by Jack Cady
And alone is what you get when you walk into a store, a bar, a church. Store clerks blush with memories of petty theft, bar folk bristle with indignation, and preachers invoke the father-confessorfifth even before you mention the name of a parishioner.
Plus, other cops are not much fun. Small town cops suck up. Sheriffs’ guys brag of criminal investigation, and you, a traffic officer get social conversation with no one. What you get is one more speeder, one more drunk; silently hostile, and convinced you are about to perforate his useless hide with ordnance.
Thus, if you get stuck with a junk job that won’t quit, like cars dunking, life is gonna change. You’ll really learn about being alone, because the job is so tainted it causes paper-shufflers and project-proposers and dispatchers to duck and cover. Because, whoever touches the unknowable is for sure going to get burned.
Still, the job is stuffed with mystery that would take the starch out of a sheriff’s brags. Suppose you are not yet old, and are handsome, and idealistic, and lonely (thus mildly neurotic); it’s easy to imagine you can solve mysteries that baffle experts. It’s easy to imagine you’ll drop the traffic job and become an investigative officer, this, despite the fact you’ve got as much chance as a hamburger in a nest of chow chows. It’s even easier to hunger after the first fine-looking woman who comes along.
And further suppose, that in a string of murders, you suspect there’s been an extra murder, but you have no remnant of deceased; no scrap of cloth, no tooth, shinbone, hank of hair. It’s easy to think one person is behind everything. If you can find the why and who of cars dunking, it’s a good guess that you can solve the whole business.
And even further suppose that among the partying populace are numbers of sell-outs and comedians. Most likely you will, on pulling them over, come up with names of murderers: Chantrell George (a likely suspect), Sugar Bear Smith (a solid citizen?) and a pool hustler name of Petey; this latter acting strange.
Given that, plus a dunked Plymouth, it pays to shake the back teeth of the community, to hear of certain whereabouts, because Petey has become prime suspect; a dunked car not evidence of a dunked guy, not when the guy is a hustler and the car is unscratched. And, you’ll naturally tell the other guys to keep lookout for a junkie, and to keep extra close watch for Petey. Judging from his past Petey will be driving something that looks rubbed out and ain’t.
And maybe, most likely, just probably, you’re gonna have to loosen up; gonna spend fewer nights sitting with TV and a beer. Maybe check out a little of that night road. Because what happens in these parts always seems to come down about the time the populace heads home, and the joints turn out their lights.
Fisherman-Type Realization and a Cop Gets Booted
Morning at China Bay begins around nine AM when the bartender’s Jag pulls onto the well-drained parking lot where sits a car or two; abandoned after a night that saw their owners taxied home or in the slammer. The bartender, who knows the universe and wryly approves (most days) smiles in detached manner. The Jag mutters in aristocratic tones and its bumper sticker reads: “All parts falling from this auto are of genuine British manufacture.”
The bartender’s daily drill is largely the same: key in lock, Dragon-Lady-red doors swing inward, and before the bemused eye appears tables stacked with upside-down chairs, barstools beneath which lie hosts of cigarette butts, and floors a-scatter with candy bar wrappers, worn out ball pens, crumpled paper napkins, randomly spread small coins (the pennies winking), here and there a dropped lipstick or a legislative bill (on which is noted phone numbers), credit card receipts, berets, hair ribbons, and on pegs on the wall, occasional jackets and regimental ties.
And, of course, silence. Only the hum of refrigeration greets the ear. The bartender turns up the thermostat and tunes a radio to a classical station; working to music while emptying and washing ashtrays, sweeping floors with large gestures of push broom; feet a-twinkle in a dance to classical themes. By 10:30 the bar is clean, the chairs arranged at tables, the goldfish fed, the till counted, the cribbage board laid out for oldsters, pool tables brushed, and the change machine refilled. The bartender drinks coffee while sitting at the bar listening to music. The free half hour before opening at eleven is a time of privacy, art, and peace (most days).
═
From the radio a trumpet, a bassoon, and a flute did a contrapuntal dance as the Dragon-Lady-red doors eased inward to disclose a fisherman. The guy entered timidly. He knew he pushed his luck.
