Drowned Hopes

by Allan Cole

  *****

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  DRESSED IN PAINT-SPATTERED cutoffs and a halter top, Ellen restlessly paced her living room, glass of wine in hand.

  It was night, and except for some faint sounds coming from TV sets or radios, the apartment building was silent.

  She went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and looked in. There was nothing in there but a bottle of wine and a head of lettuce. Ellen fetched out the wine, refreshed her glass, then broke off some lettuce.

  Nibbling leaves and sipping wine, she resumed pacing – looking frequently over at the easel sitting by the window.

  A large blank canvas glared back at her like an accusing eye.

  Finally, Ellen could take no more. "Shut up," she said to the canvas.

  She resumed her pacing. Then she turned her MP3 on. Hit the "random" button to let it surprise her.

  A Desmond Decker song came on: "Where Did It Go?"

  Ellen grinned, as if greeting an old friend. She hummed along, sipping wine, sometimes dunking hunks of lettuce in her glass, swaying to the music: "There was a song we used to sing, whenever this life got us down…"

  She started dancing. Singing along with Desmond. Spinning around and around. Really getting into it: "…Then it would give us hope again, help pull ourselves up from the ground…"

  The song went on and on, Ellen dancing to the tune. Finally it ended – a little sooner than she’d recalled - and she bumped into the easel. She steadied it, so it wouldn’t tip over.

  "We really have to stop meeting like this," she said to the easel.

  Then her mood made an abrupt change. She stared at the blank canvas, long and hard. As if willing it to reveal some deeply held secret. She was a little drunk, but not so drunk that she couldn’t paint up a storm, if conditions were right. And tonight, the conditions were erratic. She needed to paint – desperately so. But the subject was maddeningly eluding her.

  "Why do I always have to do all the work?" she demanded of the blank canvas. "Aren’t you going to even give me one little hint? Just one, hmm? For old time's sake?"

  Naturally, there was no reply. Ellen’s temper flared. "When are you going to be satisfied?" she said. "I give and give, but you’re never happy. My husband. My family. My lover. I don’t have anything left, damn you.

  "What more do you want? Do you want to turn me into a drunk? Ellen the god damned crazy drunk?"

  She hurled the glass to the floor, shattering it.

  "Well, I refuse, do you hear?" she proclaimed to the canvas. "I – Ellen Berman – will not allow you to destroy me."

  She grabbed a piece of charcoal and began drawing with a fury. In the background, the radio started playing Jimmy Cliff’s "The Harder They Fall."

  Ellen drew and drew, streaking the canvas with charcoal and perspiration. After a long time, a picture began to emerge. To her surprise, it was of Sam Barr. Not the charming con man mask that has been presented to Ellen all along. But someone powerfully evil.

  Ellen stopped drawing. She stepped back to study her work, reacting - more than a little shocked. Pulling away as if the half-finished portrait of Sam was going to attack her.

  "My God, Ellen," she said. "What the hell’s in your head, girl?"

  Confused, she started to move away. There was a crunching sound under foot and she winced, hurt.

  Looking down, she saw that she’d stepped on the remains of the wine glass in her bare feet. A tiny sliver of glass protruded from one toe and she was bleeding all over the rug.

  "Shit, Ruthie’s rug," she said. "She’ll kill me."

  She hopped awkwardly into the kitchen on one foot. She picked out the glass, then tore off a thick handful of paper towels and wrapped them around her wounded foot. Then she grabbed the bottle of wine from the fridge and another glass and hopped into the bedroom.

  After finding her first aid kit, Ellen got her foot properly disinfected and bandaged. After disinfecting her insides with a little more wine, she returned the kit to the dresser drawer beside her bed.

  The envelope of money was in there. She frowned at it, more than a little tipsy from the wine and stressful work at the easel.

  "It’s not right, Harry," she said. "It’s not right and you god damned know it. So why do you do it, then, huh? I know. Because you can, you bastard."

  She replaced the envelope and grabbed her cell phone. She started to punch numbers then shook her head as she remembered that she’d been cut off.

  Then she laughed, remembering something else. Ellen got out the phone card Sam had given her and resumed punching numbers.

