one of you," he promised out the window.

"that’s
what she said," yelled Red.

I waited while
the group shared another moment of madcap mirth.

"First
thing, we're all going to go across the street'—I pointed—"to the Y and
everybody is going to take a shower. On me," I added. "Then . .
."

That was as far
as I got before being shouted down. There were several barnyard epithets, a
couple of anatomically unfeasible sexual suggestions and at least one serious
aspersion of my parentage. I let them vent. I'd expected as much. What I hadn't
expected was what Harold said next.

"You said
'we' and 'everybody,' " he said. "That mean you and Miss Duvall are
gonna shower, too?"

A mutinous
rumble rose from the crowd. Rebecca squeezed my arm hard enough to break the
skin. Her eyes were the size of hubcaps.

"Sure,"
I said.

Forty-five
minutes later, I was back on the sidewalk, feeling the chill of the evening
breeze as it ran through my wet hair, and knowing beyond question that the
image of Ralph would surely go to the grave with me. The girls showed up about
five minutes later.

"Okay,"
I said. "All in our places with bright, shiny faces."

"Stuff it,
Leo," said George. "What next?"

"Haircuts,"
I said, and started up Third Avenue. As the crew shambled along dispiritedly
behind us, Rebecca spoke into my ear.

"If, and I
stress the if, I ever talk to you again . . . we shall never, ever speak of
this," she said.

"These
people know we're coming?" I asked.

"They know
someone is coming."

"Kind of
you to spare them the details."

"If I'd
told him whose hair it was they were going to cut, he never would have agreed
to it. This is not a sheep ranch, Leo; it's a salon."

Turned out she
was right. The crew waited outside Mai-son de Paul while Duvall and I went in.
Mr. Paul himself was waiting.

He confronted
Rebecca. "Surely, Mees Duvall, you cannot expect my staff to—"

She cut him
short. "They're all clean," she said. "But, madame . . ."
he insisted in his phony accent I pulled out a wad of hundreds as thick as his
wrist. "Fifty a head," he said with a sudden Bronx lilt. "Plus
tip."

Rebecca
supervised the styling. I took the first shift next door to The Owl Tavern for
beers while we waited for the rest.

It
was nearly
seven before we were completely reassembled. The last line of sunshine
burned
candy-apple red out over the Olympics as we marched uptown to Westlake
Center. Without the sun, the air was more like fall and the electric
breeze from the
passing busses the sole source of warmth. I stopped outside the
espresso stand.

"Okay.
George, Frank and Judy, you guys go with Rebecca. The rest of you come with
me."

"Where
they goin'?" asked Ralph.

"We're
going to gussy them up so they can work inside the hotel. They need some
different stuff."

By this time
they were pretty much grumbled out and resignedly went along with the program.
An hour later, it was all over, and they were splendid. They now carried their
old clothes in a motley collection of paper sacks, which Jittered the bricks.

I'd equipped
them from the ground up. New shoes, socks and underwear. Shirts and slacks. New
winter jackets, maybe a bit much for the current weather, but something that
would serve them well in the coming months.

They were still
prancing around, high-fiving and modeling their new outfits, when Rebecca
showed up with the others. The crowd went wild.

Big Frank wore
a gray pinstriped suit with a blue tie. His tasseled loafers squeaked as he
walked across the pedestrian mall. Heavy Duty Judy was resplendent in a
flowered silk pantsuit, bright yellow shoes and a matching bag. The
transformation was remarkable. Together, they looked for all the world to be a
wealthy out-of-town couple in town to see the sights. And George was even
better.

In a dark blue
double-breasted wool suit and red power tie, George looked so good he could
have been the mayor. "Oh, Georgie," Earlene trilled, "what a
babe you are."

"This
monkey suit hurts my neck," he complained.

"You were
a banker. You always wore a tie. I remember."

"I had
less necks then," he said.

"Okay,"
I hollered. They ignored me. Red Lopez and Hot Shot Scott were
waltzing. Norman held Billy Bob Fung under one arm and Flounder under
the other. Mary appeared to be
helping George tuck in his shirt. George appeared to be enjoying it.
Somebody
was doing a Bert Parks impression.