The bartender recognized the guy as belonging to Bertha’s joint, and reckoned how matters in that direction must be getting tippy; this particular fisherman being a cut above the usual. He would not chance a bartender’s wrath unless his ailment was abstract.
“. . . you could dance to it.” The bartender turned the radio down a notch. “Or, you could express sorrow for the interruption.”
“I gotta talk to you,” the fisherman said. “Because you’re still sane.”
“Which is rare.”
“These days,” the fisherman whispered, “it’s a little scarcer than rare.” He remained standing, embarrassed, not presuming to take a seat.
“Random forces accumulate around joints. I sometimes leave the doors unlocked as entertainment.” The bartender sipped coffee, looked through well-washed windows onto the Canal where a sky of gray and silver hovered.
“Mystery stuff,” the fisherman explained. “Up our way the cops hassled everybody, then stopped on Tuesday. Guys are taking ten percent over the limit with nothing happening. But cops are parked and watching. Watching everybody.”
“Do better,” the bartender told him. “An interruption should at least be interesting.”
“Murder,” the fisherman explained. “Murder and magic and monsters. Hustles, cops, disappearances, pool tournaments; plus I got a guy setting out to kill a dead guy. Zombies; well one zombie of some kind, coming outta the Canal. The thing is growing fingers and eyes.”
“Now,” the bartender admitted, “you’re getting somewhere.”
Beyond the well-washed windows a hump moved in the Canal and the fisherman looked startled. “It gets this far south?”
“Today it does,” the bartender said, “but not normally. Have you tried feeding it? Cracker Jacks? Peanuts?”
“The main problem is I’ve got a guy who killed a guy, which you know about that and so does everybody else . . . and now the dead guy is coming outta the Canal and trying to work over the alive guy, and the alive guy has quit feeling guilty and is ready to do murder again . . . and the problem is the guy is not good at murder, so it will ruin him; and that’s gonna ruin the woman he’s with, unless, of course, she gets magical and ruins the whole western part of the United States . . . “ The fisherman stopped, and he was shocked to hear the desperation in his voice. He had not realized just how scared he was, or how much he cared about all this. “Plus that thing out there . . .” and he pointed to water humping on the Canal, “that thing is wrenching cars all outta shape and killing people.”
“If that monster killed people we’d have heard long before this. That appears to be a long-time monster.” The bartender nearly giggled, then settled for a chuckle. “There’s no legend. We have no story. We have nothing to even challenge tales of Loch Ness, and the Nessie monster made a reputation without attacking anyone. Most likely your monster is a pacifist.”
“Then the dead guy is killing people.”
“Or the road?”
“The road bends,” the fisherman admitted. “The kid who tows the wet cars told me. But roads don’t bend by themselves.”
“Or the Canal?”
“I’m a sailor. I know about stuff on the water. Water don’t act that way. When it gets weird it acts other ways.”
“When civilizations fall,” the bartender smiled (only a little preacherly), “destructive forces become overwhelming. Historically, it’s a slow process.”
The fisherman blinked. Stood on one foot, then on the other. He took a chair (apolo
getically). “I don’t know what that means. What does that mean?”
“It means that a civilization is dying, or worse, killing itself. Bad to worse, then worse to ugly, and then matters turn ugly. Creative ugliness. It deals not so much in horror as in triteness.” The bartender, too wise to be sad, looked wry. “The murdered man could not rise from the waves unless some dark force propelled him.”
“The monster?”
“You have a reputation as a thinker,” the bartender said only slightly impatient. “Give this a good think, then get back to me.” The bartender turned toward the Dragon-Lady-red doors where a local delivery guy entered with a handtruck load of bar supplies. “Darkness of the kind of which I speak is collective,” the bartender cautioned. “Think about accumulations.” To the delivery guy the bartender said, “Good morning.”
“The alive guy . . .”
“Is most likely doomed.”
The fisherman stood stunned. “Most likely?”
