by Susan Dunlap
I climbed down, locked the door, and made my way back to the street. Through the rain I could hear the strong waters of the river rushing along thirty yards ahead. I ran across South Bank Road, past the house on the river side and into its back yard. It, I hoped, was one of the unoccupied ones. I’d been past here a hundred times, and I couldn’t recall whether it was vacant or not.
I hurried across the yard, behind the motel next door, on the mushy grass ridge that dropped fifteen feet down to the river in the summer. Now the river lapped at its edge. River spray hit my raincoat. Something heavy in the water smashed against the bank. I froze, waited, looked around, then moved forward.
On the far side of the motel was Frank’s parking lot. It looked empty. I stepped out from the shelter of the motel. Headlights turned into the lot. I stared, then forced myself to move back against the motel wall.
The lights moved forward, then stopped. I held my breath, waiting for the driver to get out. The car didn’t move. I stood stone still. And then the lights pulled back. It was probably just turning around. I couldn’t make out the type of the car, or if it bore an insignia. But surely a sheriff would check me out if he’d seen me.
But a civilian wouldn’t. He’d go home and call the sheriff. Had he seen me? Had I gotten back against the building in time? There was no way to know. And now, the thought of going back to the truck, driving it to the substation, and going home, seemed worse than running across the lot to Frank’s Place.
I pulled out my keys and squinted to find Frank’s. Taking a breath, I ran at full speed across the lot to the back door, thrust the key in the lock, and pushed the door open.
The door led into an alcove next to the bar. I’d been in here before, of course, to read the meter. Usually there were several coats and assorted rain gear hanging from hooks, and miscellaneous cans stacked against the wall. I shone the flashlight on the meter. It was as I’d seen it a few days ago. The rain gear was gone, but cans of juice—grape, apricot, and pineapple—blocked the bottom two feet of the wall. Otherwise, the tiny room was empty.
I stepped into the bar itself. My eyes grew accustomed to the dark. I could make out the bar, the stools, and beyond the tables and chairs to the front windows. In its emptiness, the room seemed much smaller than it had when it was filled with people eating and drinking, with Rosa rushing through carrying another bottle of spaghetti sauce, with Frank laughing at the bar. I shook off the uneasy feeling. No time for nostalgia. No sense in bothering with the tables. Nothing would be hidden out there.
I stopped behind the bar and flashed the light under it, at open shelves of glasses. An icemaker, unplugged now, held water. On the wall behind the bar were the bottles; the ones on top were open, the others waited in readiness, but there were no cupboards, no containers that did not open. Everything here was what it seemed to be.
The bathroom was at the other side of a small hallway. It reminded me of a camping facility—tiny, dank, with a toilet, a sink, and peeling paint.
Crammed in at the end of the hallway, between the bathroom and bar, was a two-foot high metal cabinet. The sliding door was locked, but I had seen Frank take its key off a hook from around the corner in the bar. I had seen him and I suspected many other customers had, so it was unlikely that anything Frank wanted to keep hidden would be in this cabinet.
I unlocked it and slid the door to one side, shining the light on the upper shelf. Papers lay on it haphazardly—orders for liquor, for mixers, payment receipts for laundry. There must have been thirty various sheets. I gathered them into a pile and dropped them in a plastic bag in my pocket. In the corner was a ledger checkbook. Deciding it was too risky to take that, I noted the balance—$2694.75—and left it in the cabinet.
The bottom shelf was empty. I relocked the cabinet and returned the key to its hook in the bar.
I hadn’t really expected to find anything in the bar, the bathroom, the cabinet, or anywhere else inside. In its entirety, Frank’s Place consisted of the bar and the small restaurant beyond. To the left of the bar was the alcove that led to both the customers’ door and the back door I’d come in tonight. To the right was the hall and the bathroom. The trap door had to be in the hall. And it was through the trap door that I did expect to find the evidence of Frank’s involvement in drug dealing.
