The Bum's Rush (23 page)

Selena pinned me with a red-eyed stare.

"What do you say?" prodded Rebecca.

Selena looked around the bar. George piped in.

"Was me, I'd take her up on it in a New York minute," he said.

"Oh really?" said Rebecca.

He looked over at me. "You know what I mean," he
started. "You know--" He shot a glance at Duvall. "Not like that," he
assured her. "If I was to be--then--" He looked to me for help. "Leo?"
he said.

I waved him off. "You're on your own, kid. Keep digging."

Rebecca leaned over the bar and said something to Terry the bartender. George looked stricken. Selena clapped him on the back.

"It's okay, Georgio," she said. "Hell, iffen I
didn't come up with somethin' better, I was thinkin' about throwing a
move on you myself."

"What?" George stammered.

"Probably ain't aired that thing out in years," she
said to nobody in particular. A general titter ran about the bar. In
the back, someone snorted. A moment of silence, and then, as if
prearranged, the crack of pool balls signaled the end of the show. The
bar settled in.

"I don't know," Selena said quietly. "I don't like to feel beholden to people. I just can't do it."

"It's Leo who's beholden to you," Duvall said.
"He's the one who started this whole ball rolling, and now he's the one
who's got to get to the bottom of it. The way I see it, he owes it to
you."

The front door opened. An Asian guy in a Sonics cap held the door open. "Somebody call a cab?"

Rebecca waved at him over the crowd and then turned to Selena.

"It's up to you," she said.

Selena looked at the floor and then stuck her hands in her pockets.

"I'll get my stuff," she said, heading for the back of the bar.

"You didn't need a cab. I would have " I started.

"Are you daft?" Duvall said. "People are trying to
kill you. I'm not riding anywhere with you until you get this all
cleared up." When I started to protest, she said, "We'll meet on street corners like in the movies. It'll be romantic."

"You sure you want to do this?" I asked.

"We'll get along famously," she assured me.

The driver poked his head back in. Selena arrived.
She had a blue sleeping bag, tied with thick brown twine, hanging from
a sawed-off broom handle, which she slipped over her shoulder.

"Thank Ralph for the loan of the bag," she said to
George, who was still contemplating the general unfairness of his lost
opportunity.

Duvall pointed at the bag. "You probably won't be
needing --Selena took her by the arm and started for the door. "Miss
Duvall, I'll tell you what. You plan for your future, and I'll plan for
mine."

Rebecca's response was lost in the whooshing of the door.

George and I stood alone at the corner of the bar. "Where's Ralph?" I asked.

"Back home," he said. "Said he'd been spendin' too much time down here lately. Can you believe that shit?"

It were fearsome strange indeed, but I was too dim
to think about it. I polished off the bourbon and slid the glass across
the bar.

"Once more with feeling," I said to Terry. He looked dubious. "It's a special occasion," I said. "George almost got laid."

Midnight was way past my bedtime. All things
being equal, I would never have checked my E-mail. I would have
shuffled in and gone to bed in my domes. That was my fondest dream as I
opened the door.

But the damn thing was sitting right there
twinkling at me as I passed the office. A bold-type banner running
across the screen: 206-567-8980... 206-567-8980... 206567-8980...
206-567-8980. I shook my head and walked on past, rolling toward my
beckoning bed like a stakes horse beaten by twelve lengths, headed for
the paddock and the promise of oats. Inexplicably, I stuck out my arms
and martyred myself in the doorway. Arrrrgh.

I called Carl. "Yeah," he said on the first ring.

"It's Leo."

"Be still my heart."

"How you been?" I started.

"Sittin' down," was his answer.

I hadn't known him before the accident claimed his
legs. Some had assured me that he was every bit as caustic and
argumentative before as after. I prefer to think not Carl had this cute
little conversational habit, whenever he wanted to make your life
difficult, of mentioning his hand leap, almost daring your acknowledgment of his predicament. I was ready.

