16

Wheels Fontaine took a long draw from his water bottle before again attempting to form the question. His muscular dystrophy made speech a laborious proposition, but on the bright side it meant parking his chair in disabled seating at the front of the bus and preferential treatment from the driver.

“I…said”—each word was filled with effort, and his water bottle jerked wildly for emphasis—“where… do…pigeons…go…to…die?”

Rainbow Man rolled his eyes and tried with a pale white finger to dislodge from his molars some of the saltwater taffy I’d brought back from Lincoln City. His frizzy hair in multicolored pastels rendered him a walking snow cone. His powder-blue pants and shoes, pale blue eyes, white ruffled shirt, and white-powdered face went well with the carnival-colored taffy.

Timer got on at the next stop and announced, “You’re late!” It was the same thing the short, bald man always said upon boarding the bus, whether the driver was in fact early, on time, or behind schedule. I offered him a piece of taffy. He took a lemon one and fished around for another.

Wheels wasn’t done. “Seattle’s… covered…in… pigeons…but…you…don’t…see…piles…of…dead…

pigeons…anywhere…When…it’s…time…where…

do…they…go?”

It was Thursday and the day a random bus commuter posed the Question of the Week. Wheels had been thinking on his for some time. “Where?” he demanded.

The force of his inquiry, not a word of which they understood, set the Five Happy Housekeepers to tittering full volume in rapid-fire Mandarin. The quintet of Asian women, who got off at the Marriott Hotel where they worked as maids—hence their nickname—moments before had been prying taffy from their own teeth. Now they must be debating something, perhaps how West Coast American candy stacked up against Chinese sweets.

Tall Hat, an elegant gentleman in copper-red hair and black cowboy hat, boots, and floor-length greatcoat, and who referred to the Chinese women less charitably as The Chairman’s Harem, said, “Pigeons have property next door to the elephant graveyard. They go there.”

Two beats later, he threw his head back like a moonstruck coyote and howled. Wheels and I joined him. Following our lead, the Five Happy Housekeepers tittered. Even Tai Chi Man and Knitting Needles Lady, who did not laugh, managed to look merry.

I loved my little bus family. Strange, unconventional, even disturbing as they might be, each was an original. Certainly they were as human and vital as the executive in the Lexus who worked on the twenty-seventh floor of high-rise real estate and thought buses were for clock punchers and street dwellers who spent their days riding the bus to nowhere just for something to do.

They were why in the end I bypassed shopping for a beach cottage and drove Shirl and Richie home to Longview to face the music from her parents.

The police were at first highly skeptical of my motives not to press charges against the kids, especially Richie. In fact, it was Richie who bore witness by telling the officers about Jesus and the woman. To the credit of Mr. and Mrs. McClain, they did not sever all contact between the two lovebirds or clap Richie in irons, but did harshly chastise the kids’ stupidity, limit visits to weekends (to be supervised for six months), and told Richie to get a job. I drove him to the church deacon’s house. The man, though taken aback, reaffirmed his offer to let Richie live there as long as he was looking for a job or had one, four hundred dollars a month to generously include rent, meals, utilities, and living-room access. It looked light years better than prison. I promised to check in on them periodically and gave them my contact information.

Richie and Shirl still had to go before a judge, but between my testimony and the pro-bono representation of my lawyer friend, they’d probably get probation.

The police took a bit of convincing to let the matter drop. The testimony of the Winslows at the Sea Brine, especially Patty’s assessment of the “shifty Romeo and Juliet,” took some overcoming. I assured them it was a matter of interpretation—“troubled kids in need of perspective”—and in the end, my word prevailed. The Oregon State Police did seem happy to take one more handgun out of circulation.

I know now I wouldn’t be good as a beach bum without Ruth to share it. My work—and “family”—are in Seattle.

The 17 was a block from where Big Pearl sat when the balloon popped. Within the confines of the bus, it was the sound of sniper fire from an enemy position high on the opposite ridge. With a shout of warning from the aisle next to me, Semper Fi hit the bus floor, trembling palms covering the back of his head. A child near the back of the bus burst into tears, despite a mother’s comforting words that next time, they would ask for two balloons.

