The Hauntings of Hood Canal

by Jack Cady

  “It’s serious,” Sugar Bear said.

  “I agree,” Petey told him. “It’s wrong and it’s serious. So what?” He looked at the unmarked car. Jubal Jim gave a little snore. Rain increased, pounding, driving, obscuring the windshield so the cop car looked vague and fuzzy. If raindrops are the tears of heaven, then heaven had a case of blue miseries. “You’re a guy who wanders,” Petey said. “You stay around here, and you’ll wander right into that cop’s lockup.”

  “Seems like there’s a price on everything,” Sugar Bear said. “I might go along for a while, but sooner or later it’ll cost.”

  “So does going to jail,” Petey advised. Then he thought about it. “A big guy like you could probably run the whole damn prison, up until you got stabbed.” He again drummed fingers on the steering wheel. “Nope,” he said, “do your time outside the walls.” He turned to Jubal Jim. “That’s the way they talk in Chicago.”

  Jubal Jim snored. Rain pounded. Sugar Bear sat solid as a lug nut. Petey fretted about what went on in Beer and Bait. He told himself he was too smart to smack a cop, but something better happen.

  Sugar Bear sounded pensive, but a little bit hopeful. He sniffed, rubbed his forehead, “I think I’m coming down with something. You really think I should get out of town?”

  “Either that, or get invisible. Go with Annie, or without.”

  “Without,” Sugar Bear said quickly. “She’s not part of this. The cops would think she was in on it.” He searched around in his beard, found his nose, rubbed it, then gave a little sneeze. “Olympia,” he said. “I know a place to crash. I’ll check into China Bay from time to time. Let me know what happens, willya?” He cracked open the door, slid into the rain, and walked toward his truck. Through misted windows he looked like a real bear hulking through gray light. Petey sighed, thinking of his own problems and only resenting Sugar Bear a little. Petey once more reached for his hustler’s calm. Jubal Jim, sensing something joyful, gave a happy little woof.

  A knock sounded on the passenger side. The door opened and Annie stepped from the driving rain and snugged into the seat. Annie wasn’t even mildly damp, and her long hair gleamed and smelled pretty. Jubal Jim bounced like a pup. Petey told himself he sat in Grand Central Station, or was attending somebody’s old home week, or maybe a murderer’s convention.

  “You just missed Sugar Bear,” he told Annie.

  “I know.” Annie turned around in the seat, leaned over the back, and rubbed Jubal Jim’s nose against her nose. There seemed to be some communication. Jubal Jim quieted, wagged his tail, controlled his impulses.

  “Down to Olympia,” Petey told her. “Down to China Bay. That car washed up.”

  “I know about the car.” Annie’s voice sounded like she tried to stay neutral. “The dead guy’s gone. They’ll never find him. Probably.”

  “I think so too,” Petey told her. “That don’t seem to be the problem. The problem is we’ve got a guy who takes this too hard, and a cop who’ll spot him.” He looked at Annie and responded to her fear. Her lips trembled. “If it was me,” he told her, “I don’t know how I’d feel. Not good, probably, but not that damn bad.”

  “I can help him. That’s one thing I know.” Annie pursed her lips, making decisions, wondering, maybe, if she could trust Petey. “Nobody except Bertha knows this. But, I like Sugar Bear a lot. A whole lot.”

  “This is getting comical,” Petey told her. “Sugar Bear is driving every guy he knows completely nuts because he’s sweating over you. He’s can’t propose for fear he gets busted. You’re both living in a sitcom.”

  Her eyes widened. Her lips trembled. She touched her hair, held her fingers to her mouth, took three quick breaths. “I got to go to him. Got to do it now.”

  Jubal Jim, responding to all the action, gave three quick woofs. “I gotta catch a ride,” Annie said. “Nope. I got to go home and pack some stuff. Nope. I gotta catch a ride.”

  “Go home and pack,” Petey told her. “You’ll have to sooner or later.”

  “Later,” Annie said. “I gotta catch a ride.” She reached to touch Petey’s hand. “You’re such a good guy. You really, really are.”

  Petey told himself that when someone called him a “good guy” the world was warped. “You can’t catch a ride from me,’’ he told her. “I got a little problem of my own. Go on inside.”