"Makes you a bunch easier to find," I said. "Cute,
Leo. Real cute. Wadda you want?" "That finder program you gave me
worked good." "Yeah, don't let it get around, though. Most of those
yodels out there on the Web think they got privacy rights. They think
they're out there in these chat groups and that they're the only one's
listening." He gave a short, dry laugh. "Most of 'em would shit if they
had any idea how public it all really was."

"I've got the number where she is now. Looks like a Bellevue exchange to me," I commented.

A long pause. No way Carl was going to make this easy | on me.

"Lemme guess. Now you need the address."

"It's too new, man. It's not in my reverse phone
book. Besides that, it's inside that big condo development up there by
the crossroads. I'm gonna need building and apartment. Be a sport."

"A sport, huh? A sport? Tell me, Leo, you generally
call folks after midnight and ask 'em for favors? Is this a regular
occurrence with you? You think maybe that explains your || vast and
continuing popularity?"

"I only call vampires like you this late."

Within our mutual circle of friends, Carl was
renowned for, among other oddities, apparently never sleeping. No
matter what time of day you called or arrived, he was up, dressed, and
sitting in his wheelchair.

"I'll have to call you back," he said with a snort.
"I've got all my lines except this one dedicated to something useful at
the moment. And Leo--"

"What?"

"You okay? You sound a little "

"Wasted," I helped him out. "I've had a few."

"Careful," he said.

"Always."

Carl hung up. I shuffled into the kitchen and put
together a pot of coffee. Just as I snapped the little basket into the
machine, the phone rang. Carl with the address. I stood around until I
could pour myself a cup, spent a few minutes with a map of the
Eastside, then called Jed.

"Hello," he answered immediately.

"You're up late," I commented.

"Trying to figure out what in holy hell I'm going to tell the library board tomorrow night."

"You'll be pleased to know that may not be necessary."

"You got something?"

"Just Karen Mendolson."

"You have her? Dammit, Leo, you're "

"I know where she is," I amended.

I could hear him gritting his teeth. "Where's that?"

"Bellevue," I said.

"You sure?" he said.

Before I could answer, he said, "Have you ?"

"I've had a few," I said.

I gave him a detailed rundown of the night's
activities. "You better find out who's trying so damn hard to off you,"
he said when I'd finished. "Seems like they're not going away."

"Amen, brother," I said. "I hear you. What do you want to do about the girl?"

"I'm thinking."

"I don't suppose you want to just call the cops."

"Are you crazy? The vote is less than a week away.
No. No. The cops are out of the question. We've got to keep this thing
under wraps. We gotta do this ourselves."

"Do what?"

"Confront her, dammit. We've got to scare the hell
out of that woman. Get back as much of the money as we can. I mean, if
all she's been doing is hiding out over on the Eastside, she can't have
spent a whole hell of a lot of it, can she? It's not like she's been
shopping in Paris or something."

"Then we better do it now," I said. "You want to put the fear of God in somebody, you roust 'em in the middle of the night."

He heaved an audible sigh. "Hang on," he said, setting the phone down with a sharp click.

I sipped coffee, hearing the sound of a distant
conversation leaking over the line, a man and a woman, something about
a wedding brunch, and under that, the electronic echo of a busy signal
reverberated from some other wire somewhere on the planet. I was
immersed in the electronic wonder of it all when Jed picked up. "You
there?" he asked.

"Rooted to the spot."

"All right, come--"

I stopped him. "You'll have to come get me. I took
a cab home from the Zoo. Also, if you remember, the last time you rode
in my car you ended up feeling a bit queasy."

"Queasy?" he growled. "Hell, man, I blew chunks all
over the azaleas. Sarah made me hose 'em off in the morning. She still
busts my balls about it. Jesus, Leo, I can't believe you still haven't
gotten that damn thing fixed."

"It is fixed," I insisted.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," he huffed. "Have some coffee. Get yourself--"

"Wear jeans and sneakers," I interrupted. "We may have to do a little climbing."

"What climbing?"

"I'll tell you about it when you get here," I said.

