Bentley Dadmun - Harry Neal and Cat 09 - Dead Dead Dead, the Little Girl Said

by Bentley Dadmun

  She gave me a side eyed look and said, “Refrain from giving her a rough time? What is she, a one legged duck?”

  We entered a large dim room. The bar was on the left. On the right, squatting on hundred year old floorboards scrounged from a collapsed tool shed, were several tables placed haphazardly around a stone fireplace, another contribution from that obnoxious phony, Herb Rico. On the wall behind the bar was a large print of dogs playing poker. The bar and all the furniture was made of plywood and pine boards slathered with urethane.

  Most of the stools were occupied by lumpy bodies with heads that sported either gray or very little hair, and all the faces were worn and tired from seven or eight decades of beating against life’s wall. Everyone was staring up at the television hung on the wall where Clark Gable was talking tough to Vivian Leigh.

  I opened my jacket and hauled Cat out of the sling and put her on the floor. She stretched, yawned, and limped toward the fireplace. I followed Priscilla, and we perched on crude wooden stools at the end of the bar.

  And Florence Good was bartending. She was a tiny woman with the face of a two hundred year old Navajo. Her wire like hair, the color of granite, looked like she last combed in 1971. She looked like a wrinkled, short, and disturbed, Albert Einstein. She knew we had come in, but ignored us and watched Clark sweep Vivian off her feet and carry her up the stairs for a little slap and tickle. After waiting for maybe sixty seconds, Priscilla slapped her hand on the bar, and in a loud voice said, “Hey, Short Round. How about two glasses of red wine down here while Clark gets his knob polished.”

  All heads turned. All eyes fixed on Priscilla. Priscilla stared back. Several pairs of eyes shifted to me. I pasted on my friendliest smile and nodded. Florence, who was an inch or two shorter than Priscilla, shuffled up to us. She gazed at Priscilla for a time then rasped, “We don’t serve no New Age midgets around here, Sweetie. Why don’t you try Sesame Street, you might get a lollypop with your wine.”

  I quickly said, “Good evening, Florence, this is my guest, Priscilla Matson, and we’d appreciate a couple of glasses of wine, please.”

  After giving Priscilla another once over, Florence shuffled down the bar, and with effort, lifted a gallon jug of red wine out of a Styrofoam cooler. After struggling mightily with the cap, she filled two glasses covered with cartoon figures. With effort, she stooped and put the jug back in the cooler, grasped the glasses in knarled hands and shuffled back to us. She put the glasses on the bar in front of us and said, “So who does your hair, Dearie, the electric company?”

  “Actually, Short Round, I do my hair the same way you do your face, with a grenade.”

  A smile flickered across Florence’s ravaged face. She pointed a finger at Priscilla’s nose and demanded, “Who you calling Short Round? I got you by at least an inch.”

  Priscilla pointed her finger at Florence’s nose and said, “The only time you’ll have an inch on me, Short Stack, is when you’re standing on a two foot pile of bullshit.”

  I put two dollar bills on the bar and said, “Thank you, Florence.”

  She grabbed the bills and said, “Anytime, Harry. You and the midget with the mouth want another one, help yourself, I’m gonna watch Atlanta burn.” And she turned and shuffled to the other end of the bar.

  “I gotta come here more often, she’s the only woman I know who’s shorter than me.”

  I drank a little wine and looked at my glass. Winnie The Poo looked back. “I’m glad she’s got something on the DVD, otherwise I’d have to listen to you two trade insults for twenty minutes.”

  Priscilla smile and shrugged. “Hey, you never know, maybe she’s my long lost great great grandmother or something.”

  Definitely possible. You two have similar personalities, and the facial resemblance is remarkable.”

  She snorted and shook her head. “Thank you very much, Old Man. Listen, what’s up for tomorrow?”

  “How about we see Betty and ask her where Rundle moved to. Hopefully he’s nearby and hasn’t drank himself to death and we can find out what the hell he did that day.”

  “Sounds good, but if he’s part of it he isn’t likely to be giving any interviews.”

  “Well, first we find out where he is, then we try to ascertain what shape he’s in, and then we’ll figure out how to approach him.”

  Priscilla looked up at the television. After a time she looked back at me and said, “So what if we ascertain that he’s alive and living in California?”

