by Jack Cady
She sat, more beautiful than ever. Her face seemed thinner which accented her dark eyes. Long hair framed her face. Her hands, always beautiful, always one of the pretty things about her also seemed thinner; hands streamlined and practical, hands that could make everyday magic along with other magics. Annie, who the fisherman knew was fond of him in a sisterly way, was clearly on defense as she tried to figure out who she could trust.
“Tell me,” he said to Annie.
It was, the fisherman would later muse, like one of those dark and improbable Russian plays where everybody does right things for wrong reasons, and wrong things for stupid reasons; and then stands hollering in the wind, or kneeling broken and bent before one or another altar. A ‘course, the fisherman would also later reflect, this wasn’t Russia. Besides, Annie was Greek, and Sugar Bear was a mongrel.
The part about Chantrell was easy. Nobody would want to hurt the poor sap, but a scorpion, even of innocent intent, was still a scorpion.
The part about Petey wasn’t easy. It looked like Petey and the cop had a date with destiny. Instead of the cop chasing Petey, Petey chased the cop.
“Not, a ‘course, like anything real obvious.” Sugar Bear puzzled, looked around the immaculate house that made him even more puzzled. “But wherever the cop shows up, Petey shows up. Like he’s checking the cop out. Could be the cop is getting nervous.”
“And that’s good,” Annie murmured without explaining why. As near as the fisherman could tell, Annie ran a number on herself. She didn’t look unhappy, but she didn’t look particularly happy.
“Makes ‘police harassment’ take on new meaning,” the fisherman mused. Then the fisherman realized something. He brightened. “It’s a hustle. Petey’s a hustler. He’s running a hustle on the cop.”
Sugar Bear had probably not smiled in a long time. Now he looked delighted. Annie giggled, but the giggle was tense. The fisherman realized matters were just a little less than hysteric. He tried to take advantage of what cheer existed.
“So what’s his hustle?”
“Hustlers got a world of their own, so there ain’t no way of telling.” Part of Sugar Bear’s delight came because he could think of somebody else’s troubles.
“A hustle depends on letting the other guy believe he’ll get what he wants.”
“So what does a cop want?”
“He wants to hurt somebody. He wants to solve a case. What does a cop ever want?” Annie, the fisherman realized, was not as subdued as she seemed. Anyone who came after Sugar Bear would have to deal with Greek thunder. Big time.
“Easy answer,” the fisherman told Annie. “Sooner or later we’ll think it through.” He looked at Sugar Bear. “And there was a pool tournament?”
“I shoulda gone,” Sugar Bear said. “The cash-stash is running a little low.”
To the fisherman it seemed Sugar Bear was large as ever, but if you looked close his clothes hung a little loose. If he did not have that faceful of fur, he might even look thin.
“As well you didn’t,” Annie told Sugar Bear, then looked to the fisherman. “I know those people.”
And yes, the fisherman recalled, Annie had emigrated from the development, so, yes, she knew those people. He listened as the sordid story unfolded.
It was clear that, in the case of the tow truck kid, only the optimism of youth could possibly have walked into that polish situation and driven away with a half-paid-for Dodge pickup, driving toward doom and utter darkness; or, maybe, at least, coasting toward perdition. Plus, a ‘course, a Canal story went with it.
The story said the kid showed up with a team of beetle-ladychampions wearing purple bowling shirts. The champions were a mixture of Beer and Bait, and Rough and Randy regulars. Under the beetle-lady’s tutelage some of them actually learned to speak words instead of grunts.
Arrayed on the other side, and clad in pastel golfing togs, a team of business jocks wielded seven-hundred-dollar pool cues above a pair of tables so big they looked like soccer fields. Standard plastic balls rolled on the table, but a classic set of ivory balls, yellowed with age, and under lock and key, nestled like diamonds in a small case on the wall. They seemed like memories of antique conquest, of the white man’s burden, and of jolly excursions up dark and exotic rivers.
A well-stocked bar sat at one end of the room, and around the bar sat gowned ladies who wore the colors of butterflies. Subdued music, sorta churchy, or opera-type, came from the tape deck. Autographed pictures of Republican presidents and secretaries of state hung on the walls. Cigar smoke from hundredbuck havannas magically whirled away on warm air circulated through a filter system. Drinks were on the house.
