The Hole

by David Halliday

  “I got a special measuring tape from the Ministry of Natural Re-sources,” the detective continued. “They use it to measure old wells just like yours. Joe, I let it all out. Two thousand feet. And still it hadn’t reached the bottom of your well.”

  Joe took another swallow. He shook his head.

  “Ask me if I’m surprised.”

  The detective leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been thinking that maybe we could lower a video camera down and see what’s there.”

  “Won’t it be too dark?”

  “Ya, I thought of that. Maybe we could strap a flashlight to it. I’ve been doing a little research. There’s a hole like yours in Sweden. That’s what they did. Lowered a camera.”

  “What did they see?”

  “Not much. But when they reached what they figured must have been the bottom, they saw a tunnel leading off in another direction. And they saw what they figured was the remains of animals that must have fallen down there. They went down almost twenty-four hundred feet.” Joe was silent for several minutes. He sipped at his coffee, then took a pouch of tobacco and filled a pipe that he retrieved from his back pocket.

  The officer waited in silence. He knew that Joe needed a few minutes to mull over the problem. He read another clipping on the wall. The United States had defeated Britain in a World Cup championship match played in Rio de Janeiro. In another article he read about the rise of suicides after World War II. It had been especially noted that the rise was chiefly among young men who had returned from active military service.

  “The first problem I see,” Joe began, “is weight.” 57

  “The camera is fairly light,” Sam responded. “I figure we can use some of that test line that fishermen use to catch marlin.”

  “But once you get that far down,” Joe went on, “most of your weight is the line itself. You think there might be something down there?”

  “We know your neighbors have been dumping garbage,” Sam responded. “Who knows what else they dropped. If we can find something suspicious then we can get some authorization to spend more money on investigating the hole.”

  “June used to say she could hear the screams of hell coming up from the hole. Of course she was half in the tank most of the time. You think that someone might have fallen down there?”

  The detective shrugged his shoulders as he swallowed a mouth of coffee.

  “Maybe,” he replied.

  Joe relit his pipe that had gone out.

  “I have to find out, Joe,” the detective said.

  “Like an itch you have to scratch,” Joe responded with a laugh.

  The detective nodded.

  “Your wife drank a lot?” the detective asked.

  “Like a fish. My fault,” Joe said, shaking his head. “She was young and lonely. And I wasn’t much company. Foolish of me to marry her, but I couldn’t keep my hands off her. I’ve never been a man who needed it much but something about June brought it out. In the beginning, I was as randy as a jackrabbit. If only she hadn’t been so stupid. Dumb as a doorknob.”

  The detective smiled. “She was in love with you?” Joe shrugged. “She never said she was, never said she wasn’t. Didn’t seem to matter.”

  Shot Glass

  Jack tilted the glass slightly to one side as he eased the draft beer down its throat. Just before the beer reached the top he released the throttle on the keg he was drawing from, then placed the glass of beer on the table.

  The foam rose above the lip and briefly threatened to spill over the top before it finally settled down to a perfect head.

  “So you were saying, Sam?” Jack smiled.

  The detective picked up his beer and sucked softly on its head, the foam sticking to his thick black moustache.

  “Well, I haven’t found out much. I checked with the hospital records at Lakeshore and Etobicoke, and I checked our records. You said the guy talked to a cop, but I asked around. Nothing. No one knows a thing about a man dying out front.”

  Jack stared at Sam. “Well, I didn’t bloody make it up!” he cried.

  Jack was angry. The detective couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Jack angry. There was no one more congenial than Jack Anderson.

  Of course it was his job, but over the years there should have been some crack in the facade. The detective had never seen it.

  The detective patted Jack on the hand.

