Ruth smiled at him, her hand still on his arm. “You’re doing good. Tell me more, Dougie.”
“No one got out of the helicopter, but then I heard this guy shout, he was using a bullhorn, I guess, ’cause it was loud—he shouted for Humbug to get over there, quick. And sure enough, I look up and see Humbug staring down at the helicopter from out of his third-floor window, and he shouts back that he’s coming and waves. I don’t know how they could have heard him, what with those blades whirling around so fast, sounded like a war down here they was so loud, and enough dirt was kicking up to blind you. Got in my hair, right? Humbug had to bend over, cover his face with his hands and run, the dirt was so thick, like one of those African siroccos, got all over all of us. He trotted over to that helicopter and I couldn’t believe what he did—he climbed right in, and after a while he climbed back out again and the helicopter lifted right straight up. That’s why I’m wearing a towel, in case it comes back, I don’t want no more sand on my head.” And again, he patted the towel on his head.
“That’s smart, Dougie,” Ruth said, her voice patient. “But you didn’t see Manta Ray?”
“No siree, Ruth, only heard that bullhorn voice.” He looked up at Jack. “Can I keep the bucks?”
“Sure,” Jack said, and stuck out his hand. “Dougie, I’m Jack and this is Cam. Was Humbug carrying anything when he ran to the helicopter?”
“Yeah, it was one of them leather carryalls, brown I think. Don’t know where he got it, why he had it, and why he took it to that helicopter. Don’t know nothing more, Ruth, not a blessed thing.”
Cam said, “Is Humbug in that warehouse right now?”
“Nope, not yet, but Hummer’ll be back. He always comes back.”
“What can you tell us about him?”
Dougie looked from Jack to Cam. “You guys cop partners?”
“We are right now,” Cam said.
“If you weren’t so pretty, missy, I’d say you drive the bus, but I don’t know. This guy, he’s all tough-looking, hard—” He shook his head, as if getting his brain back on track, and gave them a smile, showing surprisingly white teeth.
“Come on, Dougie,” Cam said, “tell us about Humbug.”
“Yeah, well his name’s really Hummer, calls himself Major Hummer, doesn’t like us calling him Humbug. He sometimes lives here, sometimes goes back to that other world out there, but four, six months later, he’s back again, babbling about all the jerks and cheats out there trying to kill him. Then he needs a drink and disappears into his room in the warehouse.”
Cam interrupted him, she was so excited. “Dougie, did you say Hummer is his real name?”
“Sure, he’s Hummer. He says Humbug means he’s supposed to hate Christmas, only he doesn’t, not really. He gave me this towel around Christmas, I think.” Dougie smoothed it over his ears, shook his head, gave Cam a sweet smile. “You know what else? Humbug is always rantin’ how if only the Feds had let him and his men loose he could have won that first shoot-out with Saddam in Iraq. He wouldn’t of stopped, nope, he’d have marched his ass to Baghdad and wiped out those damned terrorists, not let that Saddam fellow wiggle his way out of it like he did. Sometimes he gets so worked up he don’t make much sense, but sometimes—” He shook his head again, brought himself back. “I guess all I know about that war was it was a long time ago. Long time.”
Dougie’s towel had slipped again. This time, Ruth smoothed it back around his head.
“Ruth, it’s funny, you know? Here Humbug fought in the U.S. military and he’s Irish. Isn’t that strange? I mean, why would he give a crap about terrorists hurting the United States? But I guess we’ve got all sorts over there throwing bombs at each other. It beats me how anybody knows who the good guys are.”
“Irish,” Ruth repeated. She leaned down and gave Dougie a big hug, then smiled really big up at Cam and Jack. “Humbug is Irish. Sounds to me Manta Ray may have found a friend the day he was shot.”
Jack said, “Or maybe they already knew each other and that’s why Manta Ray came here in the first place. Dougie, which warehouse does Humbug live in?”
Dougie pointed an unsteady finger toward a tall skinny building some twenty yards away. “That’s the oldest place around here. Everyone except Humbug thinks it’s too dangerous. Like I said, he’s on the third floor when he’s here, lived there for a long time now, on and off, don’t know how long, maybe a year.”
Ruth tucked another twenty-dollar bill into Dougie’s collar, told him to stop drinking and buy some food.
“Ruth? I forgot to tell you, I think the guy on the bullhorn was Irish, too, he parlayed in this thick brogue. It coulda been fake, but who knows?”
“Thank you, Dougie.” She rose, grinned at Cam and Jack. “Time for us to pay a visit to Humbug’s crib.”
Jack and Cam shook Dougie’s hand and walked with Ruth past a half-dozen cardboard dwellings. Ruth said, “Most of all the homeless in this neighborhood prefer living outside rather than in any of the abandoned buildings, only bitter cold will drive them inside. They hate the rats and they’re afraid the floors will collapse on them. Do you know I didn’t know Humbug’s name was Hummer?” She shook her head at herself. “I must be slipping.”
Jack looked up at the decrepit warehouse. “The government spends so much money, why hasn’t this place seen a dime of it?”
Cam said, “Sooner or later, it’ll be made into condos. I wonder where Dougie and Sally and all the others will go?”
41
After they negotiated three floors of rotting stairs, they found Major Hummer’s crib quickly, the only place on the third floor that looked occupied. It was actually a small room with no door, its walls broken down to their bare wood frames, its two broken-out windows facing the front of the warehouse covered with cardboard thumb-tacked over them. Most of the space was stuffed six-feet high with decades of newspapers.
“So Humbug’s a hoarder,” Cam said as she carefully stepped around a stack of Washington Posts from 1993. “This isn’t going to be easy.”
Ruth pointed. “See that pile of blankets on those newspapers in the corner? That’s where he slept. I wonder if he kept Manta Ray’s carryall under his bed?”
She’d dug nearly to the bottom of that stack of newspapers when she blinked, called out, “Hey, what’s this?”
Cam and Jack made their way over to her, watched her carefully unfold a 2003 Washington Post want-ads section. She held up a bracelet. Diamonds spilled through her fingers, sparkling even in the dim light. “Looks like Humbug went through Manta Ray’s goodie bag and lifted a souvenir. Or maybe this was his reward.”
Jack took the diamond bracelet from Ruth, tossed it back and forth, watching the diamonds gleam and sparkle. “Pretty small diamonds, but a lot of them. Maybe high five figures?”
“Tell you in a minute.” Cam took out her cell phone, pulled up a set of photos with descriptions beneath them. “Ah, here we go. These inventory photos of the goods stolen from the safe-deposit boxes show this piece belonging to Mr. Horace Goodman, a big shot at the Stronach Group. They’re a holding company with real estate investments all over the country, including Pimlico in Baltimore, home of the Preakness Stakes. It says this bauble was insured for sixty thousand dollars.”
Jack said, “Mrs. Horace Goodman will be a happy camper when she gets it back.”
“Or whoever,” Ruth said, cynical to the bone.
Cam said, “Do you think Hummer knew the bracelet was from a robbery? Do you think he ever opened the leather carryall?”
“If he wasn’t tripping in outer space the whole time, how could he not look?” Jack straightened, looked around him. “I wonder what he thought when he heard Manta Ray calling to him, looked out that window to see a helicopter waiting for him.”