Free booze caused the boys of Rough and Randy to experience sweat in their armpits, and wonder into what type of cow plop they had just stepped. Free booze was the oldest hustle in the book. Either these rich guys were secret hustlers, or so damn dumb it made a fella’s mouth water just to think about it.
The whole deal, the story continued, turned into that kind of cuss-and-cream-soda-hustle you’d expect from a smarty-type kid backed by frowsy regulars. That is to say: indelicate.
The rich guys actually held their own for an hour. The rich guys were gracious. They complimented the bar guys on good shots. The rich guys whispered like co-conspirators, and even demonstrated a little know-how when it came to setting their partners up. As the rich guys settled into their game they pulled off some pretty showy action.
Meanwhile, the butterflies did not actually do handsprings, stand on each other’s shoulders, or any cheerleader-type stuff, but they grew pretty boisterous for butterflies. As Mr. Jack Daniels lowered inhibitions, clapping and smiles increased. By the end of an hour the butterflies turned from a flock of flowers into a howling wolfpack—which, as anyone has gotta admit, is mixing a couple metaphors, but that generally happens in Canal stories.
At the end of an hour the rich guys began to fade. They started forcing their shots. Their cues no longer hung loose in their hands, and sweat in their palms asked for increasing amounts of talcum. Little wrinkles around eyes deepened, and eyes narrowed and looked snarly. The whole show did a one-eighty as rich guys began missing shots. If the butterflies had turned into a wolfpack, the bar guys now turned into wolverines.
The rest is Canal history. The bar guys did their best as they tried for a sophisticated hustle. It didn’t work. They still sounded like a used car salesman urging a reluctant customer toward something that needs a valve job. The rich guys put up with it, because the rich guys knew the hustle had started. And, being rich, the rich guys could not believe they could lose. As matters grew serious, the tow truck kid made out best. He was so damn dumb he played for the whole pot every time, and got on a roll.
At the end of it, as butterflies drifted off with great indifference, the rich guys managed to remain civil. The bar guys tried not to act like the kind of boys they are. Still, it turned into a long night, and the worst part was the indifference of the butterflies; indifference worse than scorn. The bar guys departed the premises with no small amount of cash, but with feelings most uneasy.
“And that’s where it stands,” Annie explained. “Now we’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
The fisherman, mildly alarmed, told of the rich guy at Beer and Bait, and how that guy fired the tow truck kid. He told how the rich guy and the beetle-lady were married. The fisherman told about little-finger stuff, and as he talked he felt scary because rich guy promised another joust at pool.
“He’s running true to form,” Annie murmured. “That kid thought he was hustling, but rich guy pulled the hustle.”
Annie was, the fisherman told himself, either sharper than he was, or else talking to herself.
“Bait and switch,” Annie explained. “The kid thinks this deal is about pool. It’s about something else. Hard to say what!” She looked through the kitchen window into the forest. Shadows lay deep, and moisture feathered the needles of trees like silver. If Annie saw important stuff out
there she did not say. Instead she talked about the housing project.
“It’s a game to them. They’ll spend two thousand dollars and two months planning a way to cheat their brother out of a hundred bucks. Then they’ll spend a thousand dollars more on a party in their brother’s honor.” She looked back into the forest where shadows lay deep. “I don’t know enough,” she whispered. “I should have paid more attention.” She sounded sad, and she definitely was not speaking to the fisherman or Sugar Bear.
“Maybe all this is good,” Sugar Bear said. “If we get a lot of flak then everybody worries about the flak. They’ll talk about other stuff. The cop snoops someplace else.”
“Don’t get too hopeful,” the fisherman said. “How come you’re looking poorly?”
“I can’t work,” Sugar Bear told him. “That’s the deal. I go along for a while, get to feeling good, do a little work, and get sicky. I piddle around, get to feeling good again, fire up the forge and get sicky.” He looked at Annie, his look sweet as his name and gentle as his nature. He was clearly smitten. “The best thing in the world happens, and here I am, breaking down. I can’t work.”
