Woo Woo

by Joe Coccaro

  Carter thought he heard a door close inside and footsteps. He stepped back into the kitchen and walked the four rooms on the first floor, again, imagining the work ahead. He walked upstairs—nothing. Just house groans. Probably more settling.

  The house, technically, was more bungalow than house. Though only two stories tall set on a full-raised basement, it looked three stories tall because of an attic dormer and the raised elevation of the foundation walls. Basements in Cape Charles were a mixed blessing. They often flooded, especially during heavy rainfall. But they kept floor joists dry and termite free.

  “Just make sure the sump pump in the basement works,” Hattie had warned Carter. “She leaks, but she doesn’t flood. But make sure you buy flood insurance, just in case.”

  Carter listened under the twilight of his first night on Tyler Lane as his sump pump pushed water out of the basement and through a drain line emptying into his backyard. It almost sounded like a toilet flushing. A gurgle and swoosh.

  Carter’s house had three small bedrooms upstairs and a bathroom. Downstairs, it had a family room, dining room, small bathroom, and galley-style kitchen. The house kit had been ordered through a catalog by a boat captain in the 1920s and delivered to town, most likely by barge or by the Eastern Shore Railroad. The house cost $2,078, and the small wooden garage that came with it was $173. It was a mass of brick and plaster, thick pine studs, and thin-slat hard-pine floors—all delivered on large pallets. The floors had prompted Carter’s offer to buy.

  ***

  Carter laughed to himself as he recalled his chat with Hattie the day she showed him the house for the first time. She was so direct; it was refreshing. She was also sturdy and big, but not unattractive. She had deep-set blue eyes inherited from generations of English who had settled here in the late 1600s. Her family’s descendants still owned land here deeded from the King of England. Hattie, though, was unpretentious, and her line of the family had long ago lost whatever Puritan grace it may have once possessed. She walked as fast as she talked, chewed gum with her mouth open, and occasionally blurted a belly laugh. Family members were upset when she refused to answer to her birth name, Heather. The name she preferred, Hattie, was a “black” name, her father had huffed.

  “So what,” Hattie had fired back. “I think we all know, Daddy, that the Savages are not purebloods. Come on, Daddy, the family secret ain’t much of a secret at all.”

  Hattie spoke her mind and rarely apologized afterward. People like her wither a little or a lot. She was a fixture in town, a wildcard with a big smile and lots of stories, many involving herself. She once saw a schoolboy, a neighbor’s kid, mocking an elderly woman walking into the drugstore with a cane. The boy and some friends were loitering by the entrance. The boy called the old woman a “hag” and said she smelled. Hattie was walking out of the store and heard the mocking.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Hattie said to the old woman. “May I borrow your walker for one second?”

  Hattie had calmly approached the boy and whacked him three times on his rear end with the walking stick. The others weren’t quick enough to escape, and she took a swipe at them too.

  “You boys ever disrespect your elders again and I hear ’bout it, I’ll tear up your behinds and box your ears—I don’t care who your parents are!”

  One of the boys’ parents reported Hattie to the police chief. Hattie’s cousin Chip just laughed at the complaining mother.

  “Sounds like they deserved a whooping—and more,” Police Chief Chip told her. “Go ahead and press charges if you want, but I reckon a complaint won’t get too far with Judge Savage.”

  Hattie was a talker, for sure, which made her such a good real estate agent. She could sell a lawn mower to a hungry goat.

  “You can’t find floors like this anywhere,” she had told Carter during his walk-through of the house. “And this is the best location in town. A block and a half from the beach, a block and a half from the park. Best of all, Gil’s is four blocks that way. You can get shit-faced and stumble home. The local cops will even give you a ride. If they give you trouble, call me. My advice: Get a golf cart.”

  “I’m not worried about getting arrested for being drunk,” Carter had said. “But I am worried about flooding. Does it flood here much?” Carter had known the answer, but figured he needed to at least ask.

  “In the spring sometimes. We don’t get tidal flooding from the Bay in town. Those damn nor’easters can be a pain, but the dunes hold off the water most of the time. Biggest problem ’round here is street flooding from thunderstorms. The water just sits there in the street. The town needs to keep those damn street drains cleaned out. Just make sure your sump pump works.”

