The Bum's Rush Read online

  

  BUM'S RUSH

  A LEO WATERMAN MYSTERY

  AVON BOOKS

  An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

  First Avon Books paperback printing: March 1998

  Avon Trademark Reg. U.S. Pat. Off. and in Other Countries, Marca

  Registrada, Hecho en U.S.A.

  HarperCollins is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

  Printed in the U.S.A. 10 9876543

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  To Arnold Jay Abrams, the friend of a lifetime.

  To rock-and-roll hearts on the

  long and winding road.

  Go softly, my friend.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  1

  In the low darkness of the alley, the sole delineation of blood from blackness was a certain vibration of line where the animal movement ended and the uneven bricks began. Ahead in the gloom, a succession of shoulders moved as a single beast, ears hot and full of blood, lips mumbling encouragement to some bizarre ballet being danced down on the rough gray stones.

  George lifted a stiff hand to my elbow as we closed the distance. Twenty years on the streets had filed his instincts smooth. He knew. This was trouble. Without willing it so, I found myself stopped. George's hand fell to his side. Harold wedged himself tight between my right shoulder and the wall. Inside the circle of men, white smoke from a trash fire rose up the west wall, adding further insult to the overhead ocean of airborne waste that had been hanging low over the city for the better part of two weeks. An inversion, they called it.

  "That's it, git 'er." A slurred voice rolled along the alley, oddly amplifying the silence left in its wake. I could hear it now. Under the shoe noise and the grunting. First the sporadic ticking of the fire, then, down at the bottom, a continuous, rhythmic keening, at times almost a whistle, rising insistently from the ground. I willed my legs forward, but apparently they had other plans. Before I could get a grip, Norman shouldered me aside and strode out ahead.

  Arriving at the circle of men, he reached in and separated the nearest pair with enough force to create a staggering chain reaction around the entire circle. On his left, the force ricocheted the heads of two loose-necked drunks. A bottle shattered on the pavement. An emaciated guy of about thirty, his blue watchcap dislodged and rolling at his feet, stumbled to one knee, clutching his ear. On the right, the old guy in the tweed overcoat was squeezed, seedlike, out into the center of the circle where he stood blinking and chewing his gums, waiting for his numbed nerves to give him some sort of hint as to what in hell had just happened. I followed Norman through the breach.

  Two figures rolled and kicked amid the damp refuse. Up close, the sound I'd heard back in the mouth of the alley was less a whine of terror and more a groan of strained resistance. Sitting astride a struggling figure, blue bandana worn pirate style, was a ragged specimen forty going on seventy-five his leathery face a maze of booze-etched crevices, landscaped here and there by a thin beard and mustache. He tore at the clothes of the other figure, who was scrunched into a defensive posture, one hand with a death lock on the belt line of a sagging pair of trousers, the other clawing at the dangling sleeve of a green satin jacket, torn to strings at the shoulder, revealing an oblong breast, big brown nipple slightly off center, peeking from beneath a bunched flannel shirt.

  With a single lengthened stride, Norman punted the pirate back to Penzance. The ungodly force of the huge boot completely separated him from his victim, propelling him airborne express to the far side of the circle of men, where he came to rest, rocking silently on his spine, face smoothed with purple blood, bug-eyed paralyzed at the feet of a'pair of Indians who seemed unable to comprehend this sudden change in tonight's entertainment schedule.

  The remaining figure immediately regained her feet and tottered toward the east wall, the free hand hauling her drawers back up over her hips, one eye, visible through her hair, never leaving Norman. Instinctively, I reached to help. She backed against the wall, pulled her right fist back into her sleeve, and waited for my next move.

  George stepped between us. "Leave her be, Leo," he said. "Don't be such a goddamn social worker."

  "She needs " I started.

  He stepped in closer. "Yeah. She needs a lotta shit, Leo, and ain't none of it gonna come from you neither. 'Less of course you wanna take her away from all this. You gonna marry her or something?"

  Over George's left shoulder, I could see that she was halfway back the way we'd come, eyes welded to us, using the wall for support.

  The pirate had rolled onto his side and retched up a small pool of thick liquid that struggled to spread itself upon the dirt. The eight or nine spectators began to stagger off into the darkness.

  "Ally ally infree." Norman roared from behind me. He held down the center like a ragged obelisk. Bigger even than usual. Wearing everything he owned. The better part of six-seven, his massive arms spread as if in embrace, his gnarled hands beckoning. On the street they called him Nearly Normal Norman, or sometimes just Normal. It was a joke. You only had to once look into Norman's eyes to be absolutely certain that this person was not watching the same channel as the rest of us. A couple of years back, the last time he'd earned himself a state-mandated tune-up, I'd watched six cops and a couple of paramedics fail to get him into an ambulance. The third wave of reinforcements finally tracked him down over in Hing Hay Park, where he was contentedly feeding corned-beef hash to the park's feral pigeons.