“Ninety-eight percent chance,” the bartender said. “Unless he, or you, or someone gets extremely smart or extremely lucky.” The bartender, whose eyes were sometimes silver-y and sometimes gray, smiled, enigmatic. Like the smile of an Oracle . . . assumin’, of course, that Oracles do any smiling. “How’s the weather up your way?” The bartender turned, walked to the back room of the bar, and disappeared.
The fisherman stood in the middle of an empty bar as the delivery guy departed. He saw a tidy world, chairs nuzzled against tables, pictures of Athens and pictures of Chinese cheesecake like lovely mash notes from far away. He saw the polished bar mirror, the polished bar, the polished glasses as goldfish burped in their lighted tank. The pool tables looked like putting greens. In this ordered world, that through the day would become disordered, chaotic, buzzed and snockered, it came to him that the bartender offered a hint.
This bar, that through the day would go sprawled and galley-west was like a picture of the world in which all of them lived. Because things just got messier and messier, even when people tried to set stuff straight.
“An existential tiz.” The bartender returned from the back room. “You’re beginning to see the light.” The bartender, whose eyes were not always silver-y or gray, but sometimes blue or sorta tan, hummed, then actually giggled. “I have only one question,” the bartender murmured. “Why are these dark forces accumulating in this small place?”
“Are you open yet?” The fisherman thought about how drinking beer spoils a day. “For a cuppa coffee?”
“This is private stock.” The bartender turned off the radio and poured. “Roll it lightly on the tongue, no gulps.” The bartender looked toward the doors. “It is not for juveniles.”
Silence. The hum of refrigeration. The fisherman sipped and knew he was privileged. From the parking lot came the caw of a crow. A small boat puttered on the Canal, but too far away to hear. Only silence. The fisherman figured he’d better get on towards home, his mission at China Bay about as complete as a guy could expect. He studied the Sugar Bear problem for minutes. Then the soft sound of a studly engine came from the parking lot.
Slam of a truck door. Dragon-Lady-red doors swinging inward. The tow truck kid appeared, saw the fisherman, and looked glad.
“I’m putting a groove in that road.” The kid slipped onto a barstool beside the fisherman. “Another one went in.”
“Coffee in a moment,” the bartender told the kid as an electric pot began to burble. “When Gods become ridiculous in the eyes of men, men replace Divinity with false symbols. They create imaginary charms. How’s the Dodge running?”
“Championship.” The kid looked totally puzzled.
The fisherman paused. “Your truck isn’t exactly ridiculous, but it’s too snazzy to be a truck.”
“I got the same feeling,” the kid admitted. “But it’s a helluva ride.”
“Bingo.” The bartender viewed the fisherman with approval. To the kid, the bartender said, “Your little truck, the one that drowned, was unscratched. Petey’s Plymouth was unscratched. Is this current job a scratcher?”
“Nobody said to bring a trailer. I brought it anyway.” The kid hunched over coffee as the bartender poured. “Dealing with cops you’re double-durned-damned if you do, and durn-double damned if you don’t.”
“I have a nudgey feeling,” the bartender explained, “that you are not tending toward a scratcher.” The bartender looked toward the Canal where a hump moved lazily.
The fisherman, startled by a thought, watched the hump moving on the Canal. “I got to get home. Thanks. I mean that. I gotta hurry. Could be I’m on to something.”
“Could be,” the bartender said. “Be sure to leave a buck for the coffee.”
═
Light mist washed the road as the fisherman pulled over for gas. He pumped a full tank and watched the tow truck kid pass, headed north. As the fisherman also headed north he nearly smacked a deer and told himself to pay attention. It would be a shame to get dunked just when he had things figured.
To his left rose forest and mountain, to his right the Canal lay calm and dark as a sheet of lead. It looked like a guy could walk around out there. The fisherman imagined walking up to the monster and saying, “Hi, there. I know your game, so talk to me.”
But, a ’course, that wasn’t going to happen. The fisherman figured he could take his workboat, motor on out there, and try to get things organized. But, a ‘course, there was bound to be a language problem.