I took my own advice, changing into a pair of gray
jeans, a black sweatshirt, and an old pair of black basketball shoes
from the seventies. I strapped the little Beretta .32 to my left ankle,
standing, walking around the bed, finding it moved a bit, and then
tightening the straps until I was confident it would stay put even at a
dead run. I slipped the big 9mm into the shoulder harness and donned my
old green canvas jacket over it. I shimmied my shoulders, allowing the
big automatic to fall comfortably into place. Until further notice, I
was only taking it off to shower.

By the time I slid into the seat next to Jed, I'd
had another full cup of coffee and was beginning to come around. Jed's
deep blue Lexus seemed to move without effort or sound.

"Take the 520 bridge," I said as I got in.

"Climbing?" he said.

"According to my map, she's inside that big apartmentcondo thing over there in Bellevue. Up by the crossroads."

"The one with the big white wall that the neighbors sued over?"

"Yeah. I think it's called Overlake Village."

"You really think they're going to have somebody on duty at this tune of night? In Bellevue?" He chuckled.

"You're way out of date, man," I said. "That part
of Swellvue has gone straight to hell. The state made the city live up
to the low-income-housing guidelines. You know, so many low income for
so many upscale. They built this huge complex. Put 'em all in one
place, then walled the sucker in. It's a Little Saigon, with ten
thousand recently arrived Russians thrown into the candy like
peanuts. For the 'burbs, it's downright nasty, my man. These days, if I
have to go in there on business, I generally hire a couple of leg
breakers for backup."

Jed mulled it over. We rolled past the Arboretum
and onto the floating bridge in silence. Finally, Jed broke the spell.
"Those papers that magically appeared," he said. "Yeah?"

"Very interesting." "How so?"

"If I'm reading them right--which I am--Sub-Rosa
has nothing to either gain or lose from the question of Lukkas Terry's
estate. As near as I can tell, their end of the profits is ironclad.
They get their end right off the top. Sure--the kid's death amounted to
killing the goose. They'd be better off if he was still making records,
but they get their percentage of whatever there is, no matter what.
Their asses are covered. The contract's good. In keeping with recent
equity rulings, too."

Even at this time of night, the bridge was full, an
undulating backbone of red taillights moving east, and insistent yellow
beams squinting west. "Equity rulings?"

"Courts have been upholding intellectual property
rights lately." He could sense my confusion. "You know, like how in the
old days guys would make a record, have a huge hit, but not really make
anything out of it, because they'd signed these shitty contracts with
some record company that ended up with all the cash." "Yeah."

"The courts have put a stop to that lately. Started
right around here, when the State of Washington Supreme Court gave
royalty rights back to Jimi Hendrix's family, even though he'd
repeatedly signed them away."

"I vaguely remember that."

"The court called bullshit on 'em. Said that when
it comes to intellectual rights, contracts that did not meet fairness
standards would now and forever be subject to review. Started a trend
all over the country. There's enough precedence to choke a goat out
there now. You sign a contract with any kind of artist or musician, you
better make damn sure he and his heirs are getting what they deserve or
you might stand to lose your end of the action."

"Really?"

"Really. And Sub-Rosa's financial position isn't
half bad. I had one of the associates run it for me. They're on a roll.
The Terry kid was their biggest star, but they're doing pretty damn
good otherwise too. Whenever the new record hits the stores, they're
fat city. I just don't see them giving a shit whether the kid had a
mother or not."

"They sure didn't seem to."

"That's because whatever she gets is coming out of somebody else's end, not theirs."

"Curiouser and curiouser.''

"What's really interesting is the other end."

"What other end?"

"Terry and Conover."

"What about it?"

"They're not just artist and manager. They're full partners, with full survivorship rights."

"Do tell."

" 'Deed I do."

"You, of course, know what that suggests."

"Except for the very prominent fact that the kid was the golden goose. Nobody ever profits from killing the meal ticket."

Jed had a point. "Get off at one-forty-eighth," I
said. "And, by the by, Leo--good work. The papers, finding this woman.
All of it. Good work." "We're not home free yet," I said.

The booth was small and white; the guard was big
and black. We rolled by close enough for me to see him moisten his
fingers at his small mouth and delicately turn a page in a crisp
National Geographic.