And that, the fisherman thought, had to be the worst possible thing that could happen. Even the biggest goldbrick in the world did something buildable. True, some guys built, and some tore down, but doing was a damn infliction. Even poor dopey old Chantrell had built visions.
“The dead guy . . .” Sugar Bear began, and was interrupted. “Forget the dead guy. He’s zip. Gone. Take care of what’s here, right now.” Annie turned to the fisherman. She did not exactly ask for anything, not exactly; but her look asked for help he wanted to give and couldn’t. He didn’t see how to get a handhold on the problem.
The fisherman absentmindedly tapped a finger against his beer can and tried to look encouraging. This was the woman he loved and lost, but he’d already spent nearly a month learning to handle that. And, he told himself, he was sorta handling it.
Plus, Sugar Bear was his best friend. A thoughtful guy ought to come up with something. Then, for no reason he could see, the fisherman thought of the tow truck kid. The kid had looked scared in spite of his smart mouth.
“The key to the cop might be the kid,” the fisherman mused. “They work together.”
“Cops ain’t that mysterious.” Sugar Bear studied the problem like a man about to take a test for a seaman’s ticket. “If mystery stuff is happening, I don’t see how a cop plays any part.”
“The cop is lonesome. I do know that.” Annie told how, on one hot day, she watched the cop from the forest. He looked lonesome then, and hot, and miserable. If he hadn’t been a cop she would have taken him a lemonade.
“So is Bertha,” the fisherman said. “Lonesome. But she don’t know it.”
The three people looked at each other in disbelief. “Naw,” Sugar Bear said. “Can’t happen.”
“Anything can,” Annie told him. She once more turned to the fisherman. “I don’t see how this feeds into our problem.”
“Maybe it doesn’t, but it’s one thing we don’t know about. And, the kid knows something. I’ll quiz the kid.”
“Or the cop,” Sugar Bear said. “But who’s gonna do discussion group with a cop?”
“Me, maybe,” Annie told him. “Also with Bertha. Bartenders know everything that’s going on.”
Petey Hustles and the Fisherman Shudders
Next day the fisherman visited the dunk site. With sun behind mountains and pink mist across water, state cops leaned against their cars. They did not make conversation. A 911 ambulance pulled away carrying two dead people. The yellow crane whirred into silence, having deposited its burden. The fisherman approached the kid.
“The cops are scared.” The tow truck kid worked rapidly as he talked to the fisherman. The kid’s dishwater blond hair had grown movie-star shaggy. He moved muscular and brisk, but kept his head down. On his trailer sat a Ford crummy-wagon, one of those new-type outfits with fancy interior, now soggy. It looked like a twisted and stomped, squashed beer can. The purr of the yellow crane speeded as cable and harness lifted up, up, and away, having deposited the wreck on the kid’s trailer.
This first week of October showed little traffic. Only one cop played beckon-and-whistle, or stop-or-I’ll-bust-you. Petey stood on the other side of the road beside his parked Plymouth, pretending to watch traffic while doing his “aw shucks” act. Petey looked guilty enough to hang.
The fisherman leaned against the kid’s trailer. The kid rigged tie-downs, racheted them tight, moving around the trailer with the efficiency of a guy doing the job right, even though scared.
“The beer-and-bait cop is spookiest,’’ the kid said. “Other cops talk but that guy just watches. He’s primed for something. I think the guy’s in trouble, and so dumb he don’t know it.” The kid moved quick. It was clear he didn’t like to get anywhere near the wreck, but was bein’ brave because he must.
“The job is getting to everybody,” the fisherman suggested.
“Not everybody,” the kid told him. “Some of these cops get their hots off it. They find it fascinatin’.”
“And the beer-and-bait cop?”
“The guy’s a damn Crusader Rabbit,’’ the kid said. “Bertha better watch out.”
“Bertha is smart.”
The kid looked along the shore, looked at the now silent crane. The fisherman watched while pretending to look elsewhere. He told himself he would-be-damn. The kid actually shuddered.
