The Off Season
Page 17
“It usually does in January,” Bev assured him kindly. “When we get a good sou’wester, water blows all the way across the street. I’ve seen rivulets in the gutters.”
“I’m talking about halibut munching sprinkled doughnuts at The Fisherman’s Café,” Joel-Andrew said. “I’m talking about ling cod admiring themselves in the mirrored ceiling of Janie’s Tavern.” He stood, sincere, earnest, his toes wiggling in his sandals.
“The least I can do,” Bev said, pretending she was not trying to reassure a maniac, “is check the flood clause in my insurance.” She touched Joel-Andrew’s arm, fearful for him. “You must discuss this with Samuel,” she murmured, “when he returns from riding circuit.” She looked to the back of the bookstore where three Makah Indians and a Chinaman browsed among publications of the American Bible Society. The Chinaman wore a tunic, baggy drawers, ornately stitched slippers. The Makahs dressed in elaborately painted sealskin.
“Drat it,” Bev said, “I don’t mind the time jumps, but those Makahs always smudge the pages with their blasted whale oil.”
Chapter 24
Black light glistened along black sidewalks as Joel-Andrew headed for Janie’s Tavern. His legs carried springiness he did not expect in a man of forty-five. After years of study, of strife; after missionary work in the Haight; after excommunication and fall from the world’s grace, Joel-Andrew stood gifted with a situation needing a prophet. He walked thankfully before the Lord.
“One does not speak of such things in Point Vestal,” a gentleman’s firm voice said as a television camera buzzed. “I daresay such subjects are appropriate in Seattle. However, madam, you are not now in Seattle.” The gentleman seemed vaguely familiar, and Joel-Andrew searched his memory. It was the same gentleman who set his watch when Joel-Andrew first heard dying screams from The Sailor.
“I notice a number of children,” the news anchor said in a brittle voice. “It follows that sex is not unknown in Point Vestal.” The news anchor stood tall, willowy, and manicured. She wore casual attire that did not conceal the fact she was a mammal, but the information seemed secondary to radiated hair spray, armpit sanitizers, breath mints, and foot powders to combat toe jam. The news anchor’s hair glowed bluey-brown, her nose functional for prying. “What does one talk about in Point Vestal?”
“Coffins and tourists,” the gentleman explained. “Point Vestal currently embarks on a renaissance. The first major shipment of coffins arrives within the hour.” The gentleman checked his watch. “I beg leave to be excused. I will add we are a well-known tourist town.”
Black ice moved downward from high turrets. Thin rain dampened Joel-Andrew’s sandals, and little flicks of frost edged his toenails. He walked quickly. Something exciting erupted from Janie’s.
As Joel-Andrew arrived, the door slammed open. A drunken logger skidded across the sidewalk and wrapped tidily around a parking meter. The man’s blond hair was long, his eyes blue and bloodshot, his blond brows thick. Against his red logging shirt he wore a necklace made from sharp parts of busted chain saws. Ornate Victorian impressions stood like roses on his face where he had connected with Frank’s pool cue. He carried the slightly disconcerted look of a man who has been run over by a tugboat.
“Oh, dear,” Joel-Andrew said, “whatever in the world did you do to get kicked out?”
“I say ‘——,’” the logger muttered. “By yumpin’ yimminy. And I’d say him again.”
“Frank will have none of that,” Joel-Andrew explained. “Janie will not allow it.”
The logger unwrapped himself from the parking meter. “I can, by gar, get better drunk than these. I’ll yard myself ’round the back door. The boys can pass me jars of mousewash.” The logger stood. He took off his necklace and wrapped it around his fist. “Missing dis a man just cannot do,” he explained kindly to Joel-Andrew. “Dis here is a bigger show dan in d’whole north woods.” He staggered around the corner of the building.
“You’ve come at an interesting time,” Maggie told Joel-Andrew as he entered. “I’ve been waiting quite a few years to watch what happens next.” She motioned him to her table, where Kune sat pensive between bruises. Kune looked like a surgical procedure for sleeplessness. Maggie sat serene as a robin on a nest.
