by MK Alexander
“Indiana,” he corrected me and grinned. “I don’t know, just lucky I guess. How did you end up here?”
“Me? Well, luck had nothing to do with it. I came up every summer since I was a kid… I guess, I sort of grew up here…” I sometimes wondered if Jegal was an Italian or Korean last name. It didn’t sound like either.
I walked through into the main office. There was always that smell and the sound of that machine. The machine that was supposed to suck up smoke and turn it into fresh air. I still questioned how well it really functioned. The office always seemed to stink of old cigarettes and air freshener. It was planted on Eleanor’s giant antique desk, right between her computer and the photo of her departed daughter. It whirled away with white noise. Eleanor’s massive desk took up most of the floor space right in front of the bay windows that overlooked the main road. Surrounding that were six separate cubicles, four with computers. Talk about disparate furnishings, from ancient mahogany to the modern gray fabric and metal trimmed booths. I slid into mine and started to search through my drawers.
“What are you looking for, Patrick?” Eleanor asked, sensing my frantic unease.
“Tide charts... We live in Sand City. Where the heck are my tide charts?”
Eleanor reached into her desk and tossed over a well-worn pamphlet. “Here, the NOAA schedule. What’s it for? Planning an ocean voyage?”
“No.”
“Well, what then?”
“I don’t know yet, but I will eventually... something about footprints maybe. I know I’m going to need this. Thanks.”
Eleanor smiled back.
“I see you didn’t mention anything to Miriam yet,” I said quietly.
“I thought that was best for now.” She paused to lower her voice. “What does Richard say?”
“Richard? Oh, you mean Detective Durbin… Another murder,” I whispered. “Maybe a serial killer.”
“I think we need at least three bodies to qualify for that.” Eleanor seemed unfazed.
“Well, it’s exactly the same MO as last time… pretty gruesome. Unnerving.”
“Your first DB?”
I looked at Eleanor, not sure exactly what she meant. “Well yeah, first time I ever had to shoot a corpse.”
“Sorry… just part of the job, Patrick,” she said and lit a cigarette. “Do you think we have an exclusive?”
“Hard to say.”
“Why?”
“It’s only Monday… Durbin won’t talk to Jack Leaning, but—”
“It would be enormously satisfying to scoop the Fairhaven Times on this.”
“Well, the website update will be an exclusive.”
“Somehow that’s less satisfying.” Eleanor gave me her look and changed the subject. “What about the Summer Preview issue? We should have a meeting on that.” She was definitely unfazed.
“So soon?”
“It’s only two months away now. Mel and Jo are already out selling it.”
“Okay, well… photo montage, erosion update, lighthouse feature. I’m on top of it.”
“What about the Night Life Guide?”
“On it. And, remember that’s mine. Don’t you dare give it to anyone else.”
“I won’t.”
“Not that I can start on it yet… They’re all boarded up this time of year.”
“And the Treasure Hunt?”
“Oh yeah. You really want to put that online this year?”
“Yes, I do. I think it’s essential.” She peered at me, and not through the glasses at the end of her nose.
“Alright… well, I’ve got to talk to Jason. When’s he in?”
Eleanor shrugged and gave me her look again, a cross between frustration and dubiousness. “God only knows.”
Jason Knobblers was our tech guy. He lived in the basement. He kept our systems up and running, bought the right software, and helped to update the website every day. And he always seemed so sullen. On the masthead, his title was Digital Director. Getting him motivated to help me with this year’s Treasure Hunt was not going to be easy.
The Treasure Hunt was for the first week of summer. I had been doing it for three years now. It was kind of like a scavenger hunt for tourists, their kids especially, and the locals who always got in on the action too. It went like this: We got a ten thousand dollar grant from the Chamber of Commerce. It was prize money, prize money with a catch. One year it was a simple lottery with a twist: you could only buy tickets from local businesses. Next year, I came up with the long lost inheritance scheme. The year after that, a raffle. And there was the fishing competition... that didn’t work out so well. The grand prize to be awarded Labor Day Weekend. You had all summer to compete and win.
