assumed must be the cabin. The rest of it was the usual crap. Old
receipts for car parts. A service manual for the truck and a collection of
downtown parking receipts. I kept the registration and the receipts and
shitcanned the rest. That left the bag.
I hadn't noticed it last night, but the bag was heavy. It was long and
narrow, with a zippered compartment for a baseball bat underneath. There seemed
to be a bat inside. I fished around. It turned out to be a three-foot metal
tube, capped with red plastic on both ends. I pried one of the caps off. The
interior was filled with what appeared to be rolled-up posters of some sort.
Carefully, I slid them out. Maps.
Unlabeled topographical maps, marked here and there with yellow highlighter.
Somebody had neatly snipped the border from each of the five maps, removing the
range and section notations in the process. Each of the dozen or so highlighted
areas was accompanied by a series of numeric notations, three numbers to each,
which made no sense to me. I rolled the maps back up and slid them back in the
tube.
A tattered army blanket filled the inside of the bag. The second my hands
began to lift it from the bag, I knew what it was. Nothing feels quite as solid
and compact as a weapon. I unrolled the blanket. I'd never see this model
before. Whatever the hell it was, it was dangerous. It looked like a fancy
water gun. Maybe two feet long. Made to use one-handed or two. Fully automatic.
Short vented snout. One long banana clip in place, several others folded up
carefully in the blanket. They looked to hold about eighty rounds each. The
last fold in the blanket turned up an ugly-looking silencer, machined to screw
on the front of the little gun. With one of these, Custer could have won the
battle by himself.
I rolled and folded it all back the way I'd found it and returned both gun
and the maps to he bag. Gently, I lifted the bag from the feathers that now
lined the inside of the sleeping bag and brushed off the bottom. Several missed
the sleeping bag and latched onto my carpet. I retrieved them. I fetched a roll
of duct tape from the kitchen. I threw in the useless paperwork from the truck,
laid the leather jacket on top of the pile, bundled it all back up, and taped
the corners together.
Before putting the bundled-up sleeping bag into the trunk of the car, I
removed the blob of whatever and filled it into the bag with the gun and the
maps. The wires and the aluminum test tubes went in last. The whole package
rode on the passenger seat. I went back upstairs.
I called the restaurant. If you wanted to talk to Floyd, you called the
restaurant. Floyd was never there. They'd never heard of anybody called Floyd.
Some things don't change. Somebody answered on the first ring.
"Windjammer."
"I need to talk to Floyd."
"Nobody here by that name, buddy."
"Well, just in case anybody with that name shows up, tell him Leo
Waterman needs to talk to him."
"Whatever floats your boat, pal." He hung up.
I vacuumed. I dusted. I did everything I could think of to assure that no
remnant of last night's debacle remained in the apartment. I had just
discovered a loose feather at large in the cooler strap when the phone rang.
"What?" was all he said.
"I need some help."
"You sure you can afford it?"
"I need mind, not muscle."
"That you might be able to afford."
"I need to now."
"Don't you always? A grand."
"Where?"
"You remember where it went down with the Jamaicans?"
"How could I forget?" In my little world, cleaning brains off my
car seats was a memorable event. Probably not in Floyd's.
"With you anything's possible. An hour." He was gone.
I'd have to hustle. Floyd was talking about Lincoln Park in West Seattle. It
was ten after eleven, between the rush hours, thirty minutes to Lincoln park. I
headed out. I got to the elevator just as the doors were closing. Neither the
young couple who lived next to the elevator nor the Pakistani gentleman from
the end of the hall made any attempt to
receipts for car parts. A service manual for the truck and a collection of
downtown parking receipts. I kept the registration and the receipts and
shitcanned the rest. That left the bag.
I hadn't noticed it last night, but the bag was heavy. It was long and
narrow, with a zippered compartment for a baseball bat underneath. There seemed
to be a bat inside. I fished around. It turned out to be a three-foot metal
tube, capped with red plastic on both ends. I pried one of the caps off. The
interior was filled with what appeared to be rolled-up posters of some sort.
Carefully, I slid them out. Maps.
Unlabeled topographical maps, marked here and there with yellow highlighter.
Somebody had neatly snipped the border from each of the five maps, removing the
range and section notations in the process. Each of the dozen or so highlighted
areas was accompanied by a series of numeric notations, three numbers to each,
which made no sense to me. I rolled the maps back up and slid them back in the
tube.
A tattered army blanket filled the inside of the bag. The second my hands
began to lift it from the bag, I knew what it was. Nothing feels quite as solid
and compact as a weapon. I unrolled the blanket. I'd never see this model
before. Whatever the hell it was, it was dangerous. It looked like a fancy
water gun. Maybe two feet long. Made to use one-handed or two. Fully automatic.
Short vented snout. One long banana clip in place, several others folded up
carefully in the blanket. They looked to hold about eighty rounds each. The
last fold in the blanket turned up an ugly-looking silencer, machined to screw
on the front of the little gun. With one of these, Custer could have won the
battle by himself.
I rolled and folded it all back the way I'd found it and returned both gun
and the maps to he bag. Gently, I lifted the bag from the feathers that now
lined the inside of the sleeping bag and brushed off the bottom. Several missed
the sleeping bag and latched onto my carpet. I retrieved them. I fetched a roll
of duct tape from the kitchen. I threw in the useless paperwork from the truck,
laid the leather jacket on top of the pile, bundled it all back up, and taped
the corners together.
Before putting the bundled-up sleeping bag into the trunk of the car, I
removed the blob of whatever and filled it into the bag with the gun and the
maps. The wires and the aluminum test tubes went in last. The whole package
rode on the passenger seat. I went back upstairs.
I called the restaurant. If you wanted to talk to Floyd, you called the
restaurant. Floyd was never there. They'd never heard of anybody called Floyd.
Some things don't change. Somebody answered on the first ring.
"Windjammer."
"I need to talk to Floyd."
"Nobody here by that name, buddy."
"Well, just in case anybody with that name shows up, tell him Leo
Waterman needs to talk to him."
"Whatever floats your boat, pal." He hung up.
I vacuumed. I dusted. I did everything I could think of to assure that no
remnant of last night's debacle remained in the apartment. I had just
discovered a loose feather at large in the cooler strap when the phone rang.
"What?" was all he said.
"I need some help."
"You sure you can afford it?"
"I need mind, not muscle."
"That you might be able to afford."
"I need to now."
"Don't you always? A grand."
"Where?"
"You remember where it went down with the Jamaicans?"
"How could I forget?" In my little world, cleaning brains off my
car seats was a memorable event. Probably not in Floyd's.
"With you anything's possible. An hour." He was gone.
I'd have to hustle. Floyd was talking about Lincoln Park in West Seattle. It
was ten after eleven, between the rush hours, thirty minutes to Lincoln park. I
headed out. I got to the elevator just as the doors were closing. Neither the
young couple who lived next to the elevator nor the Pakistani gentleman from
the end of the hall made any attempt to
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