We pulled to the stop, and before I exited, I helped the aging Nam vet regain his seat. He grabbed my jacket lapels. “Never ever pop a balloon in a downtown bus, Jimmy boy, never ever,” he said in a fierce whisper. I knew he was headed for the VA and now doubly in need of the anti-stress pills that kept his keel even. A disproportionate number of military veterans used public transportation and many of them lived with their demons in subsidized housing on the borderlands of the commercial district.

With a squeeze of his shoulder, I left him the bag of taffy and walked to the front exit. Elaine, Bill’s replacement at the helm of the 17, asked if Semper Fi would be OK. I nodded. She told me to watch my step. “In here or out there?” I said, with a wave at the street.

“Out there,” the tiny slip of a driver responded. “They say the Eye Doctor has returned.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” I stepped onto the curb. Over my shoulder, I said, “Wonder if he ever went to medical school?”

“Sure he did.”

I turned.

Elaine gave me a wink. “He’s a proud alum of Transylvania U.” Her horsey laugh followed me down onto the sidewalk. I was glad we’d hit it off. Nice enough she was, but no Bill.

The 17 snorted away from the stop, and Pearl roused from a catnap. “What news, Horatio?” she called.

I handed her a fresh pack of gum, the extra-large-size Juicy Fruit she adores. “I know about a special surprise for the wedding Saturday that you don’t know,” I said.

“You don’t say?” She slid two sticks of gum between her teeth and sucked them before biting down. “Well, that makes two of us. I know about a special wedding surprise you don’t know about.”

“This isn’t the surprise,” I said, “but the Seattle Times is sending a photographer. Could be a major Sunday spread.”

“It better be,” Pearl said. “Some whiz-bang reporter spent a half-hour interviewing me yesterday afternoon. He wanted all this personal information on Doomie and Stella. I don’t have much on those two. He also wanted to know where to find you. Said he tried your place but you’ve not been answering.”

“Took a little trip and didn’t get back until yesterday.”

“Got a girl in some other port, sailor?” The mirth in Pearl started somewhere deep inside, swirled up into her throat, and set her chins to jiggling.

I leaned against one side of Pearl’s flophouse doorway. “No, ma’am, but I can see how some hotshot newshound would love to link someone named Doomie to the Caped Crusader.”

“Caped what?”

“Nothing. I’ve got to get over to Safari. See you on Saturday if not before.”

“You’re gonna be surprised.”

“Same to you, Pearl girl.” On those rare occasions when there was a wedding on the street, Sal’s Salon fixed hair, makeup, and nails for those in the wedding party. Gratis. “Sal” was a couple of women from one of the local churches and the “Salon” was a heated maintenance room at the back of the mission. I figured Pearl’s surprise was a glamour makeover.

As for mine, I’d made arrangements with Duke Anderson the steel-drum guy. Every wedding should have dancing, and what better accompaniment than some jasmine-scented tropical melodies?

Ruth Anne, may I have the next dance? And to top it off, little Jessie says she will dance a hip-hop interpretation of “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” Does it get any more romantic than that?

~*~

After five hours of sorting a mountain of clothing at Kids Safari with three other volunteers, I dragged my weary limbs onto the 17 for the return trip home. I had seen enough kitties and puppies, ponies and daisies, toddler outfits and infant onesies, miniature football jerseys, princess party dresses, and Oshkosh B’Gosh overalls to stock a good-sized children’s section in any department store. The sad part was that in a month or less, it would all be gone. The need was great and constant, and we counted on the goodness of people’s hearts to keep sending us their “gently used” castoffs. Mornings, nine to noon, those low of income were free to shop for their needs. If the shelves and racks ran bare, a sign went up on the closed clothes-room door: “Waiting upon God and His People. Pray and Please Come Again.”

Come fall, the demand would be on for school clothes. An ongoing debate, of course, was should we charge a small amount for each item so thereby the needy might feel they were contributing something and not receiving a straight handout? The con to that argument was that there were always those for whom even a token amount was more than they could afford. How do we preserve their dignity? In the end, we charged nothing and let God sort out the details.

