Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? Read Online Free PDF Page A

be taller. The years had
carved even more meat from his already gaunt frame, further emphasizing his
baseball-size Adam's apple and prominent ears.
    Ralph, who'd picked up and kept whatever weight Harold had lost, used to be
some sort of port official. The extra folds of skin on his face, combined with
a startling lack of functioning brain cells, gave him the benign countenance of
the Mona Lisa. Inner peace by default.
    George had been one of the first high-level bankers to get the axe in the
great merger mania but was hanging in there pretty good. His finely chiseled
features and slicked-back mane of white hair made him look like a boxing
announcer. If you didn't look into his eyes or down at his shoes, you could
mistake George for a functioning member of society.
    Other than a sadness for the past and a taste for the grape, there seemed to
be two factors keeping these guys together. One was their financial status.
Each had managed to hang in there long enough to have garnered a meager monthly
stipend from his respective employer. Not a full pension, not enough to make it
alone, but enough, when you added it the money I paid them, to collectively
keep them in liquor and out of the rain.
    The other factor was their wardrobes. None of them had yet reached the
Dumpster stage. Each was attired in the last remnants of his executive
wardrobe. Finely tailored costs and slacks, stained and worn to a shine, hung
mismatched on their bloated, sagging bodies, a credit to their tailors and a
link to their pasts.
    We drank to the good old days. I sported them to another round. We drank to
my father. One by one, as it became obvious that a third round was not
forthcoming, Harold, Ralph, and George said their good-byes and drifted back to
their deeded spots along the bar, leaving Buddy and me alone. Buddy stepped in
close. He smelled like an attic.
    "You got anything going that we can help you with, Leo?"
    I often used Buddy and his friends as field operatives. The destitute and
the homeless had become so prevalent and so bother some in Seattle that they
were able to operate under a cloak of cultural invisibility. They were there,
but nobody saw them. They could hang around places for days at a time without
being noticed. It was as if they had their own little socioeconomic force
field. Even better, they took great pride in their work and didn't require much
in the way of fringe benefits. When they worked for me, they stayed relatively
sober. When I paid them, they got drunk. It worked.
    "Things are a little slow right now, Buddy. Mostly paper trails, but if
I get anything, I'll let you know."
    Buddy eyed me closely. His eyes were filigreed with red. I watched as he
went through one of those instantaneous mood swings that only drunks and
menstruating women can manage.
    "You wouldn't be getting self-righteously sober on us now, would you,
Leo? Maybe too good to be working with a bunch of old drunks like us
anymore?"
    "No way, Buddy. I'm just a mostly sober drunk, that's all."
    Buddy relaxed. "Good," he said, downing a Scotch followed by a
beer chaser. " ‘Cause I got a little information I'd like to pass your
way." He patted his chest as the liquor made its way down. His eyes
watered.
    "Smoooooth," he wheezed. I waited. "That's why I thought you
might have something interesting going on."
    "Why's that?"
    "Guess who's been around looking for you?" he asked smugly.
    "Frankie Ortega," I said.
    "Goddammit, Leo."
    "Just a wild guess."
    Buddy was pissed. I'd ruined his surprise. He ordered another boilermaker. I
paid for it. He went through the same routine as he gulped it down. This time,
his nose started to run. He wiped it on his sleeve.
    "He found you, huh?"
    "Nope," I said. Buddy leaned close again.
    "You're not into Tim for money, are you? I mean, Jesus Christ, Leo -
"
    "Don't worry, Buddy. I'm not into Tim for money."
    "Good." He breathed out heavily, and the air reeked of mothballs.
"We're gonna have to move on. Did I tell you that?"
    "No.