By the time he reached Beer and Bait the sun cleared the mist, and his watch read half-past one. The parking lot held a logging truck, a propane truck, and a stripped down standard Chev. It looked like Bertha wasn’t busy and wasn’t gonna be, which spelled a bad mood. The fisherman pulled in beside the Chev. Paperwork lay on its front seat. Punchboards and pulltabs perched on the back.
When he entered the fisherman saw two drivers snugged up at the center of the bar, Jubal Jim napping, plus a little guy who looked flighty as a sparrow but not as pretty. He flitted above a stack of punchboards, and how a guy could flit while sitting on a barstool caused real question marks.
“It’s a real good deal,” the sparrow chirped, pushy as a bluejay. “Twenty percent off if you take three boards. Thirty percent payout on the cash boards, less on the merchandise.” The guy actually seemed proud, real proud. He also wore spectacles and tassels on his shoes.
“We talked this over last time you come in.” Bertha drew suds for the logger who had a streak of grease on one cheek and looked spiritually bruised. “Because I can’t keep track of punchboards,” she explained to the logger. “Some guys steal punches.” Bertha looked short on sleep. “You’re looking good,” she told the logger.
“Long story,” the guy said. “You don’t want to hear.”
“Most likely.”
And then the logger went into a long and depressed story about the job getting shut down because the guy who owned the land got in a fight with the guy who bought the trees . . . and what with a truck payment overdue . . . but Bertha no longer paid attention.
Gravel crunched. A truck door slammed, and a drywall guy stepped in. He had old spots of wallboard mud on his painter’s cap, and on his pants and shirt. He looked extra dusty and glum. “Tearing out old plaster,” he said to no one in particular. “Putting new walls in a dump that by rights oughta burn. I gotta find a better occupation.” He took the bar stool nearest the door, because if he tracked plaster he would come out on the short end with Bertha.
The propane driver (because, when slammed, propane tends to go boom) wasn’t drinking. He sipped a cherry pop, pulled at a beginning mustache and tried to decide whether it was worth running a number on the punchboard guy. He decided it was.
“Next time you see your folks,” he told the punchboard guy, “tell ’em I share their disappointment in the way you turned out.” He grinned as wide as the Canal, so the grin would hide the number. Beside the bar Jubal Jim snored.
Sparrows survive because they scoot the minu
te they spot any movement. This particular sparrow-type guy picked up his boards, wordless, and headed for the door.
“That,” said the propane guy, “was no damn fun a-tall. I was just getting started.”
The fisherman weighed his drinking habits as Bertha drew him a beer. “The bull says another one went in.”
“I just come from up that way,” the drywall guy said. “Pontiac with the driver’s window knocked out, so maybe the guy got loose. Work car. Tools in the trunk. No scratches.”
“I own enormous confidence in the police,” the propane guy said. “They will shortly begin arresting each other.”
“They busted Sugar Bear,” the log guy said. “At least that was the bull before my job got canceled.”
The fisherman sat stunned. Bertha nearly dropped a beer glass.
“That’s bull, okay.” The drywall guy sounded pleased because he had inside dope. “It wasn’t exactly a bust. It was one of them ‘Where were you and what were you doing last Tuesday night’ deals. Like on tee-vee.”
“Who?” Bertha’s voice sounded real quiet, the way it gets just before her temper scorches paint from walls. “Which cop?”
As tires crunched on the gravel and as a car door slammed, the fisherman had a feeling; like the feeling a guy gets in heavy fog listening to a major-size ship’s horn too close and closing. One of those feelings.
“Take a strain,” he murmured to Bertha. Then he resigned himself. Bertha wasn’t listening. Whatever was gonna happen, was gonna.
“Him,” muttered the drywall guy as the TV cop stepped through the doorway, followed by the tow truck kid.
“Bottle-a-pop,” the kid said too quickly, and that made Bertha madder. If the kid didn’t have the sense to know she would not automatically draw a beer for a guy still working while in the presence of a cop . . . well, what’n the name of Norway did the kid know? Bertha shot the kid a look that sent him to the farthest pool table. He pulled down a house cue and pretended to practice.