Fortunately, Kids Safari was a favorite of the mayor, and Miss Francis’s ex was a head buyer for Nordstrom and for some reason reduced to goo every time she called him.

Jessie was not there today and I hoped she wasn’t down with some bug. She was supposed to show me her hip-hop routine and let me listen to her friend Michael’s recorded rendition of “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” in which she said a four-letter word in the chorus had been replaced with the more innocuous darn. Mostly, I wanted to meet her mother and get her official clearance for Jessie’s participation in the wedding.

To hear Jessie tell it, her mother was as beautiful as a movie starlet and as kind as a saint. Four parts Mother Teresa, three parts fairy godmother. Jessie spent afternoons at Safari whenever Mom attended classes. She wanted to better herself but Jessie was a bit vague at what.

The 17 was packed front to back, every seat taken, a line of boisterous Sounders Soccer fans standing layered together like human laminate. As the bus door opened, a tidal wave of good cheer washed over me. I guessed the beer drinking had already begun and would have waited for the next bus, except I and my sore feet needed a good soak, and neither was willing to delay the experience.

Elaine at the wheel, jaw set in grim determination, made eye contact but said nothing. I take that back. Her body language said, “Forget about me. Save yourself before it’s too late!”

The door closed and it was too late.

“LA’s going down!” someone barked in my ear.

“Crushed beneath the iron boot!” shouted another from the rear.

“Seattle! Seattle! Seattle! Seattle!” The chant whipped around the interior of the 17, and before I knew it, I’d taken it up as well. Hot breath on my neck. Strange breasts crowding my ribs. The aroma of spilled beer in the damply matted hair of the woman against whose back I was pressed. A tower of a man in Sounders blue and green, big hands clapping to the chant, his head inside the emergency ceiling escape hatch propped open to let outside air in. Sounders logos flashing to the surrounding traffic. A circle of car horns blasting support. Bad news for LA.

A woman somewhere behind me screamed. “Debby! What’s wrong? Help!
Someone help!”

A ripple of concern. No one moving, no one able to move. “Oh, no! Debby! Is she breathing?”

I caught Elaine’s alarm in the rearview mirror. I freed a hand and waved at her. “Pull over, hon. Someone’s in trouble back here.”

Elaine laid on the horn, cut across traffic, and bounced us onto the curb paralleling a Key Bank branch. We lurched to a halt, the doors opened, and the human contents of the 17 spilled onto the sidewalk. All, that is, but the unconscious woman now stretched prone on the floor of the bus and the two people patting her face and rubbing her hands. “Debby! Debby, answer me!”

The unconscious woman must have been held upright by the mob until the mob had disembarked.

Debby, having checked out of the party early, displayed no interest in answering. I heard Elaine call dispatch and soon flashing lights filled the interior of the bus with a welcome wash of red and blue. Help entered the 17, administered a touch of oxygen, and knelt low to hear Debby’s mumbled responses.

I turned away and said a quick prayer for the poor woman. The city was overcome with Sounders fever and it was not for the faint of heart. I was glad neither the FBI nor Ruby Webster of The Times were aboard to hold me responsible.

A few minutes passed. As the EMTs helped the wobbly and dehydrated Debby to her feet, one leaned toward me. “Your name Jim?”

“Yes,” I said, stumped that he knew my name.

He looked at me oddly. “The lady will not consent to be removed from the bus until she gives you a message. Make it quick. We’ve got a busy night ahead.”

Debby’s focus wasn’t the best but her rasped words were meant for me. “Are you Jim Carter?”

“Yes,” I said. I leaned a little closer to the mumbling lips and heard, “Tell Jim that it’s regrettable the way things can turn out. Tell him that if he’s in the market to help, I’m there.” The rest was gobbledygook.

“Maybe she hit her head on the way down?” The EMT waited, eyebrows raised.

I must have looked a little faint myself. “No, I don’t think so. We were packed in too tight for that. All the excitement of the game and the heat of all those bodies—my guess is she was just overcome with Sounders fever.”

“LA’s going down,” the EMT said.

“Way down,” I agreed.

He followed Debby from the bus, helping her regain her sea legs. I sat down and turned the woman’s words over in my mind.

