L
et me do the talking, says Petey.
Who’s asking? says Fox.
Nobody yet. But they will. We gotta be ready.
No offense, dear boy, says Strabo. But you are the worst possible spokesperson. You’re like Cassandra, of ancient legend. He warned and warned, but no one believed a word he said.
Was he crazy too? asks Fox.
Shut up, says Petey. Just shut up.
It’s barely morning, the sun peeking from behind the clouds over Wallingford. Too early to be up, but the playground on Linden wasn’t all that cozy, especially when the mist turned to drizzle.
Besides, fresh memories made sleep impossible.
I was up all freaking night, says Fox. Waiting for the Gestapo to show up and drag us away.
I’m too old to dodge
federales
, says Strabo.
But nobody found us, says Petey. Now it’s an easy walk down the hill and out of enemy territory.
People were already leaving their houses and apartment buildings, getting into cars, or strolling toward the neighborhood center.
See all the worker ants, says Strabo. Starting their pleasant peasant days, serving their futile lords.
A bell jingles and Petey dodges as a bicyclist charges down the hill.
Bastard, says Fox. Don’t pedestrians have the right of way on the freaking sidewalk anymore?
He’s a wheeler-dealer, says Strabo. Hurrying to fuel himself on lattes and sushi before making his million-dollar deals. We, on the other hand, contribute nothing. We do not toil, neither do we sin. Society wouldn’t care if we were wiped off the face of the earth by our bicycling betters.
Don’t say that, says Petey, thinking of last night.
The biker parks his flashy white hybrid in front of a coffee shop.
See that? asks Fox.
Yeah, says Petey. Starbucks. Typical.
Get over that, will you? I meant Lance Armstrong there didn’t lock up.
I didn’t see that, says Petey.
You saw, lad, but you didn’t observe, says Strabo. The lock dangles helpless from the rear rack. The ship is unanchored, gentlemen. Shall we be pirates?
I dunno, says Petey.
I do, says Fox. I know a shop near Pioneer Square where they’d pay cash for that bike, no questions asked.
That’s the point, says Petey, shivering. We’re out of our territory.
Out of this city is where we need to be, says Strabo. With the sugar from Sugarman and the ransom from the bicycle we could journey to Everett or Tacoma. Stay incognito until this blows over.
It’s not gonna blow over, says Petey. That woman is
dead.
The cops won’t stop looking till they pin a tail on somebody.
There’s a cop by the Greek joint, says Fox. Let’s hang a left.
Thirty-Fifth Street is quieter.
Condos everywhere, says Fox. When did this neighborhood fill up with freaking condos?
Why can’t you swear like a normal person? asks Strabo.
Cause I was raised right.
Oh please, Foxy. You were raised by wolves, like Romulus and Rebus.
All these people going by, says Petey. They don’t even see us.
If they did, they’d call the fuzz.
And why not? asks Strabo. What purpose does the constabulary serve if not to protect good citizens from homeless riffraff?
They didn’t protect the girl last night, says Petey.
Something we have in common, dear boy.
We couldn’t stop them, says Petey. By the time we knew what was going on, it was too late.
You said they were up to no good, lad. You could have done
something
.
You didn’t either.
I’m not the hero, says Strabo. Just an old, old man.
You were scared, says Fox.
Damn right I was, says Petey. You saw Widmark’s face.
Widmark?
The blond one. He looked like Richard Widmark used to. And the dark one with the big puppy eyes looked like Sal Mineo.
You and your cinema worship, says Strabo. What a waste of brain cells.
Sounds like you’re queer for the shortie, says Fox.
I’m not… Damn! We gotta turn around. I’m not going under that bridge.
You’re a real head case, says Fox. Scared of cops, scared of bridges, scared of Starbucks.
I’m not scared of
them
. I just hate them.
A red PT Cruiser squeezes into a parking space, and a family of tourists pops out, covering their cameras with raincoats and umbrellas, all talking at once.
The daddy comes up, smiling.
Excuse me, is this where they keep the troll?
No, says Strabo. It’s where they keep the minotaur.