  “Don’t believe you did,” he said. “But no one can remember any such incident. Ah Christ, I think we’re all going a little mad. I’ve spent most of the week up at Joe Mackenzie’s place trying to find out how deep his bloody well is. I got no answer to that one either. Lost a video camera the other day. The line broke. We’re going to try one of those big spotlights they use sometimes over the city. What worries me is that the hole might not go straight down. But I ain’t giving up on your case, Jack. Officer McSherry said he heard of a death on the corner but it was before his time. Herb gave me the name of a retired cop, Ed Kaye. I’ll ask him.

  Lives around the corner here in the retirement home.”

  “But this happened the other day, Sam,” Jack responded.

  Sam Kelly said nothing. After a few moments of silence he asked,

  “What do you know about Joe Mackenzie?”

  “Not much,” Jack said, shaking his head. “His wife used to come in here quite often before she took off.”

  “Did you know that he was a graduate of Harvard University?”

  “That big college in the States?” Jack asked.

  The detective nodded.

  Jack shook his head. “Well, I’ll be.”

  The detective said, “He works as a night watchman at the plaza across the street. A little overqualified for the job, don’t you think?”

  “He must be getting up there in years, Sam. His wife used to complain that he was too old. Harvard, eh? Maybe it’s just a job to pick up some extra cash. Not easy for seniors these days.”

  “As far as I can tell, he’s never had any other job, Jack. And the walls of his house, the walls that aren’t covered with bookshelves, are covered with newspaper clippings. He told me some story about his father putting the clippings on the wall to educate his kids in current affairs.

  Trouble is that as far as I can tell, all the clippings are from one year.” Jack’s mouth dropped.

  “What did I say?” the detective asked.

  “What year?” Jack asked, taking a small shot glass from beneath the bar and pouring himself a shot of whiskey.

  “The year?” the detective replied. “Jesus, I think it was-”

  “Nineteen-fifty,” Jack said.

  Sam looked at the bartender, grabbed the whiskey from Jack’s fingers, and swallowed it.

  The Office

  Mary Hendrix plucked away at the typewriter. She stopped occasionally to take a puff from the cigarette that tightroped on the edge of an ashtray. A woman entered the office. Mary turned.

  “You’re early,” she said.

  “I was bored,” Margaret replied.

  “Let me finish these invoices first,” Mary said.

  “God,” Margaret said, “are you still using a typewriter?” Mary nodded. “Brennan hasn’t forked out for a computer yet. Worries about every nickel.”

  “I thought what’s-her-name did this stuff?”

  Mary smirked. “She went out to lunch with her new boyfriend. Remember that asshole I told you about, the one that couldn’t keep his hands to himself?”

  Margaret nodded.

  “Apparently he was in here the other day and chatted it up with our favorite secretary. I spotted him. Kept myself hidden in the back room while he was here. Anyway, maybe the girl will have better luck.” Mary looked at the pile of papers in front of her. “Brennan needs these invoices today. I don’t know why I’m protecting her ass.” Margaret picked up a magazine from a nearby rack and took a seat.

  “Jesus, these magazine are ten years old,” Margaret said with a laugh.

  “Look at the
se prices.”

  “Brennan won’t replace them.” Mary continued her typing. “God, I wish I hadn’t booked that hair appointment.”

  “It’ll do you good.” Margaret leafed through the magazine. “Look at these dresses.”

  “I keep thinking about the money.”

  “You can’t take it with you.”

  “My hair?” Mary said.

  Margaret laughed. “Your money!”

  Mary stopped typing and turned toward Margaret.

  “Do you ever worry about getting old alone?” Margaret looked up from her magazine.

  “As long as you’re breathing, some man will take a run at you.” Mary laughed and returned to her typing.

  Margaret picked up a second magazine.

  “Has he asked you yet?” Mary asked.

  Margaret shook her head. “And he’s a detective! You’d think he could pick up on the clues. I’ve been tossing enough of them his way. Sometimes I think I could serve him his coffee and toast stark naked and he wouldn’t notice.”

  Mary laughed.

  “Look at all these ads for cigarettes. Nine out of ten doctors recommend Lucky Strikes. If he doesn’t ask me out soon, I’m going to do the asking. Only one thing bothers me.”