My idea, my bane, and I had to come up with a new variation every summer. This year I stumbled on the idea of burying a pirate’s treasure. It wasn’t gold doubloons of course, the money was in an escrow account. Some of the Village elders had reservations about all the kids digging up the beach. But I figured they were going to dig it up anyhow. That’s what kids do. This argument went nowhere.
I came back with my third cup of coffee and found our number one stringer sitting in the communal cubicle. “Mr James? What are you doing here on a Monday?”
He laughed. “Getting my check, this week’s issue, and this…” He held up his notebook. Stringer Evan James did not look like a reporter. One eye focused on you, the other seemed to be staring off at something else entirely. It was always a little disconcerting. I wondered if he had a glass eye but never asked.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, the Planning Commission story. Thursday’s meeting.”
“Something big I take it?”
“The Blue Dunes Hotel wants to add a third floor... you know, get a variance.”
“Hmm. Objections?”
“Not yet. Funny though, the way they’re situated, up against the bluffs, another floor wouldn’t block anybody’s view, but the new rooms would definitely have an ocean view.”
“You’re going to need a thesaurus, Evan.”
“What?” He looked at me quizzically through his one eye.
“For your story. View… vista, scene, panorama, landscape…”
“Right, thanks.”
I didn’t know if Evan was staying or going. He just kind of stood there. “If you want to type up the story now, you can use my machine... Go ahead.” Planning commission or not, I did know what our headline would be for this week: The Sand City Murders.
chapter 4
the bar
The biggest drawback to living in Sand City is wind. It’s a rare day that only a gentle breeze blows. Something about living on a peninsula with the bay on one side and the ocean on the other. It’s always windy, too windy to play ultimate, my favorite team sport. For the uninitiated, that’s ultimate frisbee, kind of like soccer, only no inflatable round thing. Stupidly, I tried to get a pickup game going with no success. I found a good field but… well, it was just too damn windy… Nowadays I drive to Fairhaven once a week for the Monday night pickup game, temperatures permitting; cancelled when it was lower than forty degrees… too many shattered disks, not to mention torn hamstrings. Sometimes, I’d car pool with my colleagues, Joey Jegal and Frank Gannon. Joey had a solid forehand and made great cuts from the stack. Frank played a little fast and loose but was a good defender. He was tall and could knock anything down so long as we remembered our up calls. Even Jack Leaning from the Fairhaven Times would show up once and awhile. He was old school, no flick, but a killer two-handed throw that would sail down the field. He was also faster than you might think. In all, it was a good group of people, friendly and competitive with a core of solid players and new faces almost every week. Funny, I lived for this more than anything. If you’ve never played ultimate, there’s not much more to say than it’s the best sport ever, period. If you do play, well, there’s nothing more to add at all.
Thirty-nine degrees and raining. Tonight’s game was a wash-out. My secon
d choice was Partners, the local bar. There was a line here at 9:30 in the morning as soon as they opened. The regulars waiting for their day to begin. Vodka, breakfast of champions... I was not amongst them, I’m happy to say. Twelve hours later though, they were still sitting there when I walked in around nine at night. Sure it was a dive, the kind of place where they tacked up everything: old road signs, knick-knacks, photos, framed ads for products no one ever heard of… I’m sure you know exactly what I mean. And mostly stuff with a nautical theme. But it was always dark in Partners so you couldn’t really see that much. Sometimes you’d be staring at a picture and say to yourself, wow, I’ve looked at that a million times and I never noticed that guy had a mustache… Or you’d see some weird vase on a shelf and swore it wasn’t there the night before.
The building itself was a narrow railroad flat, built in the 1920s, maybe a brick office building once, with a bunch of apartments upstairs. Inside, the bar is long and narrow with two rounded corners, one at the entrance, the other by the side door. Parallel to that were a few booths, partitioned from each other. There was a kitchen at the rear, two bathrooms, a pool table and probably a back door. Partners also had a good jukebox hooked up to the internet, which pretty much meant every song ever sung was accessible. You never knew what you might hear, though most of the time, it seemed to be the same tunes over and over again. Stormy Monday was playing tonight.