“I have wonderful news,” Joel-Andrew told them. “Collette has evidence to indict August Starling.” Joel-Andrew reminded himself that when a prophet gets too eager, somebody usually ends up eaten by bears. He forced himself to relax, as he stared fascinated at the mirrored ceiling that sparkled and displayed inhabitants of the tavern.
Seven drunken loggers, a dozen drunken fishermen, a large group of merchants drinking the businessman’s lunch, one member of the IWW, and the World War I vet sat along the bar. As brightly turning beer signs flashed light and shade across introspective brows, Jerome sat in a corner taking methodical notes. At the far end of the bar a group of flickering ladies wore pastel Victorian gowns and giggled. One hussy in a greenish gown was slippered, her slippers askew. She nearly displayed a stockinged toe. The ladies stood in circles and chatted, but cast shy glances at fishermen and loggers. The fishermen and loggers gave manly belches.
“I have to reckon,” a fisherman said studiously, “that all of this-here means something. Maybe a turn in the weather.”
Victorian gentlemen flickered around pool tables. Victorian gentlemen chatted discreetly with wide-hipped and friendly ladies who were not flickering. The morose cop stood before the jukebox whispering to Janie’s bouncer; while, beside her bouncer, Janie stood in silent contemplation of the tavern. A smile kept trying to bend her lips.
“The weather will certainly turn,” the World War I vet predicted, giggling. “But not outdoors.” The vet had seen bars explode from Hackensack to Marseilles.
The IWW man hummed about solidarity, while casting seductive looks at Victorian ladies. This particular IWW man was no older than ninety. In his day he enjoyed a good reputation as an organizer, a strike boss, a vocalist; although no champ on the picket lines. He was skinny, vibrant, and thought of himself as a good lay.
“I’ve nothing against ghosts, Indians, darkies, or Irishmen,” a chubby merchant said. “Some of my best friends are ghosts.”
“Still, they should stay in their place,” another merchant pointed out. “If you let them get pushy . . .”
“They might miscegenate,” the vet giggled. “Waters down the breeding stock. Mongrelizes the welfare system.” The vet seemed happy, but looked for a safe place to hide.
“You got it right,” the merchant agreed. “Breed a logger with a Victorian chippie and what’s produced will have a tail. It will yodel and swing through trees.”
“From a medical standpoint,” Kune muttered, “what the gentleman suggests is unlikely.” He shivered. “However, unlikely stuff keeps happening.” He diagnosed the situation. “The lid will blow off in exactly ten-and-a-half minutes,” he said. “The loggers and fishermen and merchants will be asked to leave. The wide-hipped ladies will be asked to stay. The trouble begins when one of the merchants puts a move on Janie.” Kune turned away, bored.
“I’m worried,” Joel-Andrew told Kune. “Obed says events are strange as you walk in and out of the Starling House. Plus, you have assorted bruises.”
“. . . got chastised by an irate husband in 1923,” Kune said. “His poor wife was innocent, or at least I was. The Starling House dumped me into a bedroom when I walked through the servants’ entrance.” Kune drew designs in a little puddle of beer. He added up his adventures. “. . . got bitten on the shin by a three-year-old in 1899 . . . turned out to be the same guy who walloped me in ’23. Molested by an old maid in ’42, got rolled over with knockout drops in 1891—Chinaman sneaked that punch—in 1892 there was a cook at the Starling House who chased people with a meat cleaver. In ’36 I intruded on a Communist cell meeting—no violence, but my head still buzzes with dialectics—and in ’07 I was assaulted by two guys in drag, their long skirts tripped them up . . . Otherwise,”—
Kune was displeased with history, but did not look discouraged—“I feel pretty guilty about causing that trouble in ’23. That man’s wife was only taking a nap.”
“Best thing that could have happened to her,” Maggie explained. “She left him, married a Ford salesman. Never regretted it. If that trouble hadn’t happened, Frank would never have been born; because, in spite of evidence, Frank actually had a mother.” Maggie belched genteelly. “History does not repeat itself,” Maggie said, her wisdom unarguable. “But people repeat history.” Maggie did not explain, and Kune was so deep in thought he forgot to ask.