  “I guess it’ll all be underwater someday anyway,” Carter had said. “Global warming, sea-level rise. Kind of scary. People around here worry about that?”

  “That’s why they make flood insurance,” Hattie had said. “Besides, you’ll be dead by the time the Bay reaches this block. I can see you’re a worrier.”

  “Yeah, relaxing isn’t my strong suit. I can’t seem to figure out how.”

  “Movin’ here is a good start. Trust me. This is a great place, ’specially in the summer. You’ll like it. Besides, you’re kinda cute. You look a little like that Bradley Cooper fella, you know, Silver Linings Playbook, American Sniper. The girls ’ull like you. They could use another guy to pass around. Pickin’s is slim, ’specially when the tourists leave. You were married, right? Gil’s wife’s sister, if I recall.”

  “Yeah, you recall right. No secrets around here, I can see.”

  “Not many. Gil told me. Got a girlfriend?”

  Carter had shuffled nervously.

  “Well, if ya don’t, there’s some fun to be had. There’s a few divorcées around who are bored, if ya know what I mean. My advice: If you do any local datin’, don’t talk about it much—and do it after dark. Everyone knows everything that goes on ’round here. And what they don’t know can be found out real fast at Gil’s. I’m just sayin’.”

  “Yeah, that seems to be the case already. Don’t worry. I’m not here to find a woman or give anyone anything to talk about. Been there, done that.”

  “Startin’ over can be fun. Depends on your attitude about it.”

  “Maybe. It’s been a rough couple years. I need to dial back on the drama for a while. But I’m sure Gil has already told you—and probably half the town—all about me. No secrets with a bartender, especially one who was your brother-in-law.”

  “Guess you’re right.” Hattie had grinned. “Tell one person in this town anything and you might as well told fifty. Tell Gil and you might as well take out a newspaper ad. But hell, better to be gossiped about than ignored, I’d say. What fun’s life without drama? I’ve had plenty. On marriage three. I regret how the first two ended, but I’d damn sure do ’em over. A woman’s got needs, if ya know what I’m sayin’.”

  “Really? No regrets?”

  “None, sweetie. I learned long ago that the best-tasting food almost always gives you heartburn or gas. Nice thing ’bout this little town is you can live indigestion free on bread and water—if that’s what you really want—or you can burp and fart and dance around, and then have some stories to tell. Depends on what you got a stomach for.”

  CHAPTER 3

  THE SLENDER WOMAN stepped into the pub and took a seat at the bar. She removed her sunglasses and placed them and a cell phone in front of her.

  “Welcome to the Island of Misfit Toys. What can I get you, miss?”

  “How about a glass of white. What do you recommend?”

  “You look like a pinot gris girl. I have a few bottles. Just picked them up this morning. It’s chilled and it’s light, just like my wife.” Gil flashed a toothy smile, winked, and wiped the bar top with a dish towel. “Sound good?”

  “Sounds good. Island of Misfit Toys?”

  “Stick around here long enough, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  Rose stared into her
cell phone, hoping a girlfriend, or maybe her mom, would text. She didn’t like sitting at a bar alone but felt immediately comfortable in Gil’s.

  “Here ya go. I poured it in a chilled glass. It’s warm outside.” Gil smiled.

  “Thanks.”

  “Menu? We have some decent specials. A lot of people like the crab cake. The lamb burger’s good too. It’s our special today. Comes with fries or chips.”

  “No food right now. Thanks, though. You gotta cool place here,” Rose said, gazing around.

  “Thanks very much. Cost me a small fortune to fix it up. It’s a bank building from 1907. See that, it’s the old bank vault.” Gil pointed to what looked like a small room in the center of the bar with an open vault door at its entrance.

  “Pretty cool,” Rose said. She slid from her barstool to have a look. A couple of booths stood to one side. She walked through the vault, which led to another dining room on the other side where a few tables pressed against the brick wall.