  I drank wine and thought. Every so often, someone would turn their head and glance at Priscilla, then give me a quick glance and look back up at the movie. I sighed inwardly, tongues were going to be wagging. I sighed aloud, shrugged, and said, “I don’t know, let’s just wait until we find out where he is.”

  Priscilla traced circles on the bar with the bottom of her glass. “If we can’t chat up Rundle, maybe that Anderson will talk to us, Rundle would have talked to him.”

  “I don’t know about that either. Talking with Betty is one thing, we’ve been friends for years. But a chief of police, even if he’s an ex chief of police, is another matter. Most policemen don’t like laymen fooling around with investigations and more than likely he’d tell us to get lost.”

  “Okay. So what if we can’t talk to Rundle or the chief?”

  “We’ll come to that when we come to that, at least we added one more piece to our puzzle tonight.”

  “We did?”

  “We did. We found out Conrad is Dorthea’s brother, that’s a fairly interesting tidbit.”

  “Oh yeah, for sure, and it’s another finger pointing at the Chapman’s. We’re definitely gonna have to talk to them again. I say go after Dorthea, I don’t think she’s as tough as she or Annie thinks she is, and if we keep at her, maybe something will break.” She drained her glass and slid off the stool. “What say we go back to the boat, I wanna see what my next quest in Fallout 3 is gonna be.”

  I nodded, finished my wine and stood up. Cat was sleeping on the stones in front of the fireplace and her fur was pleasantly warm when I picked her up and put her in the sling. As I headed for the door, Priscilla suddenly veered off and squeezed between Ed Stafford and Marnie Watts, hopped up on the bar so that her torso was laying flat on it, grabbed Florence by the ears, pulled her close, kissed her forehead with a loud smack, and said loudly, “Good night, Runt. And listen, sue the State, they built the ground way too close to your bony old ass.” She pushed off the bar, grinned back at a grinning Ed Stafford and headed for the door, which I was hurrying to open.

  Her mouth a gaping, toothless hollow, Florence rubbed her right ear with one hand, flung a fist up in the air with the other and yelled, “Good night, ya goddamn midget. And Harry, you don’t have ta open the door for her, she’s so damn short she could go under it walking on stilts and a wearing a top hat.”

  … . .

  WITH A COLD MIST SPARKING IN our flashlight beams, and concentrating on not stepping in the pungent piles Dolly and her troop left behind, we zigged and zagged across the pasture. After a near miss Priscilla said, “Jesus, all those cows do is eat and shit, eat and shit.”

  “The same could be said for most humans I know. Look how involved most of us are with eating. Look at the way we ate tonight.”

  “Not most humans, I read somewhere that over thirty thousand kids a day die on this moldy planet, mostly from some form of malnutrition or starvation.”

  “Politics, diarrhea, and malaria,” I said. “And by all accounts, the daily count is closer to forty thousand a day.”

  She didn’t have anything to say to that and we made the rest of our trek in silence.

  We made the grove and climbed into the boat. The wind was working on a loose end of the tarp, causing it to flap like an angry bird, so I tied it back down while Priscilla opened the hatch. We dropped into the main cabin and I prowled through the boat, lighting candles and lanterns while Priscilla poured wine. I added wood to the stove and left the door open so we could watc
h the flames.

  Priscilla handed me a mug and slumped in the settee. I raised the mug in a salute and drank. We lapsed into a comfortable silence. Shadows created by the flickering candles danced a spastic ballet on the cabin walls and wind pawed at the grove, causing the boat to tremble in her cradle. I wanted a blanket but didn’t want to disturb the moment by getting up.

  Reading my mind, Priscilla got up, dropped a quilt in my lap, and sat down at the Xbox. “Listen, let’s get into town early tomorrow, that’ll give us more time to accomplish something. What say?”

  I said, “I’ll try.”

  She smiled, shook her and muttered something I didn’t catch. She turned and fired up the Xbox and the big screen started to glow. She stopped and turned around and I could feel her staring at me. I turned and met her questioning gaze. Finally she gave me a funny little smile, cleared her throat and whispered, “Harry, am I strange looking?”