  “That’s the trick,’’ Annie told him. “There’s always someone driving south. It’s the quickest way.” She opened the car door, whistled, and Jubal Jim jumped across the back of the seat and into the rain. Petey watched them head for Beer and Bait. Petey felt about ready to follow. He did not have his hustler’s calm in place, but Annie might cause enough stir that he could get by without slugging a cop. He reached for the door handle, then paused. From the passenger’s side, there came another knock on the door.

  The Cop and the Hustler

  The fleet was in. A fisherman, wearing worn rain gear, opened the door. He brushed water before climbing into the Plymouth. This fisherman was either deep in thought, or else needed sleep. His hair looked a rat’s nest, his eyes swollen. He sat like a man who tries to stay on top of things after having spent one of those nights a guy tries to forget.

  “You’re looking good,” Petey told him. “Who was she? Or is it truck problems?”

  The fisherman looked injured. “My stuff always runs,” he told Petey. “Keep the oil changed regular. Tune ’em up.”

  “You got no woman problem. You got no truck problem. You got no problem.” Petey, in spite of wanting to get into Beer and Bait, told himself this day looked sort of interesting.

  “I been up all night thinking,” the fisherman said. “It keeps a guy occupied.” The fisherman looked across the lot. “Cops,” he said sadly. “They don’t have enough to do. It makes them nosy.” His voice became apologetic. “Maybe that’s not true. Maybe they just notice different things.”

  “You been thinking,” Petey said. “Am I supposed to be surprised?”

  “The dead guy’s car washed ashore.”

  “I know about it,” Petey told him. “I talked to Sugar Bear.”

  “Annie just went inside Beer and Bait,” the fisherman reflected. “Neither of you said anything to Annie. Right?”

  “She already knew.”

  The fisherman sat silent as a frozen fillet while studying. “Sugar Bear told her?”

  “Nope.”

  “We were not alone,” the fisherman murmured. “Likely, very likely, that’s the reason I felt someone was watching.”

  “You’d better slow down,” Petey told him. “You’re talking to yourself.”

  “Sugar Bear went to the beach. I followed. We saw the car, then came away. It felt like someone was watching. Then it turns out Annie already knows, so Annie had to have been watching. It don’t figure she was watching me.” The fisherman sighed, a man grieving, a man who had just seen the last bright tailfeather of hope fly over the horizon. “I guess she really is nuts about him,” the fisherman said, his voice sad, perplexed, a little hostile. “Of course, Sugar Bear’s a sweet guy, and Annie could do worse. “The fisherman drooped like a bucket of stale bait. “She could do a good bit better.” He said this in a whisper, but with conviction.

  A beat up International pickup turned from the road and splashed across the parking lot. Rust mingled with pale blue paint, and orange marker buoys tangled among crab pots. The guy parked, got out, and hiked into Beer and Bait with the reluctant step of a drinker who knows he’s getting a too-early start on the day.

  “There will never be a second American Revolution,” the fisherman mused, “until we have a beer shortage.”

  “We got a cop,” Petey said. “I got to go inside.” He picked up his cue case, then reconsidered. “So Sugar Bear went to the beach. What’n hell was he doing on the beach?”

  “The dead guy . . . I’m not happy with the way the world runs,” the fisherman said. “That dead guy causes as much trouble now as when he was breathing.” The
fisherman looked toward the Canal, looked at rain, dropped his gaze to his hands. The hands showed long scars from hotly running lines, from hooks that know a life of their own; and the hands held calluses, thick and stubby nails, blunt from labor. “That dead guy shouldn’t have been let to put foot to ground, and especially not around here. We ain’t geared for this.”

  “What’s the problem? The guy wasn’t worth a popcorn poot.”

  “Only two guys don’t believe that,” the fisherman told him. “The guy who’s dead and the guy who killed him. We can say Sugar Bear did just right, and Sugar Bear did do just right, but how would we feel if it were us?”

  “Not so hot, I’m guessing.” Petey turned the notion over in his mind. “Maybe I’m guessing wrong. I’d feel great!” He thought some more. “I see what you mean.”

  “This is gonna end ugly,” the fisherman mourned. “I don’t know why bad guys always win.” He stretched, looked toward the Canal. “Of course, you can’t exactly say being dead is winning.”

