The Deader the Better (33 page)

Her expression suggested that she might grab me by the ears and
take the next bite out of my face. “In name only,”

she said through her teeth.

“Excuse me?”

“They’re married in name only.” She checked the booth for
spies. “She mostly lives in Seattle with her sister. Mark goes
there on weekends.”

“Not very romantic,” I commented.

“He can’t leave her. It’s all hers.”

“What’s all hers?”

“The big house. The money. Everything. It all belongs to his
wife. If Mar…Mr. Tressman leaves her, he’s left with nothing but
some worthless property his parents left him.”

She filled me in on what a manipulative bitch Barbara Tressman
was. How she’d never allowed poor Mark Tressman to mingle his
meager resources with hers and thus create a “community property
situation,” as she called it. I kept sympathizing and looking for a
button to push. I should have just shut up and listened instead.

I shook my head sadly. “Shame to have to live that way.”

She went from angry to the verge of tears in about seven seconds.
“Yes…it is.” She dropped her half-eaten burger into her plate
and looked away from me. She brought her napkin up to her face,
changed her mind and flung it on top of the burger.

Before I could come up with something soothing, she began to slide
out of the booth. “Excuse me,” she choked.

“I’ve got to get back to work.” Oops. Wrong button. She
never looked back my way as she paid her bill at the register and
pushed her way out through the glass doors. I was still going back
over the conversation, looking for hints as to where I’d screwed
up, when Betty strolled over.

“You always have that effect on women?” she inquired casually.

“It’s a cross to bear,” I told her.

She dropped a cheeseburger onto the table in front of me.

“Hereya go, honey,” she said. “The all-American meal.”

“If God didn’t intend us to eat animals, they wouldn’t be
made of meat,” I assured her. She started to agree and then pointed
a segmented finger my way.

“Good,” she said. “That’s real good. I’ll haveta
remember that.”

Her lips rehearsed the syllables as she ambled back toward the
kitchen.

I had just finished my burger and was fishing for money in my
pocket when a shrill voice attracted my attention. Emmett Polster.
Standing at the counter talking to a satchelfaced woman with
prematurely purple hair. He smiled at her, said something and started
my way. I pulled myself into the recesses of the booth and turned my
face toward the wall as if I were studying the wallpaper. I felt the
bump as he sat down directly behind me. Only the partition between
us. When the waitress appeared, he ordered a grilled cheese sandwich,
a cup of chicken noodle soup and a beer. I wondered if he always had
a beer with his lunch or whether maybe he wasn’t feeling a bit more
stressed out than usual. I handed Betty a ten on her way by, then got
up and followed her to the counter, collected my change and walked
out the front door into the sunlight.

I turned left, going around in front of the lunch counter, so as
not to risk Polster seeing me through the big window that ran the
length of the dining room. As I walked, I pulled the cell phone from
my pocket. Dialed Carl and then asked for Harold.

“Round up Ralphie,” I said. “Get Boris to drive you. Meet me
in that park in the center of town. Hurry. Ten minutes.”

I hung up and hustled for the car.

It took thirteen. I left the Malibu parked and got in the back of
the Blazer with Ralph. “Park over there by the icecream parlor,”
I told Boris. “Back it in.”

I turned to Ralph. “I want you to flop on somebody.”

He gave me a great big grin. “Been years,” he said.

“You’re the master,” I told him.

“The best,” echoed Harold.

“Vat ees flop?”

“Who?” Ralphie asked.

I went over it slowly. Exactly how I wanted it done. Had Harold
explain to him how to watch for the signal about where to pick them
up. How he had to be close when they got to the emergency entrance so
he could see Harold. I gave Harold a handful of change. I pointed to
a phone kiosk immediately to the right of the restaurant’s front
doors.

“Go call somebody. He drives that new gray Honda…” I
counted. “Six cars this side of the door.”

“By the orange truck?” Ralph asked.

“Yeah.”

I was too far away to read the plate, so I reached for my
notebook. Tore out the page with Polster’s number and handed it to
Ralph. “Check, but I think that’s it.”

As soon as they’d checked the plate and were in place, I told
Boris that I’d be back. To stay where he was until I got here.