  Ellen listened to the phone ring on the other side. Then, when she heard the machine voice, she said: "It’s your sister, Harry. With one more message for your fucking answering machine.

  "And you know that that message is? Listen real close, Harry… Put your ear right up next to the god damn machine so you won’t miss a word."

  She gave it a second then: "Okay, here it is. From me to you, big shot." And she blasted the phone with a big fat raspberry.

  Giggling she snapped the cell shut.

  Then she leaned back into her pillows and took a large hit off her wine.

  "What a life," she said to nobody in particular.

  *****

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE MOON STREAMED through the window, pooling around Ellen, who was asleep in her bed. She’d slept restlessly, and the covers were pushed aside. She wore a plain white cotton nightgown and her bandaged foot was pushed slightly off the edge of the mattress for comfort.

  In the other room, there was the sound of feet crunching broken glass. Ellen stirred. There was another crunching noise and Ellen’s eyes snapped open.

  She stayed very still, listening to faint sounds of someone moving about her living room. The footsteps came nearer and Ellen almost stopped breathing, she was so frightened.

  Then a dark figure slipped into her bedroom. A pencil flashlight snapped on, the beam sweeping slowly over the room. Just before the light passed over Ellen’s face, she closed her eyes.

  The light finally moved to the bedstead, where it found the money envelope in the open drawer. The dark figure came closer leaning over the bedstead.

  A hand closed over the envelope.

  Ellen exploded out of the bed. "That’s mine," she shouted.

  After struggling so hard to collect the money, there was no way she was going to be ripped off without a fight. She grabbed the envelope and there was a furious tug-of-war.

  The thief cracked Ellen across the head with one hand, while still hanging on to the envelope with the other. But Ellen was like a tiger. She wouldn’t give up. She kicked and screamed and raked the thief with her nails.

  Then her hand encountered the wine bottle and closed over it. She smashed the thief across the head.

  The bottle exploded, sending glass everywhere.

  The thief staggered back, still gripping the envelope. Dragging Ellen out of the bed.

  "Bitch," he shouted.

  He slammed a fist into her head, knocking her away. Then he spun about and fled the room.

  Ellen leaped up and ran after him. "You can’t have it," she shouted. "It’s mine."

  She pursued the man into the living room, but he got to the door first, flinging it open and rushing outside, then slamming it in her face.

  Ellen went down again, but she quickly scrambled to her feet, sobbing and yanking at the door, her hand slipping off the knob. Then she got it open and raced into the hallway just in time to see the thief escape out the front door.

  Ellen slipped and fell, but was up again, continuing her pursuit. But as she reached the front door she heard the roar of a motorcycle engine. She jerked the door open and ran into the night, only to come to a stop when she saw a motorcycle speeding down the street.

  Ellen whirled and raced back inside. She ran to the manager’s office and hammered on the door. "Ruth," she cried. "Help me, Ruthie."

  The door came open to reveal Ru
th standing there in her nightclothes. Sam was behind her, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts.

  A crazy part of Ellen’s mind thought - then it couldn’t have been Sam. He wasn’t dressed.

  Ruth was aghast when she saw Ellen’s bruised face, wild hair and tousled clothes.

  "I was robbed," Ellen said, pointing down the hallway. "He… he… took all my money, Ruthie. Every damned cent."

  Sam pushed forward. "Where is the son of a bitch?" he growled, his big muscles bunching.

  Ellen shook her head. "Gone," she said. "Took off on a motorcycle."

  Ruth’s face softened. "Come on in, honey," she said.

  She and Sam coaxed Ellen inside.

  Ruth’s place was rather garish – like the owner’s unit in a trailer park. But Ellen didn’t look around. The moment she got into the room, she went to the phone.

  "Who are you calling?" Sam asked.

  "The police," Ellen said. She became impatient. "Didn’t you hear me? I was robbed."

  "Hold on a second, Ellen," Sam said. "The cops won’t do shit. Let’s think things out on our own."

  Ellen shook her head stubbornly and took a firmer grip on the phone. "I’m calling the damned police," she said. "That’s what they’re for."