I flashed my light on the indoor-outdoor carpet, then bent down, lifted up an end and rolled it back until it cleared the trap door. Catching the ring at one side, I pulled. Nothing happened. I pulled again. It jerked but held. I pulled a third time, glad for my meter-reader muscles, and the door lifted free.
Beneath it was darkness. The water in the inlet splashed against the building. In the river beyond, frenzied currents smashed branches against the shore. After the silence in the bar, this sounded like breakers pounding the cliffs in Jenner.
Placing the flashlight beside me, I knelt and stuck my head through the opening. Spray hit my eyes. I shook my head, opened my eyes again, and stared down. The water appeared to be six feet beneath the door. There was, or had been, a hole dug at this end of the inlet directly beneath the trap door so the illegal liquor could be lowered and hidden. The hole would be, I imagined, about the size of those abandoned cesspools I kept stumbling into. Was it still there now? Could something as dry and bulky as marijuana be kept there? If so, how? I looked around. There were no ropes, nothing connecting the hole if it existed, to the trap door. I beamed the flashlight down, but it showed only water slapping against the building.
Pushing myself up, I turned off the flashlight and walked back through the bar to the entry hall, grabbed the largest can of apricot juice, and hurried back to the trap door. Beaming the light down, I dropped the can. Even through the splashing water, I had hoped to hear a telltale clunk to give me an idea how far down the hole went. But there was no clunk. Either the hole was covered in soft mud, or it was too deep for the sound to be heard.
I leaned farther through the trap door, hanging on with one arm. I flashed the light in a circle under the building. There was soggy land on one side, water on another, and the building on the two remaining sides. Aiming the light up around the bottom of the door told me nothing more. It was the wooden bottom of the Place, with nothing hanging, no nooks or other doorways. Nothing was hidden; there was no place to hide anything.
Disgusted, I pushed myself back up and sat against the wall. I had been so sure that the secret place would be connected to the trap door. Suddenly, I was exhausted. I felt I should search through the restaurant once more, on general principle, but I couldn’t get up the energy to move. I certainly didn’t want to go back outside. Now that I was in here it seemed so safe, so overwhelmingly difficult to just get up and leave.
So I sat and stared at the wall, trying to remember what had convinced me there would be a hiding place here. I had decided that Frank was dealing drugs. The drugs had to be kept somewhere. Frank specifically wanted the Place. If he came to Henderson for a purpose, then he bought the Place with that purpose in mind. Therefore the drugs were being sold through the Place. They had to be here somewhere.
I slumped farther down the wall. There was something else, some other reason I had questions about the Place. Before I thought of the drugs. The drugs had been the outgrowth …
Of course! The overread! Whatever Frank was doing here, it was using a lot of electricity. I got up, flashed the light around the hallway. There were no wires visible. Likewise, the bathroom only held what it should.
In the bar, I moved much more slowly, peering behind the glasses, following the beam of the flashlight, looking for any unexplained wire. The only connections here were to the ice maker, the refrigerator, and the small stove used to heat Rosa’s dinners.
The far wall, with the bottles lined along it, took longer. I had to move each one, then put it back. Twice the river smashed debris against the building supports. Twice I jumped, froze, waited, then moved carefully back to the wall. It wasn’t until I reached the end near the alcove where I’d entered
that I spotted the cord leading down behind the gallon wine jugs, around the corner, to the alcove.
It led nowhere. The plug had been tossed into the corner. There was nowhere for it to go. Nothing in the alcove was electric, save for the bulb on the ceiling. There was no reason to have an extension cord here, unless it led to something not readily visible.
And that explained the high, precarious pile of juice cans. I shoved them away from the wall, baring a two-and-a-half foot square door.
I pulled it open and flashed the light inside. The space was about twelve feet long and two-and-a-half feet high. Its floor was level with the alcove, so it would not be spotted from the outside. As I looked at it I realized that it was cut into the wall behind the bar. It was not totally hidden from anyone who looked for it, but it was hardly visible to the casual observer. I flashed the light toward the back and sighed.