Emmett Polster’s back was toward the door, so he never had a
clue until I slid into the booth across from him. “Hey there, Mr.
Polster,” I said. “You give any more thought to what was wrong
with Mr. Springer’s cabins, or are you just waiting around to be
embarrassed on Friday?” He tried to stay calm and was doing okay at
it until he missed his mouth with the spoonful of soup, sending a
rivulet of thin liquid rolling over his chin, down onto his lap. “Get
the hell away from me,” he squeaked.

He was shaky. His body vibrated as if an electric current coursed
through his veins. “I thought small-town folks were renowned for
being hospitable,” I said.

He groped for his napkin and then wiped his chin.

“Get away from me.”

“First one who comes forward usually gets the best deal.”

His narrow eyes darted around like flies.

“Forward?”

“Yeah…and tells how certain members of city government
conspired to drive J.D. Springer out of business.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Might even save your ass as part of the deal.”

He moved so fast he scared me. In a second, he slid to the end of
the booth, jumped to his feet and then turned and sprinted for the
front door. He’d have made it, too, if the busboy hadn’t had the
aisle blocked with a silver cart. Polster bowled through the cart
like an NFL running back, pitching it over onto its side, spreading
three shelves of cups and glasses, ashtrays, egg-stained plates and
lipstick-smeared napkins out over the floor like a tidal wave. For a
second, it looked like Polster might maintain his balance and make
his escape, but, alas, it wasn’t to be. As he struggled for
equilibrium, his right foot slipped on a halfeaten stack of pancakes,
throwing him forward and down, until he came to rest with the upper
half of his torso crammed under a table occupied by a pair of elderly
women. From there on, things got pretty hectic. Polster wiggled out
from under the old women and struggled to his feet. He had a ketchup
stain on the front of his jacket and a paper napkin attached to the
sole of his left shoe when he started for the door, pointing at me
and screaming. “You stay the hell away from me, you hear? The hell
away.”

His voice rang in the air for quite a while after he was gone. A
great many eyes seemed to be pointed my way, so I tried to look
nonchalant and unhurried in my exit. I was halfway to the door when I
ran into Betty. “You’re hell on business,” she said.

“Many are called, but few are chosen,” I said cheerily. At
that moment, Harold came bursting in through the front doors.

“Jesus…somebody call 1. There’s been an accident.”

I stepped aside and let the crowd beat me out the door. By the
time I pushed my way to where I could see, Ralph and Harold were well
into the routine. Ralph was on his back, his face a mask of agony,
his limbs shaking and contorted. Harold was lamenting at full volume.
“…and this guy here just run ’im down like a dog…” He
pointed at Emmett Polster, who sat white-faced on a concrete parking
divider, his chin buried in his hands. “Just goin’ like hell, not
paying any attention…oh god, look at ’im…where the hell is that
ambulance?” Somebody said, “It’s on the way. Merla called’em.”
Ralphie was flopping around like a trout on a riverbank, his nearly
toothless mouth bellowing to the heavens. Ralph’s got a trick hip.
Double-jointed or something. He can turn it out to the side at an
ungodly angle. Used to make a decent living getting hit by tourists
in rental cars. Many the traveler to the Emerald City has thanked his
stars that the old geezer took the two hundred bucks and limped off
into the sunset. As the sound of a siren became audible above the
buzz of the crowd, Harold went into the finale. He crawled across the
pavement, pulled back Ralph’s coat and pointed at the impossibly
aligned hip.

“Jesus…look,” he cried. The crowd sucked air. A woman’s
voice said, “I’m gonna be sick.”

I skirted the crowd, crossing the highway half a minute before a
red and white aid car came rocketing up the road. I stopped by Boris.
“Just stay close and meet them wherever Harold tells you. Then get
them back to the ranch in a hurry.”

“Amazeeeing,” he said with a smile.

“YOU WERE RIGHT,” NARVA SAID. “A CLASSIC PENCIL dick. Thinks
he’s God’s gift to women.” She pulled a black leather day
planner from her purse. “I felt bad about what you wanted me to do
until I met the guy. What a sleaze. Trying to tell me he and his wife
have an arrangement. We’re having dinner tomorrow night.”