  Ruth gave her a sisterly hug. "You go right ahead and call, honey," she said. She turned to Sam. "Better make yourself scarce, baby."

  Sam nodded, then went into the bedroom and returned with his clothes.

  Ellen was confused. "Why’s he leaving?" she asked.

  "With my record," Sam said, "it’s best to avoid the police."

  And he was out the door. Ellen lifted the received and dialed 911.

  When somebody answered, she said: "I want to report a robbery…"

  *****

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A ROBE WRAPPED around her, Ellen huddled on the couch near the easel that held the drawing of Sam.

  She was still pretty shook up, a condition that was not improved by the presence of the detective who was parked on a chair across from her, notebook in hand, a bored look on his craggy face.

  He’d introduced himself as Sergeant Bill Propp, of the Deercreek Beach Police. He was an older cop, with sarcastic eyes and a grim mouth. He had a look about him that did not engender trust.

  "Okay… the suspect fled on a motorcycle," Propp said, "but you don’t know what kind."

  Ellen gave a helpless shrug. "I don’t know anything about motorcycles," she said.

  The cop didn’t respond. He looked over his notes. "Okay, let’s back up a minute," he said.

  Propp indicated the broken glass on the carpet. "The first time you were aware of the perp was when you heard him step in the glass, right?" he asked.

  Ellen nodded at the debris on the living room floor. "See how it was ground in by his big fat foot," she said bitterly.

  "Yeah," Propp said. "But what I want to know is how the glass got there in the first place."

  Ellen blushed. "Oh… uh… It was a wine glass that I broke earlier," she said. "I was, uh… tired. And decided to clean it up in the morning."

  "You always leave things like that until the next day?" Propp asked.

  He didn’t quite sneer, but Ellen got a definite sense of disapproval. Instead of getting angry, she was puzzled by his behavior.

  "No," she said. "Not usually. But this time I did."

  "Drinking a little were you?" Propp said.

  "I had some wine after dinner," Ellen said, getting irritated. "I was drawing… making an under-painting. And sipping wine in the privacy of my own living room." Then, exasperated – "So what?"

  Propp shrugged. "Just trying to get the picture, Ellen." He pointed at the easel. "Speaking of which… Is that what you were working on?"

  "Yes," Ellen said, getting even more irritated now. Who said he could call her Ellen? "But what does that-"

  "Who’s the guy?" Propp said, cutting her off.

  "A friend," Ellen said.

  "A Deercreek Beach friend, or an old friend?"

  "A Deercreek Beach friend," Ellen said. Then for some reason she couldn’t fathom she added, "I don’t work from photographs."

  Jesus, Ellen. Why’d you say that? This clod doesn’t know, or care, about the difference.

  "Deercreek, huh?" Propp said, making a note.

  He flipped pages, examining them. Then he said, "I guess you make friends pretty fast. You only arrived in town last Saturday morning, right?"

  For reasons she couldn’t fathom, the question rang alarm bells in Ellen’s head. But she kept a blank face and only nodded. "Right. It was a Saturday."

  "From Jamaica?" Propp asked.

  "Right again, sergeant," Ellen said. "I arrived in Fort Lauderdale on a direct flight from Jamaica."

  Her temper flared. She couldn’t understand the purpose of these silly questions. Questions that all seemed aimed at her, instead of finding the son of bitch who had stolen her money. All the money she had in this fucking Harry-benighted world.

  She sat up straighter. "Pardon me, Sergeant Propp," she said. "I don’t know what you’re after, but-"

  Propp butted in once more. "Your friend," he said… "Your new friend you just met last Saturday… looks kind of familiar to me."

  "He’s a neighbor," Ellen said. "The owner’s fiancé. He helped me get situated."

  "Is that right?" Propp said. "Situated, huh?"

  "What are you implying," Ellen said, getting frosty.

  "Only sorting through the details," he replied.

  Ellen said, "Well, I’ll have you know that when I went to Ruth’s for help, Mister Barr was right there with her."

  She took a deep breath, then added, quite firmly, "He couldn’t have been involved in the theft, because I saw the thief flee on a motorcycle not two minutes before."