I never met the owner as far as I know, some guy named Diego, or maybe Carlos, but at the end of the bar were some of the regulars, the diehards: Peppy, Hector, and Cecil. The last one, an old guy with a couple of chins and very little hair, seemed to be the ring-leader, or at least he held his liquor the best. They all gave me a glance and a nod. They all sat close to the side door so they might jump out for a quick cigarette, minimizing any interruptions to their drinking. As usual the place was empty aside from them. I should probably introduce you… There’s a whole parade of regulars. They seemed to take turns, and I don’t ever recall seeing them all in one place, on the same night. Maybe it was like shift work, or maybe the bar just wasn’t big enough.
There was Peppy, Hector and Cecil, sometimes Little Bob, Stan the tan-man, old Danny boy, and Bad Billy, who was last seen walking down the street drinking out of a paper bag. There was Cuz too, short for cousin… and that wasn’t really his name at all. That’s just what he called everybody else, and eventually, that’s what everyone started calling him. Topping off the list was Crazy Mary, laughing all the time, a loud intrusive laugh. She could’ve just as easily been called Happy Mary, I guess, and she came pretty close to looking like a clown, though one from your nightmares. Bright red lipstick, heavy blush and dark mascara. Mary had a drinker’s body, skinny little stick legs, spidery arms, a slender frame and a big pot belly. She was getting closer and closer to achieving UFF status, even by the regulars’ standards, but that was not my call to make. Nor had I ever drank enough to consider this a remote possibility.
You never knew who else you might run into at Partners, mostly that would be someone who wandered in by accident. I’ve sat down right next to celebrities and not even realized, B-list actors, sports legends, TV stars and obscure writers. Tonight there was no one remotely famous, just Peppy, Hector and Cecil, and maybe a very quiet couple sitting in one of the booths whispering to each other.
This was my bar for two simple reasons: it was in walking distance from my apartment— make that stumbling distance, and it held my surrogate TV. I wasn’t a big drinker, mostly whatever was on tap. But I’d sit there and watch the games, whatever happened to be on: basketball, baseball, football, it didn’t matter to me. I don’t have a television back in my apartment. I should though, according to the guy at the cable company, if I signed up for phone, internet and television, I’d be paying less than I was for just internet now. It seemed too good to be true. “I don’t have a TV,” I explained again— to yet another new salesperson.
And Suzy was there too, the bartender. She’d bring me a bite to eat most nights when the kitchen was still open. Partners made a decent bowl of chowder, thick enough so that your spoon stood upright. Oh, and Suzy. She was once a beauty no doubt, bleached blond hair, but somehow she’d let herself go completely. The weight came on and never left. She had to be at least fifty pounds over the legal limit. Still, her beauty was there, in her face mainly: a gorgeous friendly smile and bright green eyes.
“I heard what happened up at Boxtop,” she started as soon as I sat down. “What’s up with that?”
“Like I know?” I tried to be evasive.
“That’s the second girl in two weeks, Patrick… I’m getting kind of scared now.” She took my hand. “You must know something.”
“Not anything we didn’t print.”
“Really?”
The side door swung open and a dark figure stepped in. Behind him I could hear the rain starting to fall. He was wearing a tweed cap and a black overcoat, impeccably dressed, I would say. Not your usual Partners customer. I didn’t get a really good look but he walked right up to the far end of the bar. Suzy ambled down towards him. I could see her smile and talk to the man. A small look of surprise crossed her face, and then she reached underneath for a bottle of scotch. She poured a double. I saw him put a twenty on the counter. He raised his glass, turned in my direction, and I thought, gave me an odd little smile. He belted back his drink and was gone before I knew it. Suzy came back to my end of the bar.
“You know that guy?”
“Me?”