Shut up, mutters Petey. The troll’s under the black bridge over there.
That’s
why he turned around, says Fox. Scared of the big bad troll.
The daddy frowns. I thought it was the
Fremont
troll. With a real Volkswagen in its hand?
That’s the one, says Petey.
But that’s the
Aurora
Bridge. Why isn’t it under the Fremont Bridge over there?
What do we look like, asks Fox, the freaking road department?
Daddy jerks back, as if he just got a better look—or smell. Let’s go, kids. The troll’s over here.
I hate this place, says Petey. What kind of sick mind would put a giant troll statue under a bridge?
Someone who doesn’t have much experience with monsters, says Strabo. There are enough real ones around without encouraging them with monuments.
Widmark and Mineo, says Petey.
They
were real ones.
Yeah, says Fox. You oughta tell the tourists what the movie stars did to their sister.
That girl was no tourist.
A deduction! How can you tell, maestro?
Fox picked up her address book, remember? All local names and numbers.
But she didn’t put her own name in it, says Fox. That was dumb.
I guess she knew where she lived.
Har har, says Fox. Petey the comic.
We should have helped her, says Strabo.
We couldn’t, says Petey.
In the long eye of the law, dear boy, silence breeds consent.
Now you’re a freaking attorney, says Fox. Oh crap. Look what’s around the corner.
Cops have gathered in force, surrounding the traffic island on 34th Street.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear, says Strabo. All the king’s prowl cars and all the king’s men.
They found her, says Petey.
She wasn’t exactly hidden, says Fox. Just lying behind the gray zombies.
Don’t be ignorant, says Strabo. That’s another of Fremont’s fine artworks.
Waiting for the Interurban.
The six gray plaster figures are wearing T-shirts today.
FREMONT MOISTURE FESTIVAL
, reads one.
How did they get the shirts on with the cops around? asks Fox.
They couldn’t, says Petey. The shirts must have been there last night. But we were behind the statues and didn’t see them.
Another deduction, says Strabo.
Uniforms hustle around the statues and a small crowd has gathered on either side of 34th to stand in the drizzle and watch.
Are they looking at us? asks Petey.
It’s okay to watch the cops, says Fox. Everybody’s doing it.
A cat may look at a king, says Strabo. But curiosity kills them both. What killed Abby?
Nobody killed Abby, says Petey.
The young woman lying over there.
That’s not Abby, says Petey. You’re crazy.
I never met your dream girl, says Fox. But you said the chick last night looked like her. That’s why you had us chasing her all over Queen Anne.
Marching after her like a parade, agrees Strabo. But no one was there to help when the beasts attacked.
What are
you
looking at? Fox asks a sidewalk gawker. The show’s over there, jerk. Don’t look at me.
Now you’ve done it, says Petey. Let’s go.
Across the bridge of sighs?
Too visible, says Fox. Back up the avenue.
I want to get
out
of Fremont, mutters Petey. This is no place for us.
For Christ’s sake, don’t run, says Fox. In tourist land the three of us running is probable cause.
I used to live here, says Petey.
In the center of the universe, says Strabo. So says the sign, at any rate.
Hear the sirens? asks Fox. They’re taking her away. Finally.
Whoever she is, says Strabo, she’ll be a star now. Just like your cinematic friends.
Let’s get something to eat, suggests Fox. How about this bakery?
Look what’s in the window, says Petey.
Someone had put up photos from the Solstice Parade: giant puppets and naked bicyclists.
No wonder I went crazy. How could anybody stay sane in this place?
Abby did, says Strabo. That’s why she left.
All the food here is too goddamn healthy, says Fox. Let’s go to Starbucks.
Never, says Petey. I’m not giving those bastards one of my hard-earned dollars.
Hard-begged, says Strabo.
Same thing.
You’re not being rational, dear boy.
Har har.
You can’t blame a major corporation simply because your ex-wife married… What was he? A department head?
Coffee king, says Fox. Java general.
The bastard stole Abby from me, says Petey.
She married him—
Brew guru.
