The Hole

by David Halliday

  “He was sweating, Sam,” Jack said, “and pale as a ghost. After his second drink he stares at me and says, ‘I just let a man die.’ It gave me the willies. I’ve been tending bar for a lot of years but this was one for the records.”

  Jack paused for a moment, reliving the conversation with the stranger.

  “He said he killed someone or he allowed someone to die?” the detective asked as he scribbled away with a short stubby pencil.

  Jack took a breath. “He said he was standing at the corner just outside here, at the corner, and he was bending over to buy a newspaper. I don’t know which paper. Is that important?”

  Sam Kelly shook his head.

  Jack continued. “He was bending over the newspaper box when he heard something behind him. He turned around. An old man was lying on the sidewalk, his feet in the telephone booth, his mouth open. The old man seemed to let out a small cry. Oh yes, and the receiver on the phone was dangling loose. ‘I let him die,’ he said over and over.” 49

  “Did he notice the old man before that moment? Did he drive or walk to the newspaper stand?”

  “Walked, Sam,” Jack replied. “Said he lived in the neighborhood, but I’ve never seen him before. He didn’t notice the old man at all. He told me that the corner was empty when he arrived. Sam, how could you miss an old man lying on the ground? Oh ya, he said that the emptiness struck him as odd because usually there was always someone in the plaza or walking along the sidewalk. There was no one on the street or in the plaza. He used the word empty. There is always someone coming in or out of the drugstore. It’s open twenty-four hours. And the Canadiana Restaurant has a do on every night. But he used the word empty. The landscape was empty. And it was dead quiet. Sam, you can always hear Highway 27 from here. It’s constant. Like living next to the ocean. That roar is always there and yet he said he couldn’t hear the highway.” Detective Kelly looked up from his pad.

  “Couldn’t hear anything?”

  “Do you think that’s important?”

  The detective shrugged. “It is strange. You get used to the roar of traffic but it’s always present. But he noticed the silence. There’s nothing else that stood out about this fellow, no scar or accent, no tic, no idiosyncrasy?”

  Jack thought for a moment. “He was upset. And he sweated a lot. Real sweet smell. And his clothes.”

  “What about his clothes?”

  Jack shook his head. “It’s so obvious, Sam. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before. He was wearing shorts. On a cold fall day, this guy was wearing shorts. And one of those ugly Hawaiian shirts.”

  “Maybe he was jogging,” the detective suggested. “You mentioned that this guy called for an ambulance. There should be a record of that.

  And a squad car should have been sent as well. I’m surprised I didn’t hear about it.”

  “An old man’s death can’t be that uncommon,” Jack suggested.

  Detective Kelly scribbled a few more notes in his pad before placing it back in his pocket.

  “People die everyday, but not in the streets. I’ll look into it,” he said.

  “I appreciate it, Sam. Been preying on my mind. The police talked to him. He told me that. A few minutes after the ambulance left, a squad car arrived and a cop asked him a few questions. It seems that the old guy was on the line to the police. He’d had an argument with someone.”

  “The police questioned him?” the detective asked.

  Jack nodded then blushed with embarrassment. “Didn’t I tell you that, Sam?”

  The detective reached for his pad.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Johnny

  Wiggy leaned against the wall of George’s Barbershop, smoking a cigarette. Occasionally he took the cigarette out of his mouth to spit tobacco juice onto the street where it sizzled on the asphalt.

  “I guess they call that hot,” he said, glancing over at Terry who was silently drinking from a can of soda. Wiggy nudged Terry’s shoulder with his hand. Terry ignored Wiggy.

  “I thought that was all ancient history?” Wiggy said, looking out over Bloor Street. Above the bank an airplane descended from behind a cloud.

  Wiggy spat again. The plane was carrying a sign behind it. Mild, isn’t it?

  The spit sizzled again and Wiggy laughed.

  “Apparently not,” Terry responded, wiping his chin with his arm.

  “When’s Johnny getting back?” Wiggy asked. “I’ll bet he has some awesome tales about college. Man, those college parties! Dudes zeroed across the floor. Chicks upchucking in the toilet. Dope passed around like bubble gum. And the pranks. So cool. Tying people naked to flag poles. Hoisting the wheels off professors’ cars. Panty raids. Man, I can’t wait until I go.”