  As the gathering crowd jeered, they'd cornered him in the pagoda and Tasared him six times. He'd seemed to devour the voltage like some walking storage battery, his eyes glowing ever brighter after each shot of juice. It wasn't until they'd busted the third syringe off in him that he even began to slow down. I don't care what anybody says, I still contend that if he hadn't been naked, they'd never have taken him.

  The pirate, resting now on his knees and forehead, groaned piteously and again began to heave, this time dry.

  Normal slid a massive arm around the nearest Indian. "They call you Little Bird, don't they?"

  "Some do," the guy agreed, looking straight up at Normal.

  Normal inclined his head toward the other fellow. "What's your buddy's name?" he asked.

  "Na-Ke-Dan-Sto-Li," the guy answered slowly, carefully wrapping his moist mouth around each syllable. "What's that mean?" I asked. "Dances with vodka," the guy said. Normal embraced the pair as they yukked it up. George approached the old guy in the overcoat. "Hey, Monty," he said. "Your name's Monty, ain't it?" The old guy's eyes, thick and milky with cataracts, rolled in his head like a spooked horse. A constant marination in fortified wines had begun to tenderize the old boy. Begun to separate skin from bone, leaving the impression that the slender sinews holding the face could, at any moment, give w
ay and allow the whole mess to slide south, circle the drain of his toothless mouth, and disappear altogether down the cosmic gullet.

  "I ain't done nothin'," he said, looking around, searching for the voice. "I was just watchin'."

  Harold stepped around me, pulled a wad of singles out of his pocket, and hustled over to the two younger guys, who stood stock-still, eyes frozen on Norman. George approached the old guy.

  "It's me, George Paris. Remember me?"

  The dazed look on his face suggested that the old guy didn't remember anything more distant than his last fortyouncer.

  "Used to live in that room across the hall from you down in the Pine Tree, back in eighty-five. You remember?"

  The old guy squinted, the act nearly throwing him off balance. For the first time, a glimmer of recognition crossed his face.

  "Oh," he stammered. "George, yeah, you and that other guy."

  George pulled a pint of peach schnapps from his coat pocket, unscrewed the top, and handed it to the old codger.

  "Right, Ralph. Ralph Batista. You remember old Ralph? That's who we're lookin' for. We're lookin' for Ralph. You "

  The old man's face closed like a leg trap. He licked his lips and handed the pint back without taking a drink.

  "Don't know nothin' about none of that," he said.

  He turned to leave. A low growl from Norman stopped him cold. He turned back to George. His eyes were full of water. "Come on, man. I ain't done nothin'. I don't know nothin'. Come on." They stood, lockjawed, staring at each other for a long moment.

  "Go on, get outta here," George said finally. The guy didn't need to be told twice. He started down the alley toward the woman.

  "Go the other way," I said. He did. I stood and watched as the boys alternately bribed and threatened the rest of them. Even from a distance, it was apparent that they were getting nowhere. It had been that way all night. I checked my watch. Twelve-fifteen. A sudden wind cut through the alley, carrying the smells of fryer grease and salt water, swirling the white smoke to the walls, leaving a foul-smelling landscape of muted shadows and fog. I

  We'd started at noon, down under the viaduct, kicking J cardboard houses, rousting sleeping drunks, passing out sandwiches, singles, and booze. We'd braced every derelict in a ten-block area. We'd been by the Gospel Mission twice. We'd worked our way through the flocks of juicers and junkies congregated in Occidental Park. We'd pulled 'em out of their warm hideyholes in parking garages and vestibules. Nada. Nobody had seen Ralph. Guys he'd known for twenty years were suddenly having trouble remembering his name. My mouth was dry and smooth like ceramic. My stomach felt like it was full of scrap metal.

  The pirate had pulled himself to his feet. I could hear the breath wheeze from his wet lips as he lurched off.

  George appeared at my side. "Nobody knows shit," he said.

  Back in the early seventies, George's banking career had fallen victim to both merger mania and an unquenchable taste for single-malt Scotch. His grim demeanor, well defined features, and slicked-back white hair made him look like a defrocked boxing announcer. Anyone who didn't look into his eyes or down at his mismatched shoes could quite easily mistake him for a functioning member of society.

  Harold and Norman pushed their way through the oily smoke to my side. Harold shook his head sadly. Harold had, for better than twenty years, managed a shoe department for the Bon, but like many of the denizens of the district, had surfed himself into the streets on a wave of cheap booze and failed marriages. He used to be taller. Every year seemed to carve more meat from his already skeletal frame. I'd always figured his huge Adam's apple and cab-door ears would surely be the last to go, found on some Pioneer Square sidewalk, mistaken by some wino for an escaped cue ball and a couple of dried apricots.

  "We've been about everywhere I can think of," I said. ' 'Any of you guys got an idea?'' This led to a prolonged round of head shaking and foot shuffling.

  "Maybe he left town," said George, finally.

  "Oh, bullshit," shot Harold. "Other than that time Leo took us all out in the sticks, Ralph ain't been out of Seattle in thirty-five years. You just feel guilty, that's all, so shut the fuck up."