  Rose followed the cavernous room and emerged into yet another small sitting area with booths across from the other end of the bar. She basically had made a U. A small metal staircase as steep as a ladder spiraled up to the top of the vault. There were a couple of more tables and two lounge chairs. Rose ascended and stood by the rails rimming the perch. She stared down on the bar and front entrance.

  Gil looked up at her and waved.

  The ceilings, now just a few feet above her head, were made of ornate tin and were a good twenty feet up. The layout looked like a narrow neighborhood bar plucked right out of Brooklyn.

  Just like the owner, she thought.

  All the walls were brick. Not the faux brick façade of bars and restaurants designed to look retro. This was the real deal, cracked, worn, and uneven. Even the floors were brick. Gil Netters felt more like a living room than a tavern. The place felt drafty but warm. Gill nets hung like curtains over the cathedral-shaped windows flanking the entrance. When used for their intended purpose, these entanglers reach vertically into water to trap passing fish by the gills.

  Rose descended back to her seat with a greater appreciation of the L-shaped bar made of solid yellow pine. She studied the big mirror behind the bar, the pendulum clock from the 1920s that didn’t work, the painted mannequin perched on a shelf, and the lines of liquor bottles.

  “Do you use those to keep patrons from escaping?” Rose said as she pointed to the draped gill nets.

  “You know what they say—drink like a fish. I found those old nets in a dumpster by the pier when I first moved here. They inspired me. Catching fish, catching customers. Same idea, right?”

  “Gil Netters. Very clever,” Rose said.

  “A compliment from the lady. Thank you. And since you’re critiquing the place, what’d you think of the loft?” Gil asked as he swabbed a wineglass with a white towel. “Sometimes, when the bar is empty and it’s cold out, I go up there and smoke a cigar. What the hell, it’s my place, right?”

  Rose grinned. “Don’t worry. Our secret. I smoke too. Cigarettes sometimes. I shouldn’t, but it calms my nerves.”

  “Where ya from?” Gil asked.

  “Born in Ohio, but been living in Pennsylvania the past couple of years.”

  “So, what brings you here?”

  “Good question.” Rose sipped her wine. “Smooth. Good choice.”

  “Thanks. That pinot gris is my wife’s favorite, especially this time of the year. That’s why I keep it stocked. So, why you here?” Gil pressed.

  “Persistent, I see.” Rose smirked. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Follow the bar to the end, and make a left.”

  Gil leaned slightly forward to get a better look as Rose strutted off. Long legs. Nice ass; sexy sway. And perky tits. 32 C, maybe. He always made mental notes of new arrivals. Gil was faithful to his wife, Jill, but most of his buddies and patrons were cads. He goaded and enabled them by scouting “new talent” as he liked to say. His mental checklist continued. Sometimes when hot girls were in the bar, he’d text his pals. If nothing else, taunting the locals was good for business. And Gil suspected that the bartender Lil texted girlfriends when a hot guy showed up. So, no double standard.

  Real pretty face. Gorgeous oval baby blues. Like the wavy hair. Fake blonde, though. Five four, maybe five five. Nice lips. The boys will like that.

  Rose settled back onto her high-back barstool. It swiveled.

  “Nice chairs,” she said when Gil came back around.

  “Yeah. They’re pretty popular. Most of the locals would rather sit at the bar than at tables.”

  “So, where you from? I can tell you’re not from here.”

  “What gave me away?” Gil smiled.

  “New York. Right?”

  “Yeah, Manhattan.”

  ***

  Gil Tierney was an Irish-German-Greek Yankee, a tubby, loud Northerner who seemed constantly condescending. His Irish eyes always glittered and smiled, his German contriteness pissed people off, and his Greek sentimentality often made him sappy and temperamental.

  His DNA cocktail gave him lots of charm—and balls.

  He had stumbled upon Cape Charles in 2001. He and Jill were driving north, heading home after Carter and Jill’s sister’s wedding in Virginia Beach. Gil’s Cadillac had started knocking, forcing him off Highway 13. A service station attendant on the highway, near the entry road to Cape Charles, said he’d need a day to find a part. He offered Gil and Jill a lift.

