The Hauntings of Hood Canal

by Jack Cady

  The butterflies, with beetle-lady acting as choir director, pretended to pay no attention; but a two hundred dollar scarf might be dropped accidentally, or a diamond ring large enough to choke a snake might be twisted into plain view as a butterfly leaned forward, chin on delicately curved wrist.

  Tension grew as rich guys watched the Beer and Bait ladies while pretending otherwise. Rich guys gave sideways glances that checked out nicely turned legs, or low cut blouses. The Beer and Bait ladies, in a less-than-loving attempt to communicate with butterflies, showed a little extra leg. Silent messages passed back and forth, and the messages were not kind.

  The hustlers stayed out of it. Loners. Never sitting. Never congregating. They remained practically invisible except when shooting. The Beer and Bait players, though, watched rich guys checking out the Beer and Bait ladies. The Beer and Bait players started to get their backs up, a condition not advisable if a guy wants to win at pool.

  The trouble being . . . a ‘course, that it probably wasn’t even a hustle, since rich guys are traditionally known to be horny . . .

  The fisherman watched the two kid bartenders. The kids picked up on the tension and asserted control. They were like a pair of twins, except one had curly dark hair, and one had straight blond; both with white shirts, bow ties, goldy-brass rings in their ears, and hands so deft they could make change whilst wiping bar, drawing beer; and all the time flipping bartender-type bull that tells each-’n-all just who controls the joint.

  Mostly the bartenders flipped it at the Beer and Bait guys, because those were the guys who suffered. This early in the game guys were getting shed like mange. Wizardry romped as cueballs backed the length of the table, and as three ball combinations became so common as to go unnoted. The level of play ran so high that ordinary players rose to the occasion, got hot, stayed hot, and lasted three or four games. Other guys who were very, very good, discovered that very-very-good was not good enough. Each time a team found itself eliminated, the players shifted from pop to beer, mutters, and excuses.

  Meanwhile, the rich guy’s secretary kept everything straight. She dressed to look plain, wore big eyeglasses to keep butterflies from jealousy, and spoke nicely, but with authority. She took no crapola from anybody, rich guys and bartenders included. The fisherman watched her, thought her the prettiest woman in the joint, and certainly the smartest. Then, thinking about women who were pretty, he searched the crowd for Bertha.

  She stood in a far corner and looked onto the Canal. Bertha should be joyous at so many customers. Instead, she slumped. Bertha pretended to look at rising waves, but was actually standing in a place where she could watch a weasel type gent who drifted through the crowd. The guy was too scrawny to be a cop, but a stench of copness dwelt about him; something too observant, something official, something slightly smarty. He dressed in work pants and chambray shirt, both new. He wore pointy shoes. A real wrong guy.

  The fisherman told himself that there would be cops. The scrawny gent kept close to where guys were side-betting, even made a few bets himself. Money passed back and forth, and pretty openly. A lot of money.

  The guy was a plant for cops. A bust was gonna happen, it was gonna. The fisherman watched Bertha, then watched the hustlers. Hustlers were not stupid. They paid no attention to the guy. It figured then, that the hustlers knew about the bust. And Bertha was not stupid, but looked scared and helpless. Seeing her that way was a new experience for the fisherman. He wondered if it was new for Bertha.

  Busted Hustles

  From the Japanese Current, sometimes, a warm front seeps north as clouds command satellite pictures on TV. The screen goes gray, like old-time black and white, as clouds churn slow cyclonic motion. When that happens we get abundant rain, and those who love the forest fear the very soul of wind. Our Pacific Northwest is so wet that trees do not grow massive root systems. When soil turns liquid with rain, and wind arrives, giants crash across the forest, and into houses.

  And, not often, but sometimes, a band of arctic cold sweeps south along the Canadian Rockies. It covers Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana; with smidgens left over for the Dakotas. Where warm clouds meet cold, snow forms; then ice. It’s a time of unrest and fear as things happen that should not. Wind chooses a tree in the densest forest, wraps around the top, gives a little twist, and over she goes, though logic and physics say the tree stood protected.