  “Annie wants a ride south,” Petey said. “Sugar Bear is holing up someplace near China Bay.”

  “This is getting morbid,” the fisherman said. “I’ll be the guy who gets to deliver her to China Bay. It’s pre-frigging-destined. People act stage plays about stuff like this.”

  He opened the car door and edged out to stand with bowed head in the rain. His lips moved, talking to himself, then did an ounce or two of cussing. “Let’s do it.” He walked toward Beer and Bait. Petey followed. Neither man was prepared for one more situation, but extra situations have a way of happening.

  ═

  Inside, and back before Annie and Jubal Jim showed up, two small groups sat at opposite ends of the bar pretending to ignore each other. Two local business guys, plus the local drinker, sat at the end farthest the door. The cop and the tow truck kid sat at the end near the door. Bertha, flustered by the early action, and a little breathless because of the return of the cop, hovered behind the bar and midway between groups. The cop wore a rain slicker he unzipped but did not remove. The slicker hid his cop suit. Bertha wore Scandinavian stuff, skirt and blouse modest as church, and well pressed as a politician’s morals. Bertha actually looked kind of starchy. It seemed to impress the cop.

  The kid fooled with a cup of coffee, had thoughts about the pool tables, decided to wait further developments. Not much seemed likely to happen for the kid until the crane got a car snaked out.

  Bertha fussed with her hair. She told herself the cop was there to see her and that was good. All she usually got was a collection of stiffs. Then, with her luck, an interesting man finally came along, and the stiffs got in the way.

  What everyone else in the bar saw was a tall blond woman and a tall blond cop, who, should anyone think about it further, could, with luck, get harmonic. They could do things that would increase the population. There are already more Norwegians in America than in Norway. This pair could keep the trend alive.

  Then Annie and Jubal Jim stepped through the doorway, Jubal Jim in a state of happy relaxation, Annie in a tiz. Jubal Jim headed for a nap beneath a pool table. Annie headed for Bertha.

  The tow truck kid, still young enough to be in that tempestuous stage of life, took one look at Annie and figured that if the good Lord had created anything better, the good Lord was keeping it for Himself. The kid blushed, squared his shoulders, breathed about three reams of bad song lyrics under his breath, and fell tonsils over toenails in love.

  By the time Petey and the fisherman arrived, Annie stood leaning over the bar whispering to Bertha. Because it’s a wide bar, and because Annie leaned close, her bottom became an item of interest to six pairs of men’s eyes, while the cop’s eyes remained with Bertha. This early in the day only half of the beer signs were lighted. Twirly glow in the gray morning struggled to make a point that, under these conditions, the best that could be expected was an exercise in pastels.

  Annie wore a greeny-bluey dress designed to evoke lust in men named Sugar Bear, but there was a certain amount of spillover. The tow truck kid saw other guys watching and became possessive. The business jocks and the drinker rubbed their noses, tugged at ear lobes, looked thoughtful, and sucked in their guts.

  Annie, meanwhile, experienced throes of anxiety. She whispered to Bertha, bounced in a way she really didn’t mean, and completely ignored the guys.

  “She needs a ride,” Bertha said to the bar in general. “Are any of you deadbeats driving south?”

  “Me,” the fisherman mourned, and stepped up to the bar beside Annie.

  “Me,” the tow truck kid said. “All the way to Texas if that’s what it takes.” Then the kid turned red. Ah, youth.

  “Actually you’re not,” the cop said quietly to the kid. “What you’re actually going to do is load a wreck.” The cop’s voice sounded firm, but not unkind. He seemed about to chuckle.

  The kid got redder, that being a correct response for youth when made a fool of in front of a girl.

  “Are you my boss?” the kid said. “You’re not my boss.”

  Attention shifted from Annie to the kid. It takes passion, or stupidity, or reckless abandonment of reason, to sass a cop. The kid tried to turn even redder, but was already red as his truck. He made movement to stand, then realized standing up might be pushing his luck. He wiggled on the barstool.