  “You got two choices: The Peacock Inn on the highway a few miles back, or there’s a small hotel in town near the harbor. It’s more expensive, but at least there is a place to walk and get food. There’s a pharmacy in town that serves ice cream and a hardware store. If you’re friend to the owner, maybe he’ll offer you a drink.”

  Gil and Jill fell in love that day with the funky town two miles off the highway. But it was Gil who made the case for buying a home there. He turned on his charm and convinced Jill to take the chance. And just like that, they walked into Savage Realty and bought an old Victorian for fifty grand. A week later, after Gil’s prodding, they bought the old Harbor Town Bank building on Mason Way, just a couple of blocks west of the hotel and directly across the street from the channel leading into the Cape Charles Harbor.

  The old bank’s ceilings leaked and were caving in, and the walls were full of pigeon shit. The building would have been condemned in most towns, but its condition was routine for Cape Charles: a bona fide dump. Still, Gil and Jill saw great potential in the building and this empty shell of an old railroad town. There were a couple of rathole bars up on the highway, but no one served booze and food under one roof here. The old bank had reminded Gil of a trendy yuppie club where he had worked after college—exposed brick walls, tin ceilings, and walnut window trim.

  Back in the present, Gil shot a look at Rose.

  “My wife, Jill, quit her job as a pediatric nurse, and I told my bosses in Manhattan to stick it. I was sick of the Wall Street bullshit. They were a bunch of thieves. Ever see the DiCaprio movie The Wolf of Wall Street? It was almost that bad. We made money no matter what. It’s a bloodsucking business. Jill and I were stressed out; she had a miscarriage and I needed a bypass. I was only forty.”

  “So, a bar?”

  “Yeah. We both tended bar in college. In fact, I was tending bar after college too. That’s how I got hired by Lowenstein and Sons. Old man Lowenstein used to come by the club I worked at with his street girls—different ones every week. The place was filled with Mafia guys, crooked cops, tabloid reporters, Hollywood types, and old lechers like Lowenstein. Everybody was snorting coke or drinking martinis. I took great care of that old geezer, and he tipped me big. One day he asked me if I had a college degree. I went to Syracuse and barely graduated.”

  “So, you’re an Orangeman,” Rose said.

  “No, we’re the Orange now, not the Orangemen. The school went PC.”

  “Is that a lacrosse stick?” Rose pointed to the wall next to the ma
nnequin.

  “Yeah, that was my stick. I played for ’Cuse. I twisted my knee when I was a junior, and those pricks took away my scholarship. I started tending bar to pay tuition. Started drinking too much and staying out late and gotta degree in anthropology.”

  “Anthropology? You seem more like a psychology major, the sensitive type,” Rose teased and tossed back her blond and brown locks.

  “Anthropology was the easiest major they had with the least amount of math. Anyway, the degree was good enough for old man Lowenstein. He put me in an apprentice broker program, and I wound up selling junk bonds. But my real job was driving the old man and his goy bimbos around to bars and hotels. He popped sex pills like breath mints. His eyes were always bloodshot. People thought he smoked pot, but it was the sex pills.”

  Rose laughed. “Quite a story, Gil.”

  “Believe me, I got a lot more. I had to fumigate that backseat after I took old man Lowenstein on one of his dates. I kept two towels and a can of Lysol spray in the trunk.”

  “So, New York City boy comes to Cape Charles. Big change, huh? You like it?”

  “Best and worst move I ever made. The bar business is a ballbuster, but I like the people. Well most of them anyway. Lots of smart folks here, but we have a high retard factor too. A lot of morons.”

  “I can see you don’t mince words.”

  “No, I’m not Mr. Politically Correct. Gets me in trouble on Facebook sometimes with certain groups. But like W.C. Fields said, ‘I am free of all prejudice. I hate everyone equally.’ ”

  “Well, I guess that means that you might hate my sister and best friend. They’re lesbians, so don’t go there.” Rose smiled. “Besides, I can tell you’re not really a hater. I can tell you like women.”

  Gil laughed. “I like you . . . and I love lesbians. In fact, if I died and came back as a woman, I’d be a lesbian. Sometimes, I wish my wife was a lesbian. If you’re a lesbian, maybe I can introduce you to her.” Gil winked. “Anything is possible in Cape Charles.”