  Wind rages on the Canal as dreadful things appear. Waterlogged sternboards of wrecks sweep to the surface, Tinker Bell, Seattle, Junebug, Port Townsend, Plastic Lady, San Francisco, Joseph and Mary, Portland; the stern boards still holding small chips of color; white or green or blue on dead timber.

  Sometimes bones wash ashore, bones we hope are those of animals. And sometimes, in the fury of surf, in rain or ice, on water or land, hideous things appear; sometimes unseen, but always unexplained because they should not be there.

  Unexplained, and at the time unseen: at a fairy-tale house a man shakes with palsy. His face reddens as if from stroke, then bleaches fish belly white. He tries to form words, makes only protesting moans and goes dumb. His hands cover his ears as though he could trap consciousness. Sugar Bear claws at the last remnant of awareness. Then his face goes blank, nearly lifeless, inert, eyes dull, lips slobbering only a little.

  Nor does one see a gray-haired woman, torn by grief, turn to fury as trees shed branches that rattle to the forest floor. The woman sobs and calls forth rain while wiping slobber.

  And equally unexplained, a thing rises from the dunk site, redhaired, permed, skinny, but jaunty as it strolls the road, hitches a ride south with a discouraged pooler, and simpers only a little.

  And, if no one sees, then maybe it is rain, or maybe the promise of ice; but probably it is the wind that scares everybody, even fishermen, or maybe especially them. Plus, if a guy only sits and watches, the scare-level rises quick.

  ═

  At Beer and Bait the fisherman watched as the towtruck kid ran the table three times; then get whipped because his partner could not, as the saying goes, bop a bull in the butt with a bass fiddle. The guy was so bad he had to be a ringer, or else so good he could shoot just awful and make it look natural. Either way, it was a heist.

  The kid’s pride kept him silent. He did his work, stepped aside, watched his chances slide down to subterranea, then gave an easy smile and ordered a bottle-a-pop. When he looked at his partner he did not sneer. He even smiled somewhat natural. Then he walked to stand beside the fisherman.

  “You did that well,” the fisherman told him. The fisherman looked toward the Canal as sun faded behind clouds of darkest gray and the surface of the Canal turned sullen. “We could use a few more like you.”

  The kid stood silent, but the kid just glowed.

  Tension in the joint crept skyward as butterflies, having aught to do but sip, made low and cutting comments beneath tight smiles. They watched their pet rich guys show off in attempts to impress Beer and Bait ladies, and the rich guys mentally cavorted. The fisherman watched the butterflies sharpen their claws (unusual in a butterfly) while they figured how much they could charge for rich-guy indiscretions. He felt almost sorry for rich guys, then told himself, naw, nope, uh, uh.

  “There’s gonna be a bust,” the fisherman told the kid. “It’s a question of do we get busted before, or after the fight.”

  “The jail ain’t big enough,” the kid whispered. “They can’t bust everybody.” The kid watched the guy who was too scrawny to be a cop, but who had to be a plant. The guy disappeared through the doorway, stepping into wind that drove everybody else inside. “It’s about to come down,” the kid said, “but it’ll be a wash. I ain’t done nothin’.”

  “We’re in for a big hand of weather,” the fisherman mentioned. “You may want to get out ahead of it.” Wind had shifted and now blew from the east.

  The kid grinned. “And miss the fights? It’s not like I was never in jail before.” Then he sounded worried. “If this kicks loose, get behind the bar.” H
e said it casual so it wouldn’t sound insulting. A good kid. Protective.

  Sudden wind popped hard against Beer and Bait. The building did not tremble, exactly, but the gust caused tingles in a fisherman-style subconscious. The fisherman looked toward the Canal.

  A crab boat ran a little too close to shore as whitecaps rose. The crabber put his helm to port and clawed into the wind and toward the channel. Odds on getting blown ashore seemed perfect.

  Another gust hit. The gust held spatters of rain. Water ran on the windows of Beer and Bait, little streams flattened by wind as noon sky turned to gloaming. The fisherman told himself it was time to be elsewhere. Actually, past time. He watched the crab boat struggle and felt helpless. There wasn’t squat anyone could do.