“I figure it this way,’’ the kid said. “Petey’s gonna get busted. Petey’s gonna spread enough bull that cops screw up and spill over on other guys . . . you confuse a cop, the cop busts everybody. Guys will get grilled like steak. Bertha better choose up sides because guys talk. She’ll never sell another beer.”
“There’s something more,” the fisherman suggested. “When you get that heap secured I’ll stand for suds. I need to talk.” The fisherman told himself he sounded like a weenie, but it was in a good cause. “I spend a lot of time on the water,” he told the kid. “And it’s getting ten-past-scary out there. You know what I mean?” He tried to make his voice sound timid, and was surprised because it sounded more timid than he tried for.
The kid was startled, but tried not to show it. His shoulders came up a bit. He rubbed muscles in his upper arm, gave an extra rachet to a tie-down. The wrecked Ford squeaked. The fisherman was treating the kid like a full grown man. This wasn’t pool table stuff, this was real stuff. It took the kid a minute to get a handle on it, and another minute to feel proud.
“. . . know what you mean,” he told the fisherman. The kid looked toward the beer-and-bait cop. “He’s gonna hassle and hassle and hassle.” The kid sounded nearly scornful. “He ain’t gonna solve nothing, not if he goes home every night.” The kid moved toward the cab of his truck. “I got something to talk over. I’ll meet you down to Bertha’s.”
═
The parking lot of Beer and Bait showed that a few Canal citizens had knocked off work early. Loggers, house painters, carpenters, and bug exterminators would be nuzzling the bar. Enough bull would fly to serve as cover for serious conversation. The fisherman had that “halibut feeling,” like he just put a line onto a big one.
When the tow truck kid pulled into the lot a few guys gathered to view the wrecked Ford. The kid had to stay out there and act modest. The fisherman staked out a table in back, and went for a pitcher. By the time the kid got done, the fisherman was halfway to the bottom of his first glass.
The kid sorta strutted from the front door to the fisherman’s table, but stopped showing off the minute he sat. He lowered his voice. “I bin catching crap about losing that Ranchero.” Then, remembering he was being treated like a man, and not like a kid, he started talking like a man. “Probably deserve it, too. I knew to stay off that road after closing time.”
This was, the fisherman realized, a pretty good kid. The guy was no older than Annie, which meant he knew a lot about being young and how to r
un tow trucks, but still had to get the world figured out. Whatever scared him might be nothing, or it might be so big the kid didn’t know enough to be totally terrified.
“You’re too good of a driver,” the fisherman suggested. “You’re not the kind that dunks a pickup after a couple beers.”
“I told the cops I went to sleep but that ain’t true. Something’s bending the road.” The kid talked so low he could hardly be heard because of musical groans from the tape deck. He sounded apologetic. “I know that sounds nuts.”
“Something’s humping in the Canal,” the fisherman said. “If you want ‘nuts,’ that’s nuts.”
“This is worse.” The kid looked halfway ready to fight, halfway ready to cry.
The fisherman first thought he heard more bull but got rid of that. He next thought the kid was crazy but that didn’t play. Then he thought of the sea, and of stuff walking across water during fog. He thought of shapeless blocks of meat snagged by long lines, hooked off the bottom.
“. . . looked almost like a person,” the kid said. “You couldn’t stand the smell did you live with it for ten minutes.” The kid’s voice was now apologetic. He expected to be called a liar. The kid took a chance with the fisherman, and the fisherman appreciated that.
“. . . sounds crazy,” the kid said, “but if you go there after closing time . . .”
“You’re right,” the fisherman said. “If that’s what happens the cop isn’t gonna solve anything, because he goes home every night.” The fisherman started to pour another beer.
The kid stopped him. “I gotta git. It’s Friday. The yard closes at six, and I don’t want to take that wreck home with me.” He stood, suddenly shy. “You won’t say nothing, willya?”
“You’re a good man,” the fisherman told him. “Not a word.”
The kid left, proud but not cocky. He walked with confidence and not a bit of strut. The fisherman sat, reflected, and asked himself if he was actually dumb enough to go to that dunk site after closing. He told himself, naw, nope, uh-uh, hell no. Well, maybe not.