“You OK, Mr. Carter?” Elaine’s evening, full as it was with an impending Metro Transit incident investigation, was far from over.

“I can’t say,” I said, running a hand over my face. “I just can’t say.”

~*~

At First and Pike, the street slanted downhill a short block to Pike Place Market. His pickup truck sat at an angle, blocking the street, door open, engine running, as if he’d jumped from it to halt her in mid-flight.

Her spotted leopard coat was visible in the glare from the truck’s headlights. He held her by the upper arms, periodically giving them a hard shake. She leaned away from him, faced turned, trying to escape the words that poured from him in an angry torrent.

“You don’t leave me until I say you leave me, understand?”

“You’re a bully, Randy. I won’t stay with a bully.”

He hit her with the back of his hand and she staggered back from his coiled fury. “You want to name call, Greta? You’re nothing but a fake, a worthless little fake who fancies herself to be some kind of cheap artist. You couldn’t even paint the bathroom, let alone a work of art anyone would buy.”

He raised a hand to strike her again, and I caught it at the wrist in both of mine. His breath smelled of beer, and lots of it. He was wiry and strong, but I pushed him back, placing my body between the two of them. “That’s enough, buddy. No more, OK?” Randy’s muscled chest heaved beneath a white T-shirt and I wished my extra pounds were anywhere but around my waist. As for my chest, it felt as if I had six hearts and they were all banging away uncontrollably. I hoped that the one with the hole in it didn’t decide to quit on me.

Randy’s lips twisted in contempt. “You must be James High-N-Mighty Carter, am I right? Yeah, she’s quite taken with you. Loves your Clark Kent routine. Even quotes you. We meet at last. The news photos don’t do you justice. You’re even more pathetic than your picture!” Hands clenching and unclenching, eyes darting, he looked for the most likely opening to bring me down.

A small crowd of mostly elderly shoppers had gathered near us. “You! Call 911!” I pointed at a balding man in khakis and penny loafers. “Call! Now!” The woman at his side handed him a cellphone, and using the other seniors as a shield, he wasted no time punching in the numbers.

More people joined the tableau, and it was apparent that Randy didn’t like the attention or the odds. He pointed a finger at me. “This isn’t over, little man. Not by a long shot.” He stormed over to the pickup, jumped in, slammed shut the door, jammed the transmission into reverse, tromped on the gas, filled the area in front of Rachel the pig with a cloud of burning rubber and the animal cry of spinning tires, and fishtailed down the street and out of sight.

I helped Greta to a seat on an upended apple box that one of the merchants produced from inside her flower stall. “You came,” Greta said, eyes streaming tears. “I started praying hours ago and here you are. I called Safari and just missed you. You’ve got to get a cellphone.”

The police came and took our statements. Out of Greta’s earshot, I gave them Randy’s license-plate number.

On the apple box, Greta, in smudged T-shirt, paint-stained jeans, and no makeup, blinked back the weakness and loss that wreathed her weariness. Despite the mild evening, she shivered. I pulled her against me for warmth.

“I assume you are packing neither pepper spray nor Tasers?” I said into the top of her head. She smelled of strawberries and cigarettes.

She started to tell me of her lousy day when, with a piercing protest of tires and motor whine, Randy sideslipped his pickup around the corner from First and gunned straight for us.

Pedestrians bolted. A woman screamed. Greta froze. I hurled my body against hers. We fell and rolled across unyielding cobblestones, the left front bumper of the truck grazing my shoulder, the smell of engine oil full in my nostrils and lungs.

I turned back as the pickup launched into the market, scattered vendors and buckets of fresh-cut flowers. Several stalls down in a hail of splintered wood, the pickup shot out onto the street again, steam pouring from beneath its twisted hood, police in hot pursuit.

I took a weeping Greta in the opposite direction into Post Alley, a quieter lane of businesses away from the market glare and Randy’s mayhem. “They’ll stop him, get him the help he needs.” In saying the words, I heard how hollow they rang.

“He tried to kill us, James.” She held my arm in a vise grip. “He wanted us dead and now…” She stared at me in horror.