  “You ain’t going to college,” Terry said with a smirk.

  “Who said I ain’t?” Wiggy demanded.

  “You’ve got to graduate from high school first,” Terry answered.

  “Where’d you hear all that shit about college?”

  “I heard it,” Wiggy responded defensively. He stepped several feet to his left. The sound of the airplane was louder now. Wiggy looked up.

  The sign that the plane had been dragging behind it had disappeared.

  Terry laughed. “Where’d you hear it?”

  “I just heard it,” Wiggy repeated. “Jesus, who got your shorts tied in a knot?”

  Terry spat on the sidewalk. There was no sizzle. He took another drink. “You don’t know shit, Wiggy.”

  Wiggy fidgeted. His cigarette fell out of his mouth onto the ground.

  For a brief moment he considered not picking it up. Terry watched Wiggy pick up his cigarette and place it back in his mouth.

  “Jesus!” Terry said, his face squirming. “I just spat there.”

  “It was my last cigarette,” Wiggy replied peevishly. “Besides, we’re buds.” Why you all over my case? “I was just talking. How’s my talking harm you? Okay, wrestling is fixed. I’ll grant you that. And maybe there is a God, maybe there isn’t. But don’t tell me we haven’t been visited by aliens. They’ve got proof. And don’t tell me that they don’t have drunken orgies at college. It’s a rite of passage. I’ve seen movies. And they don’t go making up stuff like that.”

  Wiggy moved away from the wall and flicked the cigarette he’d just picked up off the ground back into the street. He looked up and watched the plane begin to descend. Shit! It’s going to strafe the street with machine gun fire. Wiggy flinched. The plane pulled up and climbed toward the midday sun.

  “What the hell!” Wiggy cried.

  Terry grinned.

  “When did you say Johnny was coming back?” Wiggy kept one eye on the sky.

  Terry emptied his drink onto the ground and flipped the can into the street. A passing car flattened it. Terry smiled with satisfaction and looked up into the sky. If only that plane would crash.

  “He’s back. Arrived in town on the weekend.” Wiggy jumped up and gestured with his arms, crying out, “The weekend! This is Wednesday. Where’s he at? We’re supposed to be tight. Why hasn’t he called me?”

  “What are you, his girlfriend?” Terry said with a smirk.

  George, a balding middle-aged man of small stature stepped out of his barbershop. He pointed to the crushed soda can on the street.

  “Is that yours?”

  “Ain’t mine. I’m allergic to sugar,” Wiggy cried.

  George turned to Terry. Terry shrugged his shoulders. Looking both ways, George stepped out into the street and picking up the can, tossed it into a nearby bin.

  “Why do you want to make the place look like a dump? Why don’t you fellows move on, eh?”

  “Free country,” Wiggy cried. “Besides, you’re interrupting a very important conversation I’m having with my friend.”

  “Hey, you’re scaring off my business!” George snapped. “It’s slow enough without you two hanging around the entrance. You’re discour-aging people from entering the shop.”

  Wiggy laughed. �
�Look, man, either they want a haircut or they don’t.

  It ain’t like we’re out here mugging folks.” George examined Wiggy. “You look like you could use a trim.”

  “Ah hell, George, I’m letting it grow long,” Wiggy said, brushing the short stubble on his head with his hand. “I want to look like one of The Beatles.”

  “Why do you always have to be a smart-ass?” George asked. “I remember you. Your father used to bring you into my shop. You were a nice boy then. Very polite. Your dad used to boast about your hockey.

  Said you were the next Big M. He must be disappointed you turned out to be such a bum.”

  “He’s disappointed with a lot of things,” Wiggy replied. “He’s dead.” George lowered his head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen him in a while and…”

  “Airplane crash,” Wiggy said and winked at Terry. “Outside Chicago.

  One of those prop planes. He was dusting crops. Hit a hydro line.”

  “That’s terrible,” George said, his voice turning contrite and sad.