I told her about how Tressman had canceled his date with June.

“What an asshole,” she said.

She leafed through the day planner. “The non-Indian property is
owned by four parties.” Turned another page.

“Rough and Ready, Inc., owns the five hundred acres that adjoin
the ocean. The estate of Frau Tressman two hundred. Gretchen Peabody
owns a hundred sixty-five acres. And Nancy Weston the other hundred.
That adds up to…nine hundred sixty-five acres.”

“Plus the thirty-five for the homestead.”

“A round thousand, then.”

“What’s Rough and Ready, Inc., and who’s Gretchen Peabody?”

“Rough and Ready…” She licked her index finger and turned
the page. “That one’s interesting. That’s the original name of
the town. Back in the s. Used to be…that same thousand acres was
the land that was originally incorporated as the city of Rough and
Ready, Washington. Lasted two years, then they gave it up and moved
the town to its present location.”

“So who owns it?”

“The estate of Hattie Sparks,” she said.

“Who is?”

“No way to tell. Nobody has ever filed for the estate. As a
matter of fact…”—she flipped the page—“four months from
now—May tenth—if still unclaimed, the estate reverts to the state
of Washington.”

“Gretchen Peabody?”

“I didn’t have time. They close the office at four o’clock.
But”—she held up a finger—“it’s also interesting that two
years ago a total of eleven people, not four, owned that block of
property. The four present players purchased three of the plots for
cash and foreclosed on three others.” She read me a list of names
and the number of acres they’d owned. She explained how the four
remaining principals had each approximately doubled their holdings in
a period of twentyseven months. “Looks like they ran the same
delinquent tax number on those people that they did on your friend,”
she said.

“Until the last holdout was Ben Bendixon and his thirtyfive-acre
homestead,” I said. Which led right back to the question of why
Bendixon would repeatedly refuse offers in the
three-hundred-thousand-dollar range and then, out of the blue, sell
out to J.D. for a third of the price. She closed the book. “Question
is, why bother?” she said.

“This town barely has real estate values, Leo. You can buy
anything in this valley for ten cents on the dollar. Comparable
undeveloped property, no utilities, no access, is going for three
hundred an acre. Tops. The only valuable piece is this one, because
it’s so unique and it has access and recreational possibilities.”

Shouting from outside in the yard: “Leo. Leo, ya gotta see
this,” Ralph yelled.

Boris, the Boys and the Blazer had come rolling down the driveway
about a half hour after I’d arrived. Boris wearing an insane grin.
Ralph wearing nothing but an ancient pair of argyle socks and a
hospital gown. I dug through J.D.’s stuff and came up with a set of
clothes that fit. I didn’t figure J.D.’d mind. And as for Ralph,
secondhand was about four hands sooner than he usually came into
clothes, so he was as happy as a clam.

I could just see the top of Harold’s head as he moved across the
bottom of the boat ramp. Narva and I crossed the lawn. Boris had a
fish on, or more accurately, the fish had Boris. He stood with his
knees flexed, leaning back against the singing line, the pole bent
nearly double. The pitch of the stretching line got higher.

“Loosen the drag,” I shouted. He turned my way.

“Vat?”

I jogged down the ramp. Boris was moving away from me, giving
ground as the big salmon tried to get around the corner and head back
for the ocean. I worked my way among the rocks until I was in front
of him, steadied the rod for a second and turned the silver knob on
the side of the reel until the fish began to ratchet off some line.
The rod straightened a bit and began to bounce at the tip as the fish
shook his head. The line stopped singing. Only the rasp of the drag
scratching above the sound of the water.

“When he runs, let him,” I said to Boris. “The minute he
stops, start pulling him in. Don’t let him rest.”

“Vat I got here?” he asked.

“Dinner,” I said.

Twenty minutes later, he had whatever it was about halfway in when
the RV showed up, Carl at the wheel, easing it slowly along the side
of the house and then backing it up against the kitchen wall. Floyd,
Kurtis and Robby piled out and joined the cheering section down on
the riverbank. Carl used the hydraulic lift to lower himself onto the
grass and then came purring over. I introduced him to Narva.

“What’s he got on there?” he demanded.

“Probably a big king salmon,” I said.