It was empty except for two space heaters and a dehumidifier. They certainly explained the discrepancy in Frank’s bill. And why he didn’t want me to check into it.
I looked carefully at the floor. If marijuana had been stored here, surely there would be a leaf, a stem. But I could see nothing. I crawled in. Even close up there was no sign of anything more exotic than dust. I moved to the far end. For the first time since I’d come inside Frank’s Place I was scared. The room was sepulchral—no windows, of course, not even a crack for light or air to come through. It smelled tomblike.
I ran a finger along the floor, feeling for shreds of leaf or crushed seeds. But there were none. My finger moved smoothly, unhindered. I stopped. This wasn’t a normal wood floor like the one in the bar. It was too smooth. I flashed the light closer. I looked at the walls, the corners. The whole room had been varnished with polyurethane. No wonder it smelled tomblike. No wonder no air moved. The room had been completely sealed.
If the small door completed the seal, and there was no reason to think it wouldn’t, the room would be virtually airtight. It was a tomb.
Forcing myself to remain calm, I shone the light inch by inch along the floor. But there was nothing there—no leaves, no stems, not one seed. I was about to turn off the flashlight when I spotted a wadded sheet of newspaper in a recessed corner by the door. It looked like it had been used to wrap something. Carefully, so as to preserve anything that might be inside, I picked it up and put it in a plastic bag in my pocket.
I flashed the light back to the corner. Under where the paper had been, was a tarnished metal plate, the size of an ashtray. Perhaps this was what Frank had used to separate the marijuana leaves and seed from the stems. Perhaps there would still be a remnant of leaf clinging to it. I stuck it in my last plastic bag, put it in my other pocket, and snapped the pocket shut.
I gave the room one more cursory check. With relief I crawled halfway out the door.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside.
I stopped. The headlights in the parking lot! The driver of the car must have called the sheriff! Should I back up and pull the door shut behind me? Entomb myself?
But cans were spread over the alcove.
Metal scraped in the door lock.
I crawled forward into the alcove. The front door was opposite. I pushed, but it was locked. My key was to the back door only, the one with someone on the other side.
Where to hide? I ran behind the bar.
I could hear the door handle turn.
There was nowhere to hide. There was only one thing to do.
I ran to the trap door and jumped into the water.
CHAPTER 14
THE HOLE UNDER THE trap door was deep. The water covered my head.
I clambered up, scrambling for footholds on one side, pushing against the dead weight of my rain gear. I slipped again, down under, and came up gasping. With a lunge, I grabbed a support beam and pulled myself out of the hole and into the inlet. A branch banged against my arm and chest, pushing me back, but I hung on and hoisted myself up onto the bank.
Only then did I think of the person inside Frank’s Place. But I didn’t stop to look back at the trap door as I clambered up the bank. I ran, sloshing in my water-filled boots, until I was safe behind the motel.
I listened, expecting to hear footsteps, to see a flashlight beam. I bent one knee back, letting the water drain from the boot. I waited, listening, then drained the other boot. But there were no menacing sounds.
There was no vehicle in the parking lot, but that meant nothing. My truck wasn’t in the lot either.
I shivered violently. Everything I had on was wet and icy cold. If I didn’t leave now, whoever was in Frank’s Place would be able to trail me by the clatter of my teeth.
I made my way back over the empty yard and across the street to the truck. Silently I thanked the powers at PG&E for snap-shut pockets and fished out the keys that snuggled safely on my right side. Climbing in, I turned on the engine and the windshield wipers.
Very briefly I considered driving past Frank’s Place with the lights off, in hopes of seeing a vehicle in the far lot and finding out whether it belonged to the sheriff. But common sense coupled with fear told me that I would be much more visible to him than he would be to me.
I turned right, driving in first gear with the lights off till I was a couple hundred yards down the road, listening all the while for engine sounds which I probably wouldn’t even be able to hear over the wind and rain.
The drive back to the PG&E lot seemed like one big block of time. It was the middle of the night and I saw no other vehicles, no pedestrians. The lights at either end of the bridge blinked amber and I didn’t even pause. It was only when I reached North Bank Road that I stopped to consider, then quickly reject, the idea of going home and changing into dry clothes before returning the truck.