“. . . attacked by two poodles in ’28, by a Great Dane in ’61, and by a chow in 1889. Clawed by house cats in ’33 and ’41 . . . gray and white cats . . . bitten by a parrot in 1947. That place has been a historical zoo.” Kune was apologetic. “I ran into August Starling twice. In 1926 he sold me a building lot. Turns out the lot is in a suburb named Miami. I can’t figure it out, because he was supposed to be dead at the time. In 1891—when he was supposed to be in the madhouse—he conned me into buying stock in a railroad.” Kune seemed perplexed. “I knew the history of that railroad,” he muttered. “It was to run from here to Seattle. I knew it was never going to be built, but Starling convinced me.”
Beyond the tavern, in the black and icy street, the news anchor and her cameraman entered The Fisherman’s Café. The news anchor’s face carried suppressed excitement. The cameraman glistened with ice.
“New people in town,” Kune murmured.
“No one you want to meet.” Joel-Andrew feared for Kune’s sanity. If Kune could not bear a little thing like a burger franchise, he was not going to be able to handle television news.
“She’s a news anchor.” Kune seemed about to sob. “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all.”
“Perhaps,” Joel-Andrew suggested delicately, “there will be no news.”
“There will be news,” Kune checked his watch. “In seven-and-a-half minutes, it explodes. What is this business about Collette obtaining evidence?”
Kune’s eyes brightened as Joel-Andrew explained. “There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” Kune whispered. “Are the Chinamen listed by name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe we can nail him for conspiracy,” Kune said. “As Gerald points out, we have no actual corpses.” Kune looked across the room, where Jerome made methodical notes. “There may be supporting evidence in the newspaper morgue.” Kune straightened, looking mildly pleased. “I picked up a little something. Back in 1897. A journal in Starling’s handwriting. The Victorians were absolutely mad about journals.”
“It amounts to a signed confession,” Maggie told Joel-Andrew. “In spite of the euphemisms.” Maggie looked into the street where a huge truck tiptoed over black ice. The truck was painted ebony. Tasteful gold lettering announced that it belonged to the Laid in Peace Coffin Company. “August Starling’s first shipment of coffins.” Maggie belched. “You ain’t gonna like ’em, but they are a sight to see.”
“If you knew about the journal,” Kune said to Maggie, “why in the world didn’t you tell me? It would have saved time.”
“I know everything,” Maggie said. “I know that come Chinese New Year, which is January 23, you will get to meet the very Chinamen who Starling drowned. You will meet Agatha, the woman who Starling killed and danced with. I know why volcanoes lose their tempers. I know cures for typhus, bubonic plague, how to worm kittens. I understand sunspots.”
“You might have saved Kune some trouble,” Joel-Andrew murmured. “Kune has gone through a lot.”
“Don’t talk to me about going through a lot,” Maggie said. “Do you think it’s all that great to know everything?”
“Do you know why science is a failure?” Kune asked. “Do you know why government and baseball are illusions? Can you actually say you understand why we should not give the boot to institutions, systems, legal codes?”
“Child of Grace,” Maggie said, “I even know the meaning of life. But I won’t tell you. You’d get too excited.”
“I love bar talk,” Kune confided to Joel-Andrew. Kune’s eyes brightened, close to realizing some great principle. To Joel-Andrew, it was nothing new. He had known philosophy professors who discovered thought, and known pimps who came to understand dress codes.
“I see it, of course.” Kune muttered, trying to downplay the thrill that pushed him. “Systems always fail because they are systems. Maybe though, within systems, there are people who do not fail.” Kune tried to quench his excitement, but his eyes sparkled.
Joel-Andrew gave silent thanks to the Lord. Kune looked convalescent, like a man recovering from simple food poisoning.
A shadow fell across the table. The shadow had a tummy. “We will soon be having a touch of unpleasantness,” Frank whispered. Frank stood above Kune, his beard cringing in distaste. “You are to blame,” he told Kune. “Gerald will hear of it.”
Kune no longer resembled an illness. He looked optimistic. “I have spent several intimate moments with your mother.” He checked his watch. “Put that in your report to Gerald. And, you have exactly two minutes before this dump busts like a ruptured appendix.”
“You see!” Frank huffed and puffed like a man inflating life rafts. “He knows. That means he’s causing it.” Frank’s beard underwent convolutions.
The Sailor entered the tavern. “Better tend to your new customer,” Maggie said. The Sailor brushed speckles of ice from his black beard. He sensed the tension in Janie’s Tavern. The Sailor grinned.