“What, what is it?”

“My daughter, Jess!”

“You have a daughter? Where is she?”

“I left her with the neighbors across the hall from our apartment. He’s never hit her, but tonight things were heading in that direction, so I told him we needed to get out of the house, take a breather, settle this thing. Oh, James, in his crazy state, what if Randy gets to her before the police get to him?!”

I ran back toward the market. “Taxi!” I shouted at a cab taking on a load of the same elderly shoppers who had been with us when Randy went berserk. “Emergency! Emergency!” I took bills from my wallet and shoved them at the driver and his long-suffering passengers. Knowing the drill by now, they shouted “OK! OK!” shoved the money back, and held the door for us while we got in.

“Is by any chance this Jess of yours a little Haitian tomgirl?”

“Yes! Second and Broad!” Greta shouted. “Hurry!”

We couldn’t have gone any faster if Greta had slapped a magnetic flashing light onto the top of the cab and screamed like a siren. We rocketed through town, horn blaring, the driver sensing this was life and death.

“Cavanaugh Apartments!” Greta yelled. “In the alley, turn here, turn here!” The flash of emergency vehicles lit the front of the building in a crimson wash.

We roared up to the back door (no police yet). I emptied my wallet onto the seat. “Keep the change!” Greta let us in with her key. We pounded up the stairs to the second floor, raced down the hall, and confronted a doorway gaping wide across from 204. Without speaking, Greta indicated the closed door was her apartment, the open one opposite the neighbor’s. I pushed her behind me, put my finger to my lips, then gestured that I was going in.

Greta bit her lip, probably to keep from crying out. I motioned for her to go. She shook her head. I motioned again, mouthing “Jessie.” Greta, shoulders slumped, backed from the room.

I crept into the small three-room apartment facing the street in front. The living room and kitchen were one. A Hispanic couple and their son of about five cowered at a Formica kitchen table. They started at the sight of me. I motioned broadly for silence.

Standing at the front window, Randy had Jessie, dressed in backwards Mariners baseball cap and yellow-striped pajamas, tightly gripped against his belly.

In his right hand was a black pistol with which he kept the curtains parted so he could view the police action outside.

My entrance was too much for the boy, who began to wail.

At his cries, both Randy and Jessie turned. At the sight of me, the sun was in her smile; a hellish sneer scarred Randy’s face. He pointed the gun at me. “You just walked into your own funeral, Carter!”

I didn’t doubt it.

“Let Jess and these good people go, Randy. You can take me hostage. With all the crazy publicity lately, you’ll get a lot more mileage out of me. With these others, you’re just another distraught guy backed into a corner, at best a mention on page six of the local section.”

“You tell Greta to get her sorry butt in here. If she thinks she can hide behind your coattails, she’s badly mistaken.”

I calculated the distance between us and deemed it a suicide mission. “I agree with you, Randy. You and Greta need to talk things out, just not now. Tempers are too hot, the police are involved, it’s getting late. Tomorrow or the next day when everyone’s rested and calm, reason has a chance. What do you say?”

“Cops send you in here?” The squeal of a loud hailer punctuated the night. Randy renewed his grip on Jess.

“No, I didn’t consult the police. Thought we could work this out between us.”

Randy gave a bleak chuckle. “Of course you did. You really believe your own press, don’t you? Local hero keeps the peace for the good citizens of Gotham. I’ve got a news flash for you, Carter. Your flesh is not impervious to bullets. Your brain is not nimble enough to talk your way out of this. You and I are just as ordinary as that lampshade. You should have minded your own business.”

“If I’ve learned anything the last couple of weeks, it is that this is my business.” I didn’t know what else to do but talk. I’m no good at charades. “When God made you, me, all of us His business, it was then that all of us became my business too. I know it sounds crazy—”

“Randall Anderson, this is the Seattle Police Department.” The loud hailer sounded like someone shouting from the next room. “You need to release the people with you and lay down any weapons. You have ten minutes in which to do this for me to guarantee your safety as well.”

The hailer abruptly switched off. Twenty seconds later, the voice returned. “Officers are stationed at all exits. Send out the others who are with you, set down your weapon, and come out yourself with fingers interlaced behind your head. The ten minutes start now.”