  I gave her my gentlest smile and said, “You’re obviously shorter than most people, including women. But you’re certainly not that short. You’re nicely built and not strange looking in any shape, manner or form. I suggest you lighten up on yourself, most of the problem is you.” She stared at me a moment longer, blinked several times, then turned back and brought up the game.

  I wrapped the quilt around me and picked up my wine. Wind, rain, wine. Sweet opiates that pulled me into a warm cocoon and away from drooling, farting, demented old men.

  … . .

  SOMETIME AFTER DAYBREAK, PRISCILLA CAME IN and dropped Cat on the bed, who curled up by my head, purred in my ear for a time, and dozed off. Sometime later she put a paw on my nose and licked my cheek. I pushed her away and rolled over. Undeterred, she walked over my head, pressed a paw against my lips and meowed in my ear.

  Obviously it was time to eat.

  Getting out of bed is always a bittersweet chore. Once I’m up, with Cat fed and my hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, and once I’m gazing out at the grove, I’m glad I, or Cat, made the effort. I don’t know what time Priscilla went to bed, but she was clear eyed and active. She brewed coffee, filled the bird feeders, and made us a breakfast of poached eggs on toasted English Muffins.

  We were out the door by eight thirty. We checked the bikes and started across the pasture. The cows, tails swishing and steam blowing from their nostrils, stared dumbly in our direction. Dolly mooed and headed toward us. The others apparently didn’t see the point and ambled off. Priscilla laid her bike in the frost covered grass, dug her hands into Dolly’s neck and kneaded her muscles for a few minutes. “If you want to go for a ride around the pasture, I don’t mind waiting.”

  She grunted and said, “Listen, will you give it a rest?” She gave Dolly a final pat, picked up her bike and we pedaled out of there.

  … . .

  WE GOT OFF THE BIKES AND pushed them down the sidewalk toward the alley. I saw a police cruiser parked across the street, tapped Priscilla on the shoulder, and nodded at the cruiser. “I think Betty’s at Gretchen’s. We can ask her about Rundle, and maybe get an address.”

  She stared balefully at the cruiser a moment, made a face and said, “Tell you what. You talk to the Big Fat Cop and I’ll make a quick visit home. I want to check on Eva and see how Ona is coping with her and Sarah.” She straddled her bike, muttered, “Be back soon,” and pedaled back onto Main Street. I pushed the bike down the alley, got the door open, and charged through. I was wrong. Betty was nowhere to be seen. I settled in a booth and put Cat by the napkin holder. She immediately limped to the end of the table, sat, and fixed her gaze on Clara Kosko, who was shuffling toward the front booth with a loaded tray. Gretchen was busy at the grill.

  Coffee was going to be a long time coming.

  Clara, trailed by Betty, finally shuffled up to the booth. Betty sat and carefully put her blue cap in the middle of the table. She scuffed Cat’s head and looked up at Clara, who, gaunt, baggy eyed, and grim, and with pad and pencil at the ready, gazed down at us. Today she was wearing a black apron with ‘I’d Rather Be Naked,’ printed on it in bold red letters.

  “Just a large coffee to go, Clara,” Betty said. “And let me buy this reprobate a cup.”

  Clara slowly shifted her gaze to me. I shook my head. She turned and shuffled toward the counter. I looked at Betty and raised my eyebrows. She picked up Cat and scratched her ears as she said, “I was writing out a ticket on Don Kreb’s pickup when your little friend comes up behind me and snaps the back of my neck with a finger. I went about two feet straight up while trying to draw my pistol. She gives me this dead eyed stare for a about five seconds, then tells me that instead of hassling the taxpayers, maybe I should get my mangy ass to Gretchen’s Kitchen because you’re there wanting to talk to me. I fondled my nine millimeter and told her that if she ever snuck up on me again I’d use her for target practice. I don’t think she was impressed.”

  “Maybe if you blew a couple of slugs past her ear.”

  Betty smiled and shook her head. “Don’t think so, not with that one. So, are you going to float some more double sawbucks past my nose?”

  “Not this fine day. All I want is Rundle’s address. If he’s close enough, Priscilla and I would like to chat him up.”