“How could August Starling be at the Starling House during times when he was supposed to be dead or in the madhouse. That is one I really don’t understand.” Kune watched as Frank retreated to his position of power behind the bar.
“August Starling is unusual.” Maggie belched, admired The Sailor. “I’ve had my share of men,” she sighed, “but I wouldn’t mind another share.”
“Janie will not allow such talk,” Joel-Andrew cautioned her. To Kune, he said, “August Starling really is hell-born. I was given a revelation. We may expect him to exhibit some strange powers.”
“There isn’t a redheaded Presbyterian, dead or alive,” Maggie began. “. . . whoops!” she finished. “Play ball!”
Maggie quieted, then cheered, as she admired the flying figure of a merchant caroming off a beer sign, a chandelier, a pool table, and a spittoon before skidding to a stop beside the front door. The merchant was a portly fellow, but his tum-tum seemed made mostly of muscle. He contemplated his reflection in the spittoon, wrinkled his nose, adjusted his tie. He brushed back well groomed hair, and examined his nails. “OK, kiddies,” he said to no one in particular, “we’re playing hardball.” He stood, bent over, began wrenching a barstool from its base.
“Drat it,” Maggie said, “we got so busy talking, we missed the first pitch.”
No bar fight is especially pretty, but one with ghosts is generally interesting. We may also remember that everyone was an old hand, experienced, wise as cats. The playing field cleared as wide-hipped and generous ladies dove for the women’s can, where the WWI vet and the IWW man were already hiding. Jerome stuck a little “Pressbox” sign on his double-ender hat, and withdrew farther into his corner. Flickering Victorian ladies drifted gently upward to the balcony, a bleacher position favorable for delicate flinging of saltcellars, popcorn, beer pitchers, and furniture. Flickering Victorian gentlemen removed jackets, while smiling to each other with narrow and dutiful lips. They armed with pool cues, as Jamie’s bouncer began festivities by taking first at bat. He tagged a bohunk logger for a three-bagger. The logger sailed in a little looper, getting down beneath Frank’s nose, then skidding along the bar. Frank never got a glove on him. A Victorian gentleman stepped forward. He doubled a wop fisherman off the wall. The score stood 1 and 0 as the merchants came to bat.
“I deeply regret that the Irish cop is missing this,” Maggie said, “the dear man will be all broken up.” A Victorian gentl
eman flickered past. He woo-wooed and woe-woed and sailed over the jukebox. “They’re going for the long ball,” Maggie groaned. “Babe Ruth was the ruination of this game.”
“So it follows,” Kune said to Joel-Andrew, “that if all systems are certain to fail, a man must rise above systems.”
“You got it,” Joel-Andrew told him.
“ls that what you do?” Kune asked. “Do you try to rise above systems?”
“I follow the Lord,” Joel-Andrew told him. “That can become a system, but when it does, it fails. That failure is why Point Vestal has eighteen churches, no God, and exports drugs.”
“Tinker to Evers to Chance,” Maggie said admiringly. “You don’t see a play like that once every fifty years. I mean, you hear about them, but you don’t actually see ’em.”
The merchants were getting shut out. Janie’s bouncer coldcocked them, fielded them to The Sailor who added finishing touches, then fielded them into the street. Joel-Andrew looked through the window. On the sidewalks the morose cop stacked merchants in a tidy and growing pile. The morose cop looked like a batboy sorting equipment.
“So it follows,” Kune said, “that if a man can’t function within a system, that does not mean the man is necessarily perverse or guilty or awful.”
“It may mean just the opposite,” Joel-Andrew assured him.
“I like feeling this way,” Kune murmured. Kune no longer looked diseased. He did not carry the sickly pallor of a health freak, nor did he look organic.
“. . . threw a bean ball,” Maggie said. “That’s what did it.” Maggie looked toward the center of the bar, where the teams bashed each other with careful regard to good sportsmanship. The loggers bit ears, the fishermen gouged eyes, and the Victorians went for the groin. Janie’s bouncer stood above the pile and chose his pitches carefully. It was obvious that the bouncer would go the whole nine innings. The Sailor yelled as loudly as the fans, and the pile on the sidewalk grew.