  A pause. Silence. The click of pool balls stopped, and murmurs from the crowd drizzled away. The fisherman’s ears proclaimed another mess even before he turned.

  A small shriek rose, then faltered as figures appeared in the doorway. Unrest moved across the crowd in waves. A large sigh came from Bertha, and gasps from rich guys combined with fluttering from butterflies. The guys at the pool tables tried to play it cool, and all three guys shanked their shots.

  In the doorway Petey stood bemused. Petey carried no cue case, wore no ball cap, thus presented no poolish threat. He took his time surveying the whole room, rich guys, butterflies, loggers, truckers and fishers, bartenders and other enthusiasts, plus hustlers. He watched benevolently, as if he owned each-’n-every one. He continued to watch as two smashingly gorgeous hookers stood on each side of him. The ladies were dressed most splendid. They looked over the crowd with experienced eyes, smiled in the general direction of rich guys, then headed for the ladies’ can to fluff hair, repair makeup, and all that other girl stuff.

  Bertha began to step forward. Petey looked her away. He loomed like a colossus, although technically Petey isn’t tall enough to play the part. His dark hair glowed like a close-cropped halo in twinkly barlight, and his bald spot shone with rain. He stood like a championship wrestler at rest. Petey did not even look as the hookers disappeared into the ladies’ can, although every other regular in the joint watched enchanted; except the fisherman who made mental notes . . . in case he ever had to write stuff down.

  Beer and Bait regulars in shock, and most scared spitless. A ghost appeared among them. Some pale, some shaking, some gulping beer like it was medicine . . . at the same time Beer and Bait regulars watch gorgeous hookers: male regulars wistful/lustful, female regulars competitive/steamed.

  Butterflies unimpressed by Petey who they didn’t know, but terribly impressed by hookers. Butterflies sensing classy competition because their fifty-going-on-thirty-five was not as magical as twenty-five-going-on-twenty-six.

  Bertha looking hopeful. Bertha looking jealous. Bertha looking ticked. Bertha with soft light in eyes, silly, mooshy, schoolgirl.

  Other hustlers impressed. A bare nod from one, a tap of pool cue on top of shoe by another, while a third pinches nose and grins slowly, slowly. Hustlers recognizing a major hustle and approving.

  Bartenders taken out of their game. Bartenders wondering whatever in the cotton-pickin’ universe is going on.

  Tow truck kid not impressed but mightily amused.

  Secretary business-like, checking player lists to see if anything amiss.

  Daylight rapidly fading above dark water.

  Rich guys recognizing hookers. Rich guys owning memories of cavorting with hookers at China Bay. Rich guys looking like they’d just been shot.

  Petey arranging table, so-to-speak. Petey telling Beer and Bait regulars that all is okay. Petey telling rich guys that if a burn starts, there’ll be many-a-blister on many-a-rich bottom.

  “Bottle-a-pop,” Petey mentioned, “strawberry if you got it.”

  A kid bartender practically tripped over himself fishing in the cooler. Petey strolled to a group of Beer and Bait regulars who trembled behind beer glasses. As he approached their table, which sat close to the fisherman, they stood, scrammed, and Petey rested. Mighty solid for a ghost. Sipped pop. Waited for hookers. Or maybe not. Waiting for something.

  “Bust,” the tow truck kid whispered almost joyful, “and here I was, looking forward to the fights.” He flipped bull so easily anyone could tell he was brave. “First time I was ever glad to see a cop.” He looked toward Bertha. “She don’t need a tore-up joint.” Sudden cold entered the room ahead of the first cop. It was winter cold, like the backside of November, not October. The fisherman watched as the cop came through the doorway and stopped. The cop looked around, then took up position beside the door.

  A blast of winter wind hit windows and another handful of rain flattened then blew away. Every fisherman in the joint turned from the cop to watch the Canal, and every fisherman knew that winter had just announced the end of fishing season.

  A second cop entered and took position on the other side of the door. No one would be allowed to leave.

  Local cops. Not too bright. Leg breakers in uniform. Noises came from the front porch where the stamping of feet told of a convocation of cops. The fisherman wondered if the tow truck kid was wrong. Maybe they could bust everybody.