  “There wasn’t enough of his body left,” Wiggy continued, “so we buried his barf bag.”

  George looked at Terry then back at Wiggy. The two boys began to laugh. George’s face turned red as he realized that the boys had been toying with him.

  “Get away from my shop!” he barked, waving his arms. “Young punks! You got no respect for anything. Talking about your father like that! It’s a sin.”

  Still laughing, the two boys wandered off, crossed the street, and headed for Terry’s apartment.

  “Sucker,” Wiggy muttered.

  The boys walked across the hydro field. The airplane appeared again, flying low over the towers. Wiggy looked up. That asshole is going to hit the hydro lines!

  “Jesus!” Terry laughed.

  Once again the plane turned and disappeared over the horizon.

  “My old man never bragged about me,” Wiggy said. “He must have been talking about your dad.”

  Terry shrugged. Terry didn’t like to talk about his father, especially with Wiggy. There was always a joke attached to any comment Wiggy made.

  “Sometimes… I can’t remember what my old man looked like,” Terry said. It’s like his face disappeared into a hole in my head.

  “Shit! I wish I could forget what my old man’s puss looked like. It’s always in my face like some indelible ink. I can’t remember when that bastard hasn’t been on my case.”

  The boys stopped in front of Duke’s Sporting Goods and looked in the window.

  “How can Duke charge these prices?” Wiggy asked. “There should be some kind of law. It should be criminal to sell things that expensive.”

  “Don’t buy them,” Terry responded.

  “That’s not the point, Terry,” Wiggy moaned. “Look at those skates!

  Two hundred bucks! If I had a pair of those I could have made the school team.”

  “You can’t skate,” Terry said.

  “My equipment was too heavy. Okay, I wasn’t the fastest guy out there. But those guys were such pussies.”

  “The coach kicked you out of the first practice,” Terry said, shaking his head. “At least I made the first round of cuts.”

  “The guy hooked me. So I hit him on the head. He had a helmet on.

  Fucking broke my stick. It was practically new.”

  “He was the coach’s son,” Terry reminded Wiggy. “What did you expect?”

  Wiggy shrugged. He bummed a cigarette off Terry and leaned against the shop window, tapping on the glass with his elbow and wondered how much of a blow it would take to break it.

  “How come you quit the team?” Wiggy asked. “Did you quit because they gave me the boot?”

  “Why not?” Terry responded.

  “I knew it. Told Frank that you quit on account of me and he said I was nuts. But we’re buds, right? One for all and all for one. But I gotta be honest, I don’t know if I would have quit if the positions had been re-versed. I mean, my old man would have killed me. He was pissed that I got cut until I told him what happened. Called the coach a pussy. Right on the phone. I heard it myself. My old man may be an asshole but he’s my asshole.”

  “Very touching,” Terry responded.

  “Ah, don’t worry about old George there,” Wiggy began, pointing back at the barbershop where the barber remained in front. “George ain’t such a bad guy. He’s just pissed off because he doesn’t have any customers. Being a barber-that’s one thing I would not want to be. Can you imagine all the filthy disgusting things you’d find in people’s hair?

  Grease, lice, scabs. Disgusting! Frank Nitty, Al Capone’s right hand man, 54 was a barber. Did you know that? He slit a few necks in his time. How can someone do that? Maybe you get used to it after the first few times.

  Like working down at Canada Packer’s. My uncle kills the cows down there. Did I tell you that? Pops them in the forehead with this gun.

  Doesn’t fire bullets, just knocks them senseless. Has to carry a hammer with him at all times in case the animal doesn’t go down right away.

  That must be quite a rush, eh? Killing something?” There was a long pause before Wiggy continued. “I can’t believe that Johnny’s back and I haven’t seen him. We’re supposed to be buds and he doesn’t call me.” Wiggy looked at Terry. “Hey, what’s wrong? I told you not to sweat old George.”

  “It’s Cathy,” Terry responded.

  “She late?”

  Terry shook his head. “I told you, Johnny’s back.”

  “So? I thought she was your girl now. Her and Johnny were tight last year before he took off for college, but that’s over. Right?”