  "Mister Barr, huh?" Propp said, scribbling in his notes. He looked up at Ellen. "Would that be Sam Barr, but any chance?"

  Remembering Sam’s worries, Ellen became concerned. "Please don’t bother the poor man, sergeant," she said. "He’s been a great help to me. And so has Ruth."

  Propp shut his notebook and got to his feet. "You ought to be careful who you get your help from, Ellen," he said.

  He started for the door. "Well, I’ll just stroll on down the hall and see what your friends have to say for themselves."

  Ellen didn’t reply and carefully avoided his eyes. Even so, she could tell that Propp was looking her over as if she were a piece of meat. Mentally stripping her.

  Propp grinned and let himself out, closing the door softly behind him. Ellen shuddered. Went straight to the door and shot all the locks.

  Her encounter with the police made her feel like she’d made herself more vulnerable than safe.

  Might as well be in Jamaica, she thought.

  *****

  Things did not improve with the new day.

  The next morning, Ellen was at Ruth’s breakfast table, adding more coffee to an already coffee-soured stomach, when they heard a key turn in the front door lock. Alarmed, Ellen started to get up.

  But then Ruth said, "Thank God, there’s Sam now."

  Then the door came open and Sam walked in. Unshaven, bleary-eyed and in none too good a mood.

  Ruth rushed to him and tried to give him a hug but Sam pushed her away. "Aw, Jesus, Ruthie," he said. "I smell like a pig." Shook his head in disgust. "Damned cop shops get filthier by the day."

  Ellen felt terrible. "I’m so sorry, Sam," she said. "I didn’t know."

  "Nothing to be sorry about, Ellen," Sam said. "You’re the victim, here, not me. So they kept me all night. Least they didn’t lay into me too much."

  He found a chair and sat at the table. Ruth fetched him a tall, frosty glass of orange juice.

  Ellen was shocked at what he’d implied. She gasped, "They… they… beat you?"

  Sam shrugged. Then downed his juice in one long swallow. "Just a rap on the skull bones every now and then to let me know they were serious," he said.


  "That’s awful," Ellen said, really feeling like shit now.

  "No big deal," Sam said. "The main thing is, what about your money? Seems to me they’re too busy circling their own rectums to find it."

  "What can I do?" Ellen said, totally hopeless.

  Sam said, "Hell, we don’t need Sherlock Holmes, here. Just a little common sense."

  He held up his glass. Ruth poured more OJ and handed him big jar of aminos. "I mean, who knew about the money?" Sam said, shaking out some aminos. "Did you tell anybody at the nursing home? Or the cab driver on the way back here?"

  "Certainly not," Ellen said.

  "So, the only people who knew," Sam said, "were me, Ruth and…"

  The light bulb switched on for Ellen. "Danny," she exclaimed.

  "Bingo," Sam said.

  He popped the aminos into his mouth and washed them down with a huge slug of orange juice. Sam closed his eyes to the bitter taste, then kept them closed, as if drawing strength.

  The he sighed, saying, "Fucking Danny. I can’t believe he’d have the nerve to fuck with one of my friends, but Jesus, he’s a pill freak, you know?" He shook his head, mourning the vagaries of pill addicts. Sam said, "Can’t ever tell what’s happening in a pill freak’s head."

  Sam fell silent, thinking. Ruth and Ellen didn’t say a word as he rolled it over, clenching his big fists, making his muscles jump as he did his isometric exercises.

  Ellen found herself becoming fascinated. Sam wasn’t a blown up muscle man, like a one of the Hollywood action stars. His muscles were long and thick and ropy and bursting with animal-like power. But Sam didn’t appear to be an animal at all. He was deep, had read Jane Austen, and in his way was respectful of women. Hadn’t he been ready to kill the man who tried to rape her? And wasn’t he trying to help her now?

  Sam suddenly brightened. Once again, Ellen saw a light dawn on his face. "Okay, I know how to get your money back," he said. Then he paused, looking her over, doubtful. "But you have to go along with what I say."

  Ellen had her own misgivings. Sam, she’d learned, could be a nearly uncontrollable force. "You’re not going to hurt him, are you?" she asked.