  “Gimmie a beer,” the kid whispered to a bartender. “Not a can. A bottle.”

  “Don’t,” the fisherman whispered. “We’ve been set up, but don’t. Something more is gonna happen.”

  A smarmy little guy, the guy who was a plant, slipped through the doorway slick as snot on a doorknob. He looked over the heads of the crowd. “Mr. District Attorney.” he said. “Illegal gaming; and recess is over. Who runs this joint?”

  Bertha stepped from the back of the room, and Bertha had glad lights in her eyes. Bertha had worried herself sick for a long, long, long time and finally had someone she could tussle. The fisherman watched with certain knowledge that the first time the punk touched Bertha the joint would explode. There weren’t enough cops in the world . . . and besides, there was Petey.

  Petey rested. As Bertha got near the guy Petey yawned. He tapped the tabletop with his fingers, said, “I got a better idea.”

  Bertha stopped. The smarmy guy turned his attention to Petey, and motioned to one of the cops. Petey watched the approaching cop, and Petey looked bored as a hundred sermons. He turned toward the rotund little rich guy who stood behind a pool table.

  “What in sam hill were you and momma thinking?” he asked the rich guy. “You need a wolf pack and you hired puppies. Call ’em off.” Only someone who was totally bored, or else a total hustler, could sound that disinterested. To the approaching cop, he said, “See ya.”

  The cop stopped. He looked at the smarmy guy. The smarmy guy shrugged, and looked at rich guy. Rich guy tried to look indifferent, but his face was flushed. He dropped his hands to his sides so no one could see them tremble. At the butterfly table the beetle-lady watched closely, but seemed tentative.

  “Thanks anyhow,” rich guy said to the smarmy guy. “Go away.” He flushed even deeper as the hookers came from the ladies’ can. The girls chose a table at the far end of the room where two loggers sat solid as stumps. The loggers, who in their wildest dreams had never been around such classy babes, blushed and found extra chairs. The hookers sat in communicating distance with the butterflies, who they ignored.

  The butterflies watched the hookers, were puzzled. Of course, the butterflies had never nuzzled nectar at China Bay.

  The rich guys were looking everywhere in the joint except at the hookers. The rich guys pretended total innocence.

  “There’s still a tournament,” Petey told the crowd. “Do it.”

  Cueballs began to click. People who had been ready for a fight now had to get rid of adrenalin. The crowd grew noisy in spite of the tournament.

  “Over here,” Petey said to Bertha, and his voice was affectionate. At the same time he was obviously in no mood to argue. He watched the two cops follow mister smarmy. They stepped outside.

  A burst of rain swept against the windows like waves
breaking over the cabin of a boat. In Beer and Bait, in what had been an overheated room on a sunny noontime, chill entered from windows made cold by rain. Gloom lowered so that only the white of breaking surf showed the Canal still existed. If the creature was out there it could not be seen.

  Bertha took one look at the hookers, like there was gonna be hell-and-hallelujah happening, then decided to go along with Petey’s program. She came to the table. Sat.

  “You too,’’ Petey said to rich guy.

  Rich guy didn’t even hesitate. He only glanced at beetle-lady and pretended not to shudder. The rest of the rich guys cuddled up on the far side of the pool tables away from the hookers. Butterflies, still confused, took notes as another shovelful of rain flooded the windows.

  In the rapidly cooling room rich guy had sweat on his brow. His tummy was the only normal thing about him, because fear and meanness caused his shoulders to tense. His face filled with anger. “You want something,” he said. “So what?”

  “You can buy those girls off.” Petey kept detached and pretty quiet. “But, you can’t buy them off here and now. The minute one of your boys walks toward them they’ll cuddle up to him, and that starts a discussion group with the mommas.” Petey glanced toward the butterflies and rubbed his bald spot, maybe for luck. “How much will that many divorces cost? Gimmie a figure.”

  Rich guy tried to set his anger aside. He was ready to deal. “You want something. What?”

  “Ever since the Phoenicians invented money there’s been only one answer to that question.” Petey looked at Bertha. “I read that in book somewhere.” He still sounded detached, almost indifferent, but maybe a little bit amused.