Hush. She married him after you went to bedlam, lad. Did you expect her to wait until you achieved
compus mentus?
Stuff it.
So what do you want? asks Fox. Starbucks, this bakery, or starve to death? Your choice.
What else’ve you got? asks Petey.
Speaking of destinations, says Strabo, why were Bogart and De Niro—
Widmark and Mineo.
Why were they hanging around Queen Anne in the middle of the night?
To get to the other side, says Fox.
How would I know?
You were just playing detective, dear boy.
Petey sighs. Okay. They weren’t bums like us. Somewhere between yuppies and punks. Looking for drugs, maybe?
Bull, says Fox. They were looking for exactly what they found. A chick walking alone. Somebody to mess up. Two homeless broads got offed last year.
I didn’t know that, says Petey.
Neither one looked like Abby, says Strabo. So you didn’t notice.
They didn’t exactly make the front page.
I wish last night never happened, says Petey.
It wouldn’t have, if they hadn’t been so far off their turf. Usually they stayed near Pioneer Square, where nobody complained much about grubbies and crazies.
But the previous morning they had run into Sugarman, a contractor Petey knew in better days, and he was looking for cheap labor.
Anybody with a green card. You a citizen? Even better. Hop on the truck and you can spend the day digging a trench for bamboo in Queen Anne.
The crew of half a dozen came in under budget and ahead of schedule. Sugarman got a bonus and was so pleased he bought pizza and beer and treated everybody to a picnic in the park.
When the party broke up, close to midnight, Fox had said he’d lead the three of them to a bus stop where they could get back to home base. But then Petey saw the brunette on Nickerson and fell in love.
I’m not in love, he had told them. I just said she looks like Abby.
Every white filly south of fifty looks like your lost angel, said Fox.
She was well under fifty. Maybe twenty-five. Brunette hair pinned up in the back. Tight green dress. Wobbling a little on two-inch heels.
The angel is drunk, said Strabo.
Who isn’t? asked Petey.
You a stalker now?
I just want to make sure she gets home all right.
This isn’t home. She’s cutting through a parking lot.
If she saw us following her, said Strabo, she’d scream for help.
Why don’t you ask her to make you a double tall cappuccino? says Fox. That’s how you met the bitch, isn’t it?
Don’t call her that.
Whoa. Catch those two on the other side of the street. They’re watching her too. Six o’clock for your lady love.
What does that mean?
Behind her.
Two men, about the same age as the lady in green. The tall one had blond hair, was thin, almost gaunt, and vibrated with nervous energy. He wore a red jacket and blue jeans.
His friend was a head shorter and had dark hair. He walked with his shoulders hunched as if attacked by a wind only he could feel. Both of them were so busy watching the lady in green that they never noticed anyone behind them.
She’s headed onto Fourth, said Fox. Up into Petey’s no-go zone.
Petey stumbled to a stop.
Fine, said Strabo. Let’s round up a bus and ride home. Discretion is the bitter part of valor.
I’m following them. They’re up to no good.
What are you now, the freaking cavalry?
Our Petey is a man of chivalry, said Strabo. A white knight in vanished armor. That calls for a song!
Oh where are you going, said Milder to Moulder
Oh we may not tell you, said Festel to Fose
We’re hunting the wren, said John the Red Nose
Hunting the wren, said everyone…
For the love of God, shut up, said Petey. I can’t hear myself think.
The sounds of silence. Har har.
You Philistines! That’s a medieval classic. Part of your heritage.
Yeah, but do you want those creeps across the street to hear you?
Why are they following her? asked Petey.
They like to watch Abby’s ass, said Fox. Same as you.
She’s not Abby. And don’t talk like—Oh crap!
They were on the Fremont Bridge now and the drawbridge was going up.
Why the hell is a boat going by at this time of night? asked Petey.
Probably heading home, said Strabo. Like all sensible people.
They watched the city lights reflecting off the Ship Canal and the bright blue of the bridge.
Look over there, said Strabo.
Off to the right the Aurora Bridge stretched high above them.
Like a long black spider web, said Strabo.
Poetry sucks, said Fox.