Seattle Noir

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