  “What’s that?” Mary asked.

  Margaret looked up from her magazine. “What if he says no?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Missing Persons

  Sam Kelly waited patiently in the Canadiana Restaurant for his blueberry pie. Several customers stood at the cash register, paying their bills and talking to the waitress. Margaret smiled warmly as she handed back their change, glancing apprehensively toward the detective. Completing the transactions, she turned to the kitchen and picked up several plates.

  She moved confidently across the room and delivered them to another table of guests. When she returned to the police officer she apologized.

  The detective sipped at his coffee. Margaret remembered the pie and moved over to a nearby refrigerator.

  “Been looking forward to this all morning,” Sam Kelly said.

  Me too! Margaret smiled.

  “Did you pick the berries yourself, Margaret?” Margaret giggled and slapped the detective’s hand playfully as she slid the pie onto the counter.

  “Is it always this busy here in the morning?” He looked around the room.

  “Some days,” Margaret sighed, “it’s dead in here. But if there’s a funeral over at Our Lady of Peace we can get pretty busy. I like it 61 busy-not that I wake up hoping someone has died. But time passes by faster when it’s busy.” Dirty shirt collar. Good sign.

  “You don’t have any other help?” Sam made sure to keep his mouth closed as he ate.

  “Susan comes in mornings. But she’s got kids and there’s always some emergency or other that makes her late. Or so the story goes. But the boss likes her. She’s a single mother and he thinks that he might get lucky. She doesn’t have four kids for nothing. That’s what the boss tells me. Men are such optimists.”

  Sam shook with laughter. Have to tell that one to Jack. Shaking his head with delight, he smiled as he washed down the pie with a swallow of coffee.

  Margaret took an ashtray out and set it on the counter.

  “You don’t mind?”

  The detective shook his head and continued to eat his pie. Margaret watched. Love to watch a man eat. Tells you something about how they touch a woman. Meticulous and tidy. Finishes what he starts. I like that.

  When Sam finished he pushed the plate aside, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and sighed.

  “Wonderful,” he said with a smile. “A pie like that deserves some kind of prize.”

  Margaret drew deeply on her cigarette and slowly let out several smoke rings. Do I have to bat my eyelashes?

  The detective sipped at his coffee and watched in wonder as Margaret’s rings rose toward the ceiling and dissipated.

  “Never could do that,” he said.

  “It’s just one of my talents,” Margaret responded with a wink.

  The detective blushed. Margaret laughed and patted his hand.

  “You lived in this area all your life?” he asked.

  Margaret nodded. “Mostly.”

  “Ever been married?” he asked.

  “Once. No kids. No prospects.” Margaret sucked on her cigarette.

  “Sorry,” the detective apologized. “Hazard of the job.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Being nosy.” He smiled.

  Margaret smiled. “I like people who are curious. Some people. What about you, Detective?”

  “Call me Sam. No on all charges.” He smiled, bowing his head.

  Margaret laughed. “Well, it ain’t a crime to be single! Not yet anyway.”

  The detective smiled. He liked Margaret. She seemed down to earth, lacked any pretensions. When she smiled, she was quite pretty.

  “I like it when it’s quiet,” he said.

  “Well, you picked a great place to be a cop,” Margaret said, butting out her cigarette. “Nothing ever happens here in the Six Points. You could be born, live, and die in this area without making a ripple.”

  “You sound disappointed,” the detective said.

  “Well,” Margaret smiled, reaching for the coffee and topping up the detective’s cup, “I like a little excitement. Gets my juices going.”

  “How come you haven’t moved into the city?” he asked.

  Margaret smiled. “Always intend to, but I never get around to it.” The detective smiled and stared into his coffee. There was a long pause. Should I ask her? A customer stepped into the restaurant. Margaret moved down the counter. The detective shook his head and laughed to himself. God, I’m acting like a teenager.