  “I thought so,” Terry said. “She forgot to inform Johnny that they were no longer an item. He thinks he’s still got property rights.”

  “He’s still banging her?” Wiggy asked.

  Terry grit his teeth. Wiggy raised his hands in apology.

  “What does Cathy say?”

  Terry shrugged.

  “Jesus,” Wiggy said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. Wiggy was silent for several moments before he continued. “This puts me in a difficult position, man. I like Johnny. He’s got that cool ’57 Chev. We went up to Wasaga Beach last summer and I’m telling you, it’s a real babe magnet. Did I tell you about those chicks from the Saulte?

  “You told me,” Terry sighed.

  Wiggy turned and faced Terry. “We’re buds, man, but Johnny has the Chev and you’ve got to have wheels to get the chicks.” Wiggy continued on for several minutes until he noticed that Terry was glaring at him.

  “What?” Wiggy cried.

  “You ever heard of loyalty, Wiggy?”

  Wiggy nodded. “But chicks come first, right? We agreed to that.”

  “Johnny ain’t a chick.”

  “But he’s my supply line. He’s like a warehouse for chicks. No explaining it. Johnny and I were talking about going to California. He says the chicks down there are all tanned, and blonde, and beautiful, and they drop their panties if you wink.”

  Terry looked at Wiggy. “Johnny is the enemy. He’s trying to steal my girl.” Terry sighed. “Why do I bother with you?” Terry put his arm around Terry’s shoulder. ’Cause we’re buds.” Dacchau

  Sam Kelly rapped on the front door several times. He was about to give up when the door opened. Joe Mackenzie wiped the wisps of gray hair that dangled over his eyes back across his bald head. He rubbed his eyes and let the police officer in. A moment later they were in the kitchen. Joe told the detective to take a seat. As Joe prepared some coffee, Sam glanced at the wall papered with clippings, now yellowed and frayed. One article caught his attention. It was about Dacchau, the former German concentration camp. It had been cleaned up to provide temporary housing for displaced persons. How could anyone have lived there? What had the residents told their children?

  “Unbelievable, eh?” Joe said, recognizing the article that Sam was reading. Joe set a cup of hot coffee in front of Sam. “I hope you like your coffee bla
ck. Out of milk and sugar. Working the afternoon shift and I just didn’t get around to getting in groceries.” Sam nodded. “Black is fine. People actually lived there voluntarily?” Joe nodded. “After the war there were a lot of refugees-Poles, Russi-ans, Germans. There was no other housing. I guess you put up with a lot of things when you’re desperate. Must have been terrible for the kids.

  Even if you don’t believe in ghosts the kids probably overheard stories.

  You know how kids talk among themselves.”

  The detective sipped his coffee. It was too hot. He put it to one side.

  “Must be difficult to forget something like that,” he said.

  “You know what was the worse thing the Nazis did,” Joe continued,

  “next to exterminating all those people? They tried to erase their existence from history, as if all those people had never truly been. I read somewhere that Hitler got his idea for wiping out the Jews, the Gypsies, and the Slavs from the history of the wild West in America. Open up Eastern Europe as a frontier for the Germanic people by making the people there disappear. Isn’t that what we did to the Indian? Imagine Hitler in a cowboy hat and lasso and all those brown shirts on horses singing country and western songs. Sometimes I think there’s another history written in invisible ink that no one ever reads. But you didn’t come here this morning for a history lesson.”

  “I came by yesterday afternoon, but there was no one home.” 56

  “I was at work,” Joe replied, then corrected himself. “No, I was here.

  Must have been asleep. That’s what getting old is all about. You forget things. Faces, places, but especially names. Parts of your life just disappear on you. I should have taken more pictures.” The detective leaned over the table and sipped his coffee again. It was drinkable this time.

  Joe continued. “Imagine all the photographs that have been taken since the camera was invented. Billions of ’em. Where are they? Forgotten in drawers. Buried in dumps. Disappeared. If you had all those photographs, I’ll bet you could wallpaper the planet.” The detective nodded. “Went ahead without you, Joe. I hope that was okay.”

  Joe took a swallow of his coffee. The heat didn’t seem to bother him.