Read Online Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? by G. M. Ford - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: G. M. Ford
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kicking the tires, slapping the
roof, and reminiscing about the days when Detroit made real cars like this one.
I led them on a run-through of checking the oil and extracted a promise that
they'd check it twice a day. I'd burned another half quart getting downtown.
They'd christened it "The Drunk Tank." Buddy, by default, had been
appointed designated driver.
Last I'd seen them, Monday afternoon, Buddy, his eyes barely above the
wheel, was tooling up Occidental with George riding shotgun. Harold and Ralph
had appropriated the rear seat and rode facing backward like a pair of those
spring-loaded hula dolls. They disappeared in a carbon monoxide fog as Buddy
eased her away from the light. Tailgaters beware.
"They're just fancy panhandlers, Leo. That's all," said Buddy.
Buddy was holding down my recliner, contentedly flossing with a matchbook cover.
The rest of the crew were lined up on the couch. To George's never-ending
chagrin, Buddy fancied himself management. Harold and Ralph always sided with
whoever was winning at the moment.
"Those vans take them around to whatever events are going on in town.
They stand out front and panhandle with those little cans they carry." He
consulted his notes. "So far, we been to a couple of ball games, the
Opera. They make regular rounds over at the locks and down on the
waterfront."
"How do they do?" I asked.
"No more than twenty a day each," said George, who was deemed to
be the resident on panhandling. "They're too pushy."
"How many of them?"
"Twelve out at a time. Two vans." Buddy again.
"How many people live in the building?"
"We figure twenty total. Give or take a few." Harold.
"It's hard to tell, there's a lot of traffic in and out." George.
"These kids all look alike to me." Ralph.
"What they all look is dumb." Buddy.
"Specially the hairdo on the kid who seems to be I charge." Ralph
laughed. "Leo, you ought to see - " We were getting way off track. I
pulled them back.
"Tell me about Caroline." This produced the usual round of
snorting, elbowing, and rude remarks. Buddy broke it up.
"She don't panhandle, Leo. She's got something else going on."
"Tell me about it." Buddy checked his notes again.
"She keeps meeting this guy down by Pier Fifty-seven. Around two in the
afternoon. They both drive up, find a parking space, and just sit there for a
while, looking all around."
"In the same car?" I asked.
"Nope." Harold.
"In the cars they come in. She drives this little blue Toyota. He
drives this big old Ford pickup. Big tires. Real muddy."
"And they just sit there in their cars?"
"For a while," said Buddy.
"Then what?"
"Well, on Monday he got out and walked over and got in her car. On
Wednesday she go out and went over and sat in his car."
"For how long?"
George fanned his notes. "Half hour or so on Monday. Forty minutes on
Wednesday."
"Boyfriend?" I asked.
"No way," said Buddy quickly.
"Could be," offered George. Harold and Ralph shrugged and waited.
"Looked like they were arguing to me," insisted Buddy.
"They was sitting' right on top of one another, for Chrissake,"
said George. Harold and Ralph nodded in agreement.
"He's an Eskimo," said Harold.
"Mexican," mumbled Ralph.
George held out for some sort of Indian. East, West, American, he wasn't
sure.
"What then?"
"They get back in their own cars and take off." Buddy.
"Where to?" I asked.
"She goes right back to headquarters." Buddy again.
"What about him?"
They all looked at Buddy. There was a problem.
"You tell him, George," said Buddy. When in doubt, delegate.
"You were driving, you tell him."
Buddy fidgeted around in the recliner, took a deep breath, and started.
"Well. Leo, on Wednesday George and I were ready. Ralph stayed back at
headquarters. Harold found this great old Safeway cart and was pushing it
around down there where they park."
"Got right up next to their car," bragged Harold.
"George and I were ready to follow him - "
"Found four bucks worth of cans too." Harold
roof, and reminiscing about the days when Detroit made real cars like this one.
I led them on a run-through of checking the oil and extracted a promise that
they'd check it twice a day. I'd burned another half quart getting downtown.
They'd christened it "The Drunk Tank." Buddy, by default, had been
appointed designated driver.
Last I'd seen them, Monday afternoon, Buddy, his eyes barely above the
wheel, was tooling up Occidental with George riding shotgun. Harold and Ralph
had appropriated the rear seat and rode facing backward like a pair of those
spring-loaded hula dolls. They disappeared in a carbon monoxide fog as Buddy
eased her away from the light. Tailgaters beware.
"They're just fancy panhandlers, Leo. That's all," said Buddy.
Buddy was holding down my recliner, contentedly flossing with a matchbook cover.
The rest of the crew were lined up on the couch. To George's never-ending
chagrin, Buddy fancied himself management. Harold and Ralph always sided with
whoever was winning at the moment.
"Those vans take them around to whatever events are going on in town.
They stand out front and panhandle with those little cans they carry." He
consulted his notes. "So far, we been to a couple of ball games, the
Opera. They make regular rounds over at the locks and down on the
waterfront."
"How do they do?" I asked.
"No more than twenty a day each," said George, who was deemed to
be the resident on panhandling. "They're too pushy."
"How many of them?"
"Twelve out at a time. Two vans." Buddy again.
"How many people live in the building?"
"We figure twenty total. Give or take a few." Harold.
"It's hard to tell, there's a lot of traffic in and out." George.
"These kids all look alike to me." Ralph.
"What they all look is dumb." Buddy.
"Specially the hairdo on the kid who seems to be I charge." Ralph
laughed. "Leo, you ought to see - " We were getting way off track. I
pulled them back.
"Tell me about Caroline." This produced the usual round of
snorting, elbowing, and rude remarks. Buddy broke it up.
"She don't panhandle, Leo. She's got something else going on."
"Tell me about it." Buddy checked his notes again.
"She keeps meeting this guy down by Pier Fifty-seven. Around two in the
afternoon. They both drive up, find a parking space, and just sit there for a
while, looking all around."
"In the same car?" I asked.
"Nope." Harold.
"In the cars they come in. She drives this little blue Toyota. He
drives this big old Ford pickup. Big tires. Real muddy."
"And they just sit there in their cars?"
"For a while," said Buddy.
"Then what?"
"Well, on Monday he got out and walked over and got in her car. On
Wednesday she go out and went over and sat in his car."
"For how long?"
George fanned his notes. "Half hour or so on Monday. Forty minutes on
Wednesday."
"Boyfriend?" I asked.
"No way," said Buddy quickly.
"Could be," offered George. Harold and Ralph shrugged and waited.
"Looked like they were arguing to me," insisted Buddy.
"They was sitting' right on top of one another, for Chrissake,"
said George. Harold and Ralph nodded in agreement.
"He's an Eskimo," said Harold.
"Mexican," mumbled Ralph.
George held out for some sort of Indian. East, West, American, he wasn't
sure.
"What then?"
"They get back in their own cars and take off." Buddy.
"Where to?" I asked.
"She goes right back to headquarters." Buddy again.
"What about him?"
They all looked at Buddy. There was a problem.
"You tell him, George," said Buddy. When in doubt, delegate.
"You were driving, you tell him."
Buddy fidgeted around in the recliner, took a deep breath, and started.
"Well. Leo, on Wednesday George and I were ready. Ralph stayed back at
headquarters. Harold found this great old Safeway cart and was pushing it
around down there where they park."
"Got right up next to their car," bragged Harold.
"George and I were ready to follow him - "
"Found four bucks worth of cans too." Harold
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