  “Not exactly your boss,” the cop said, “but in a manner of speaking, yep. I’m a friend of your boss. Your boss is in the towing business. I got a couple of cars need towing.” This time he actually smiled. He held his hand up like he stopped a line of children at a crosswalk. He turned to the rest of the bar. “You should watch him with that towing gear,” he said about the kid. “I’ve never seen a man handle a tow truck any slicker, and I’ve seen a lot of tows.”

  The kid sat before his coffee, gulped, but not the coffee. The cop had him cut-from-under. Somehow the cop made the kid into a big hero while the kid was making himself into a hind end. The kid’s face looked like it was going to turn inside out as he tried to figure what in the rainy world had happened.

  “Thanks anyway,” Annie said to the kid. “I already got a ride.” She touched the fisherman’s hand. “Could we drop by my place for a couple minutes?”

  “Sure,” he told Annie. He followed her toward the door, Annie still in a tiz, the fisherman slumping. “. . . talk about getting your hull scraped,” the fisherman murmured to himself, or possibly to the Fates.

  “Eight-ball,” Petey said to the kid, and actually said it kind. Even Petey wondered, probably, why he tried to take the kid off the hook. As the kid walked to the table Petey whispered, “Don’t let it getcha down. She’s already spoken for.”

  That just messed the kid up worse. Beyond the windows, while the kid tried to decide whether to fight or play pool, rain pounded on the Canal and water humped. Something out there moved slow, like it was tired, or lazy, or just waking up. The kid didn’t see it, the cop didn’t see it, and Petey had other things on his mind. The cop kept busy looking at Bertha.

  Petey, who is copwise, understood that a pool game amounts to invisibility. No one pays attention to pool players, although sometimes people pay attention to the games. If Petey shot pool, and kept his hustle quiet, he could keep eye and ear on the cop without being noticed.

  “Your boss is a pal of mine.” The kid mimicked the cop, but in a whisper. The kid tested the house cues. “Talk about police corruption . . .” He found a cue that suited. “Play for a buck,” he said under his breath. The kid knew Petey had him outclassed. The kid seemed suicidal. On the other hand, the kid had to redeem his manly self

  ═

  Word passes fast up and down the Canal. On the evening of that same day, and while he was almost sober at China Bay, the fisherman heard a story about Petey. The story claimed the tow truck kid hustled a hustler. The kid rode in like the mythical hero Parsifal, slaying dragons with a cue stick that glowed with ancient charms, while mystery maidens scattered begonias at his feet . . . something
like that.

  At any rate, the story said, the kid hustled Petey for a young fortune. The kid, the story claimed, would use the money to start his own towing business. It was a good story, maybe a noble story, and possibly held Freudian symbols.

  The fisherman had enough experience with Canal stories to know that somewhere in the bull lay a small seed of truth. By the time the story began to circulate with complete abandon, and grow, the fisherman had his own problems. Later, though, he wished he’d been around to see the show.

  ═

  Because that morning, with rain pounding on the Canal and barlight glowing, the kid got on a roll. Petey paid attention to the cop, and not much attention to his game. His hustler’s calm slipped toward quiet agitation. He dropped a game, dropped another. The kid, with an attention span somewhat better than a tree squirrel’s, sensed an opportunity. The kid upped the ante. In the excitement of the chase the kid forgot trucks, beautiful women, and bossy cops. By the time the kid hustled Petey for a hundred bucks, the story started taking form. When that much money changes hands before noon, people talk.

  All during the hustle the cop did his quiet best to impress Bertha. The cop exhibited charity, because he knew betting went on, and that took money away from the state gambling commission. The cop sipped coffee, ignored the pool game, and stayed friendly.

  This cop was no social giant, but Bertha knew workingmen. If you want a workingman to spill don’t ask about his line of work. Ask about his current job. Before he gets done cussing, he’ll tell you about his line of work; and the time, when as a kid, his uncle took him fishing. He’ll tell about his big project—restoring a ’53 Pontiac, or redesigning his front porch. If he is the lower class of workingman, he’ll sink to the level of bankers, professors, and surgeons by suggesting he is good in the sack.

  “You said a ‘couple of cars,’” Bertha wiped the bar in front of the cop, although the bar didn’t need it. Bertha often keeps control by acting official. That, together with modest clothes, stops most guys from messing up. She tried a sad smile and succeeded. “Nothing like this ever happened before. How many is it?”