  Duke’s

  Cathy backed away from Terry. She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and leaned provocatively against the variety store’s front. “I think you should go upstairs. By yourself. I’m not going to let you talk me into going up with you. I just couldn’t handle it. You, Johnny, my parents, your mother. It’s too much. I need some space. I can hardly breathe.”

  “Why couldn’t you just have told him?” he cried. About to smash his fist on the front door leading up to his apartment, Terry turned away angrily.

  “Keep your voice down,” Cathy pleaded, her voice sliding into the accent of a southern belle.

  “Jesus!” Terry complained. “The accent.”

  “You know I get that accent when I’m nervous,” Cathy explained.

  “And I’m not being histrionic.”

  “I didn’t say a thing.” I hate this melodrama!

  “No…But I know how you think, Terry.” Quit sulking!

  “You think you know me? You should get real, Cathy. Little rich girl fucking with everybody’s head. You’re an actress, Cathy. You love this shit!” Fuck! Why did I say that!

  “I do not like this,” Cathy responded angrily. “Why do you always bring up my parents’ money? You’re the one who’s preoccupied with it.

  And I’m not trying to fuck with your head. I love you, Terry. I just need some time.” I need a cigarette.

  “You should have written Johnny. I thought you guys had an arrangement before he left. Christ, I’m crazy about you. Can’t you see that? I’ve been fucking the guy’s girlfriend for months and now I’m supposed to disappear. He’s the one that should get lost. You think he’s been an altar boy at college? You think he hasn’t been double-dipping into every pussy coming his way?” I’m driving her away. I can feel it. Got to shut up.

  Cathy bit down on her lip. “If you don’t keep your voice down, Terry, I’m leaving.”

  Terry took a deep breath. He fell back against his front door and slid down to the ground where he sat shaking his head.

  “This is so fucking unfair,” he moaned. “I can’t stand… ” I’m losing her.

  Cathy sat down on the sidewalk beside Terry. Please stop acting like a baby.

  “It’s not all
about you, Terry. How do you think I feel having the only two men I’ve ever loved tugging from both sides at me? I’m being torn apart. Sometimes I wish-”

  “What? That you’d never met me?” Terry looked at Cathy then turned his head away.

  “That I’d never met either one of you.” Didn’t mean that. Yes I did.

  Terry turned back to Cathy. Tears ran slowly down Cathy’s cheek.

  Terry wiped them away with his finger. All his anger seemed diluted in her tears. He tried to kiss her. She moved away.

  “That’s not going to help!” She spat out each of her words.

  Terry sighed, putting his face in both of his hands. If we could go upstairs, if we could fuck, this…would go away. Climbing to his feet, Terry stepped away, his back to Cathy. Abruptly he turned back on her.

  “I can’t take this, Cathy. I’m aching for you. You don’t know what it’s like to have your body aching so much for someone. Like you’re going to be sick to your stomach. I can’t think straight. If only I could relax for five minutes, just time to think. It’s like my own body is torturing me.”

  “What do you want me to do-give you a blow job so that we can have a reasonable conversation?”

  Terry said nothing. Yes.

  Cathy sighed deeply. Fat chance!

  A police car, its lights flashing, raced along Bloor Street past the couple.

  Terry stepped back toward Cathy. He looked down at her. “We could get married.”

  Cathy remained silent for several minutes. And then in a voice barely audible she said mockingly, “That’s so pathetic.”

  “What?” What did she say?

  Nothing. Cathy shook her head.

  Terry took a package of cigarettes out of his pocket. He offered one to Cathy. They both lit up. For several minutes neither spoke.

  “What are you going to tell college-boy?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Johnny’s going through a bad time. He screwed up at school. He was on probation to begin with and then he flunked a couple of classes. Latin and Greek, I think. He always hated Latin. Barely got through high school in Latin and then he signs up for the course.

  What an asshole! Never went to class. What a jerk! His parents don’t know yet. They’re going to throw him out when they see his marks. He needs a job and a place to live.”