The boy’s cries hit a new pitch. My mind raced. God help me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the toy pirate ship I had given Jess. It rested at the back of the arm of the couch on the far side of the room. “Randy, if you cooperate, I will testify to your good faith. Why not begin by letting Jess go?”

To my surprise, he did. “There, you satisfied? Just stop all the yap, will you? I gotta think. And get in here where I can see you.” I motioned for Jess to go out the front door. I carefully crossed the room and sat on the arm of the couch.

“Will somebody shut that kid up?” Randy waved the pistol at the kitchen table and the traumatized family jerked back in their seats.

“If they leave too, Randy, you heard the police. Not only will it go better for you but the crying will stop. Please let them go.”

“And with them goes a pile of bargaining chips.” The words were spoken with less conviction, and after a moment more, he waved the gun, indicating they should go. They lost no time in doing so but not before the lady pecked me on the cheek, little boy in her arms convulsing with what were now silent sobs. The man nodded his gratitude on the way by.

The apartment landline rang. Randy kicked over the stand it sat on, sending it and a vase of fresh tulips crashing to the floor. Sweating profusely, he snatched the cover off the parakeet cage and used it to wipe his face and head. The twin parakeets flapped about the cage, spilling seeds and water, squawking their alarm. Randy pointed the gun at the cage and fired.

Blood and feathers flew. The cage crashed to the floor. The bullet tore a hole in the wall before likely passing into the adjoining apartment. I hoped the occupants weren’t home or were keeping low to the floor. Randy turned full body into the room and fixed me with a strange, determined stare. “You will not leave here alive, Carter.”

I did not disagree.

Incongruously, a metallic ringtone like the dive klaxon on a submarine erupted in the front pocket of Randy’s jeans. He held the gun on me while taking the call.

“He’s alive as of this moment, yes.” Randy listened, then, “I have no intention of him leaving here alive. Or me either.” Randy’s eyes flicked around the room in agitation. “It’s the last thing I can control and there’s nothing you can do about it!” He softened for a brief moment. “Tell Greta I’m sorry.”

He snapped the phone closed and tossed it into the birdcage mess in the middle of the living-room carpet. The gun trained on me, he walked over and kicked the apartment door closed and threw the deadbolt. It was the sound of my coffin lid slamming shut.

“You best say your prayers, Carter. Just do it silently.”

God, please, a canister of tear gas? None materialized.

Randy returned to the curtains. “Well, well. Seems we rate the SWAT team. Can the feds be far behind?” Within five minutes, his full focus was on the armed circus on Broad Street. While the gun was no longer trained on me, the trigger finger looked decidedly itchy.

Sail away.

I reached behind me and felt for the pirate ship. I hesitated, not knowing what was on the other side of my plan. Committed, my hand closed upon the bow and I slowly brought the ship down on the inside of the couch arm out of Randy’s line of sight. While he absorbed more of the details of his impending takedown, I waited.

Full speed ahead.

Fighting nausea, I counted to ten, hit the button on the poop deck, and launched myself at Randy. Startled and confused by the sudden booming of cannons, he forgot that the gun had dropped and now pointed down at his feet. I hit him full force with all of Jake’s cinnamon rolls I’d ever eaten. He flew backward and got off one more round that must have gone through the floor before our combined weight of nearly four hundred pounds crashed through the front window.

Fully expecting to hurtle to the ground and a lifetime of at least partial paralysis, imagine my delight to feel the metal grating of the fire escape bite into my back. The downside was that Randy had also been spared. In wrestling for control of the gun, a couple more windows, one on the third floor, met their end and I all but lost my hearing and my lunch.

Gun control was decided when I smashed Randy’s head into the top railing and the gun flipped out of sight. He returned the favor by trying to throw me over the railing to complete my plunge to the ground. The match ended when a SWAT team member stuck the muzzle of his automatic weapon through the shattered apartment window into our faces and said, “Which one of you is Randall Anderson?”

I was too busy collapsing in shock to be flattered. A gunfight in which no one dies is a good gunfight. Still, it takes a lot out of you.