  Harold's attitude was tantamount to a peasant's rebellion. Shovels, rakes, flaming torches, the whole thing. Since Buddy Knox's death, George had always served unchallenged as leader and spokesman for this little group. To my knowledge, other than some occasional bickering when they were out of booze for a protracted period of time say, fifteen minutes George had never been challenged.

  "Guilty," he spat. "What in hell have I got to be guilty about? I wanted to hear that kinda shit, I'd call one of my exes." "If you hadn't thrown him out--"

  "He's a fucking wet-brain. He spends his whole god damn check and then sponges off--"

  "Hey, hey," I interrupted. "This isn't getting us anywhere. Are you guys sure you never seen this guy who came by for his check?"

  "I told you," George said impatiently. "Some little mulatto in a fur hat said Ralph had sent him for his pension check. I told him to piss off. Ralph wanted his check, he could hustle his ass up and get it."

  Norman was stomping out the remains of the fire, using both feet, turning, dancing to his own music. "Global warming," he said when he noticed I was watching. "Average world temperature is fifty-eight degrees now. Up two degrees in twenty years."

  I knew better than to disagree with him. "I need a drink," George mumbled. Couldn't say I disagreed with that either.

  2

  I Waited for the Ethiopian cabdriver to give me even the smallest hint that he understood English. No such luck.

  "Let them off at the Zoo. On Eastlake." I talked slowly, emphasizing each syllable, as if time and sincerity would most certainly overcome any pesky language barrier.

  He remained focused on George, Harold, and Norman, whose synchronized swaying movements gave the impression that they were ice-skating while standing still.

  "You know where that is?" I asked. Nothing. "East lake--" I started, louder this time.

  "No," he said.

  "It's easy. Just take the Lakeview exit off--"

  He cut me off. "I know where the Zoo is, man. Don't get your panties in a wad." He pointed. "It's them I don't know about. I don't think I want 'em in the cab."

  I handed him two tens. "Here's ten for the ride and ten for you. They'll behave. I guarantee it."

  "I don't ride no bums," he protested.

  "They're not bums," I said. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a business card. leo waterman investigations. He held the card at arm's length, using only his fingernails.

  "They're undercover," I said. "We're on a case." George belched and began to slide under the cab. Nor-^ man jerked him upright by the collar. The air was suddenly! alive with the smell of mothballs and recycled beer. [

  The driver squinted at me. "Hell of a disguise," he commented.

  "We go to great lengths," I assured him.

  He boosted himself up, looked down at George's mismatched shoes, and then back at me. "It's all in the details," I tried.

  He sneered and reached for the shift lever. I waved another ten at him. "Just to the Zoo."

  Before he could decide, I dropped the money in his lap, reached in, opened the rear door from the inside, and pushed the boys in.

  "I'll call you guys in the morning. Don't worry. We'll find him tomorrow. Get some rest."

  He slammed the cab into drive. The force of the start closed the door. I watched as the cab headed up past Pioneer Park and turned right up Cherry. The lights from the oncoming traffic silhouetted the trio in the backseat. On either side of Norman's tangled mane, a head rested on his shoulder. Male bonding.

  I turned and headed back down First Avenue toward my car, which was parked under the viaduct, down by the OK Hotel. The breeze from the Sound had freshened into a serious wind, bringing with it the smells of wet newsprint, day-old fish, and diesel fuel.

  First Avenue was forlorn, the square's usual glitter and rattle reduc
ed to low-wattage bulbs over locked cash registers. Melancholy, like a nobly appointed Victorian parlor, thrashed and reeking after a fraternity party. A huge sigh escaped me as I walked. It wasn't good. We should have found Ralph by now. Harold was right. Ralph was either living within ten blocks of where I was walking, or he wasn't living at all. My stomach ached.

  A Graytop cab rounded the corner of Main and started toward me. My first thought was that the Ethiopian had changed his mind and was bringing the fellas back. No; this time it was a guy with an impeccable white turban and full beard. He roiled down his window and made eye contact with me. Even across the median he caught my attention. I shook him off and kept walking.

  Oriental Rug Express was in the twenty-seventh year of its going-out-of-business sale. This time they meant it. Everything must go.

  I turned west down South Washington, straight into the wind, thinking about Ralph. Stifling a shudder, I pulled my canvas jacket close at the throat as I walked.

  I had my head in two places; that must have been why I missed her. One was down, watching the sidewalk, cutting the breeze; the other was stuck firmly up my ass, worrying about Ralph. She must have been trailing me. Skittering through the maze of alleys, one step ahead at all times. I never saw her until she put a hand on my arm.

  I believe that had video replay been available at that moment, mankind would surely have had its first documented case of human levitation. The tape would certainly have shown me losing all terrestrial traction and gliding unpowered over to the nearest car. Future TV experts could count on years of profitable debate as to whether the tape had been doctored and, if so, whether I'd acted alone. Next thing I knew I was sliding along a fender, using my ass to feel for a break in the cars where I could tumble out into the street and run.

  She stood with her hand still extended at the shoulder, her long, lank hair fanned by the wind. The green satin jacket was still mangled at the shoulder, but she'd secured her pants with a doubled piece of rough red twine. "Hey," she said.