The PG&E lot was still empty. I parked the truck, replaced the keys, and walked the icy blocks home without seeing a soul.
It wasn’t till I got back in my own house that the full terror hit me. I felt neither safe nor relieved. And it was twenty minutes before I could think clearly enough to consider the results of my investigations—specifically, what I had in the plastic bags in my pockets. Even then my hands were shaking too much to deal with the snaps.
I took off the slicker, rolled up my sleeves, put both wrists under the tap, and held them there until I felt warmth up and down my arms. The shaking in my hands subsided. Then I opened the pocket snaps on the slicker and pulled out the three plastic bags.
The first one contained a metal dish, the size of an ashtray. It was once yellow metal but was pretty thoroughly oxidized now. In the center I could make out some indentations or decoration, but the tarnish muddied any clear design. And, more to the point, holding the dish up near the light, I could spot no remnant of marijuana leaf, stem, or seed. I had a magnifying glass in the living room. Taking the dish and the two remaining plastic bags up there I held it in front of a lamp. Still no telltale trace showed. Maybe the sheriff’s lab could find something, but that wouldn’t help me.
Disgusted, I stuck the dish on the mantel next to a pile of catalogs I had planned to burn.
I pulled the white sheet off my bed and spread it on the living room floor. Carefully, I extracted the wadded newspaper from the plastic bag and straightened it out over the sheet. The only telltale evidence that landed on the sheet was a plastic knob, the type that could be found on a lamp or a radio. Probably a twenty-cent item. No leaf, no stem, etc.
The paper itself was the front page from the San Francisco Chronicle, dated January 15. The headline article read ECONOMIC SLUMP DEEPENS. The other front page stories discussed San Francisco politics, a scandal in the housing authority, another shipping line’s move to the Port of Oakland, and overcrowding at the SPCA. The back page was given entirely to continuations of the front page articles. I turned the sheet over to 2 and 19. Page 19 was ads, page 2 seemed to be the human interest page: a family’s problems subsequent to a fire; the reunion of an aged sister and brother; and the opening of a gay podiatry center. If ther
e was anything at all pertinent to Frank in this paper, I couldn’t find it.
Glancing quickly through the third plastic bag, I noted Frank’s copies of order forms and correspondence. He had bought liquor weekly, and other supplies sporadically. There were a few notices from the suppliers acknowledging changes of amounts, one reminding Frank he had not ordered at all one week in December, and two more, virtual duplicates of that, dated February 24 and March 3.
What had I discovered, if anything? There was no evidence of marijuana. But Frank had to have been involved in something, if not illegal, at least clandestine. He didn’t buy a bar that had a secret room just so he would have a spot to store his heaters and dehumidifier. It was possible that he had needed the trap door and the access to the river. But the existence of the trap door was common knowledge in town. So far as I knew, no one had discovered the secret room.
Still, an empty secret room didn’t explain much. And none of the items I’d found in it were illuminating either. I considered each again: the dish, the paper, the knob, Frank’s financial records; but the only thing I discovered was that I was too exhausted to think. I stuck the knob and the papers in a drawer and went to bed.
—I lay on my stomach. The ceiling and the walls of Frank’s secret room grew thicker, pushed toward me. The synthetic varnish oozed down the wood, pulling even the air in the secret room into it. I had to strain to breathe. Bells rang. The door shut. All the air was gone. I gasped. The walls were crushing me. The bells rang louder—
I opened my eyes. I was in my own room. It was morning. The pressure I felt came from my own quilt; I was gasping because my head was underneath it. But still I heard the bell. The doorbell.
“Okay,” I called as I clambered into my bathrobe and ran my fingers through my hair. It was light out, the muted light of a rainy day. I looked at my watch as I hurried down the stairs to the door. It was nine o’clock, a decent time for anyone who hadn’t gone to bed at four-thirty. I felt like I hadn’t slept at all.