“Well, big spender… only wanted our best scotch, not the blend.”
“Hmm… never saw him before,” I replied, but that wasn’t quite true. He did seem familiar, I just couldn’t place from where. My mind started drifting. I took another sip of beer. When I looked up, Suzy was down by the regulars doing refills. She walked back to the middle of the bar and started drying glasses with a dish rag.
“Supper?” I called out.
“Not tonight, Patrick. Kitchen’s closed… but I can nuke some chowder.”
“No thanks… I’m going on a diet anyway.”
“You? A diet. Are you kidding? You’re skinny as a rail.”
“I’m just sick of eating fish.”
Suzy came over to me and spoke in a quieter voice. She always took me too seriously. “You should try the fruit diet.”
“The fruit diet. What’s that?”
“You can eat anything you want, and as much as you want, so long as it has fruit in it.”
“What, like bananas and bacon?”
“Don’t be gross.”
“Hawaiian pizza?”
“Good luck finishing a whole slice.”
“Wait— isn’t tomato sauce a fruit?”
“Not sure that counts.” Suzy paused to think. “I’m talking more like fruit yogurt. Or just fruit... by itself.”
“Apple pie? Can you eat a whole apple pie?”
“I guess...”
“Where did you hear about this?”
“The Internet.”
“Figures.” I gave her a once over. “Have you lost weight, Suzy?” I asked.
She grinned. “Patrick… you noticed. And yes, I lost ten pounds. I’m on a new kick.”
“The fruit diet?”
“No, a bicycle, silly.”
“A bicycle, like a real bicycle?”
She nodded and smiled.
“In this weather?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Another DWI?” I asked.
“Can’t fool you, can I, Patrick...”
“Guess not. Still, all for the best, right?”
She nodded. “It’s not so bad. I get all bundled up when it’s cold. Hat, gloves, my leather jacket even. And there’s a basket on the front. I can go grocery shopping. It’s not that far… Can’t wait for summer though. Then it’ll be fun to ride around.”
My mind leapt forward in time to June. The streets would be lousy with bikes. Suzy was right. Having a car in the Village a
lmost seemed stupid. Most of the time you were just stuck in beach traffic.
“Did you talk to Murray?” Suzy asked and drew me back to March.
“Murray?”
“He said he called you…”
“Oh yeah, he left a message, I think.”
“Open mic night again next Thursday. You coming?”
“Coming or playing?”
“Either. You were pretty good last time.”
“Pretty good?”
“Well, you do have your off nights.”
“That’s because of the PA. If I can’t hear myself through the monitor I go flat and it all goes south.”
“Well...?”
It’s a tough crowd in Partners. A tough crowd to play for. One night a month the regulars found themselves in the minority. The new gang was much younger, there for some live music, to support their friends, or to try to engage in competitive conversation while the music played. Most everyone who showed up did tunes from the last century, pretty much. Old guys, women with acoustics, fiddle players, even Randy, who showed up with a different instrument every month. Randy, the human jukebox. There wasn’t a song he didn’t know, or an instrument he couldn’t play, or fix. “Hey Randy, ever hear that weird song by Steely Dan?”
“Oh sure, I know that…” he’d say, and then play the whole damn thing on an acoustic. Not a note out of place and he even remembered most of the lyrics. Not everybody was as good as Randy. The level of talent varied. Some of the musicians were incredibly gifted, that is, really good. Some not so much, but everyone who got on stage and tried had one thing in common: bravery.
I just played originals, well mainly. I do some covers, interpretations really, but always on my electric guitar. My electric, my pride and joy, a 1964 Fender Telecaster. I picked it up at a garage sale for about a hundred bucks. It was a mess when I bought it. Got Randy to fix it for me… that cost another six hundred. I always wondered if it was a good deal or not. New fretboard, new pick-ups, tuners… Painted gloss black.
And groupies? Everyone who played had a following. I remember some old guy once came up to me with tears in his eyes. “That song was about my girlfriend, right?”