  Her eyes drifted away from mine for a moment, then drifted back. “You know, I don’t know where he is, don’t think I ever did. I just have an impression that he went to the Midwest, Chicago maybe.” She shrugged and rubbed her eyes with thumb and forefinger. “Obviously you two are still dancing around Frank Jankey’s coffin. Did you find out anything we should know about concerning Watson? Now there’s a crime, one we’d dearly love to close the book on.”

  The gold coins were on the tip of my tongue, but I held back, looked Betty in the eye and said, “No, that trail ended quickly.”

  “I thought it would, but I’m one of those Americans doing my bit for the economy. The result being my Visa card is maxed and your contributions were most welcome.”

  “Fair enough. I asked after all.”

  “And as for Matson’s grandfather, I think you’re wasting your time. The man blew his heart running up that hill once too often. “

  “Maybe, but as I told Young Tommy, it gets me out of the boat and keeps me active.”

  “And you get to spend time with Little Miss Mighty Muscle… get to give her the benefit of your superior wisdom and show her that, although you’re deep into your declining years, you can still walk the walk and talk the talk.”

  “Just what are you implying, Oh Rotund One?”

  Clara shuffled up to the table. She put a large Styrofoam cup at the tip of the bill of Betty’s cap, put a mug of coffee by my hand, and three thin strips of beef under Cat’s nose. Cat looked down at the meat, slapped one piece with her paw and gave Clara’s arm a quick kitty kiss. Clara smiled like Mona Lisa and shuffled away.

  Betty stood, put her cap on just so, picked up her coffee and toasted me with it. “So who would know about Rundle?” I asked.

  She raised her eyebrows, and after a moment said, “Well, there’s Ronnie Anderson. He was chief of police when it all went down and he was the one who had to fire Rundle because of his drinking. He lives in a modular up on Pine Street. And maybe Rundle’s old girlfriend, Shaleen Gogan, I don’t know where she lives but you probably know her, she works out at… ”

  “Hannaford,” I said. “I know her.”

  “She might know, she and Rundle were an item around the time Janky died.” She toasted me again with her cup and pretended to take a piece of meat away from Cat, who, with one piece hanging out of her mouth, put both paws on it and gave Betty her version of The Hard Stare. Betty smiled, let go, and headed for the door.

  I had a twisted up napkin in my hand and was fencing with Cat when Priscilla slid into the opposite seat, pulled on Cat’s tail and said, “Eva and Ona invited us over for supper but I said no. I wanna get back to Fallout 3, I’m trying to rescue a couple of kids from slavers and I think it’s gonna be a bitch and I can�
�t wait. You find out where Rundle lives?”

  “Betty doesn’t know. But she said Anderson, the old chief of police might, and failing that there’s a girl out at Hannaford that used to date Rundle.” I gave her my old classroom look and said, “And if I were you, I wouldn’t be sneaking up on Betty anymore, things like that irritate her and she has a long memory.”

  Priscilla grinned. “Told you about it, did she? I came up behind her and snapped my finger against her neck, maybe a little harder than I intended, and she jumped a foot or so straight up and yelped like a scalded dog.”

  Clara shuffle up, looked down at Priscilla and mumbled, “Want something?”

  Priscilla hesitated, then slid to the end of the seat, grabbed Clara’s sleeve with both hands, fluttered her eyelids, and in a high pitched southern drawl, said, “I want world peace, liberty and justice for all, a bucket full of fifties, and a cup of coffee.”

  Clara’s eyes crinkled, but otherwise held firm. She pulled her pad and pencil out of her apron pocket and intoned, “World peace, justice for all, bucket full of fifties, coffee.” Then she turned and shuffled toward the counter.

  “You’re in rare form, Eva and Ona feed you four or five glasses of wine?”

  Priscilla picked up Cat and gently rubbed the scars along her shoulders. “No, when I’m a little down I get wiseass. Eva’s obviously not going to get better and we’re not doing so hot with finding out what happened to Frank.”

  After a moment she continued. “As I was leaving Ona came out on the porch with me. She told me that Eva said she wanted to be buried with Frank, but Ona doesn’t think that’s going to happen and wanted to know what she should do because Eva won’t discuss any other burial options. She told Ona that if she can’t be buried with Frank, she don’t want to be buried period. Said for me and Ona to just take her outside and leave her to the crows.”