by Jack Cady
“Easy in, easy out.” The cop smiled and looked innocent of evil thought or doing. He looked so innocent he probably, actually, felt that way, and did not know he walked into a bear trap. “It dunked near the shore. We think there was a survivor.” He looked at the wallboard guy who was dusty beyond a cop’s belief, then took a seat three bar stools down.
“We had a problem that turned fatal once.” Bertha wiped an imaginary spot from the bar in front of the cop, but she spoke to the drywall guy. “A fellow shot a hole in the bandstand. He should have gone to Rough and Randy.”
The drywall guy knew he was supposed to say something. He looked hard at Bertha, saw no hints, looked betrayed. “I was workin’,” he said finally. “I always miss the fun.”
“Because,” Bertha explained, “he might’ve survived at Rough and Randy.”
“Is that the guy?” the fisherman asked, “you and the crowd took care of, or are we talking about the one I took for that last long boat ride?”
The propane guy looked studious. “I always hoped to get out of this world without doing mortal violence,” he said, his voice sad and slow and filled with misery. “Too late. Too late.” The guy took a sip of pop. “. . . a matter of timing. The unfortunate’s timing placed him in the bed, not under it.” The guy drummed the bartop with his fingers, looked regretful, and grandstanded beyond belief.
“You’re telling me something,” the cop said. His good humor had not disappeared, but he looked uncertain. He turned to toward the drywall guy. “Any confessions?”
The drywall guy actually shuddered. Little puffs of dust fluffed all around. Then he got his voice, got brave, and not a little angry. “Banks. I rob ’em. But, if I was any good at it, you think I’d be crapping plaster?”
The logger belched and took a major gulp of beer. “Hot truck parts,” he said. “Me. Wow.”
“How many of my customers have you given down-the-road?” Bertha still contained her anger, but was losing her skills. Hers was a mixed problem. Hustlers need total control, but Norwegians aren’t good at being devious. “How many hassles? How many interviews?”
The cop looked puzzled. “Doing a job. What’s happening here?” He sounded sincere.
“Sometimes,” the propane guy explained softly, “a guy comes into a place where people run their own affairs. If something goes wrong they handle it. That’s what’s coming at you.”
“Nobody’s exactly against you,” the fisherman told him, “but nobody’s for you, either. If there are skeletons they rest easy in closets. Don’t open doors.”
The cop looked sad, then tough. He changed like a magic person. From nice to cop. “You say ‘handle it.’ I say ‘mishandle it.’ The law is the law.”
“What does that mean?” The fisherman made his voice as polite as church. “Halibuts are halibuts, cats are cats.” He paused. “Traffic is traffic. Fishermen are fishermen. I don’t fish for petunias.”
“You’re saying I’m off course.” The cop was still full of copness but he paid attention. “It’s possible.” The guy tried to stay tough, but little cracks appeared. “This is the world’s leading lousy job,” he told the fisherman. “You try it pal.” He looked toward the Canal. “Something is down there.” His voice filled with sadness, also frustration. “It’s killing people, or somebody is. Would you sit quiet and let it happen?” He looked square at the fisherman, then at everyone. He saw Bertha, shook his head real sad. “I guess so. You will sit and let it happen. You’re doing it right now. People die and you tell me about your customers. What a godawful shame.” He turned and left, and he was quick about it.
“Communication problem,” the fisherman said to Bertha.
“I meant to send him away easy.” Bertha whispered. “Now I made an enemy. When am I ever gonna learn to shut up?”
The tow truck kid came to the bar. Bertha drew a beer. The kid blushed, actually said, “Thank you,” because he had been taken back into the fold. “He’s checking guys. He checked out a guy named Sugar Bear, and a couple bikers. He tried to give Al a hard time up to Rough and Randy. Al wouldn’t have any part of it.”
The fisherman thought about what the cop said and realized the cop was missing something. It was still possibly-possible for Sugar Bear to survive. “I think I’ll drift over to the blacksmith shop,” he said to Bertha. “We’ll talk later.”
“Take the dog,” Bertha said. “He’s sleeping his life away.” She seemed talking mostly to herself
“Drive careful,” the logger told him. “You know who’s out there.”
Very Likely, the Fisherman Acts Dumb
Guys who think to excess are naturally going to keep arranging facts, because facts get slippery when not lined up. While Jubal Jim napped on the truck seat, the fisherman drove through that October Wednesday and tried to remember everything:
Fact: Petey was the hell and gone off someplace running a hustle.
Fact: If still alive, Chantrell George was in Seattle sponging three hots and a flop from Union Gospel Mission, or maybe the Baptists.
Fact: As a pair, Bertha and the cop were history.
Fact: The cop tried to solve the car-in-the-Canal problem, and not the murder of the pervert; so Sugar Bear’s name must have come up as one among many.
Fact: The monster wasn’t killing people . . . the fisherman paused. At China Bay he thought he had it solved.
The understanding came to him; the monster tried to save people, but was massive. The fisherman reflected on the tragedy of good intentions combined with lack of finesse. He thought that, scary or not, he and the monster had a date.
But, since the monster wasn’t trying to kill people, but save them. What? Send a message? The monster didn’t squish cars without drivers. The monster didn’t bother the living, like, for instance, the police divers.
Which meant it wasn’t the monster who twisted the road.
Fact: The dead guy came out of the Canal, but the bartender at China Bay said something made him do it; and that was going to ask for full-time thinking in the very near future.
Fact: A pool tournament would happen on Saturday, and rich guys at the housing project were going to run a number. Depend on it.
Fact: Sugar Bear was a question mark. What had Sugar Bear told the cop?
Fact: It would start raining like Mister Noah any day now, because this was the Pacific Northwest and getting on toward the end of October.
Fact: Another car, a working Pontiac, had gone in, but without driver and unsquished. Easily recovered. The fisherman wouldn’t make the mistake of calling suspicion a fact, but he suspected the fine hand of Petey lay behind that little number.
Conclusion? He figured he couldn’t get any good conclusion until he found out where Sugar Bear stood with the cop. Assuming things were not too bad, the whole business might turn out okay; the fisherman paused. The troubles would go away if the dead guy quit coming out of the Canal.
As the fisherman approached Sugar Bear’s place Jubal Jim sat up on the truck seat, wiggled along his spine, gave a happy woof. When the fisherman pulled alongside Sugar Bear’s shop Jubal Jim danced, then bailed the minute the door opened. He headed for the house and Annie. The fisherman looked the place over.
House and grounds looked extra tidy. The woodpile no longer sprawled helter-skelter. Orange light from the forge glowed through clean shop windows, accenting the gray and silver day. When the fisherman stepped from his truck he heard Sugar Bear singing a show tune in his flat, obnoxious tenor. The fisherman figured things must be okay because Sugar Bear sounded normal. Once inside the shop the fisherman felt slight alarm. No working place, nowhere, except maybe a fishing boat, ought to be this well ordered. The place was not only swept, and tools arranged. There were decorations. The smell of fried steel mixed with the odor of cedar branches; most perfumy in the nose of a workingman.
“You’re looking well.” The fisherman took a stool and watched Sugar Bear hammer and shape steel rod. It looked like a new handle for a roto-tiller.
“I’ll be along in a minute,” Sugar Bear told him. “Annie wants to see you. I got to keep the heat up, here, or start the job all over.” Sugar Bear’s fur shone washed and curly, almost fluffy.
When the fisherman entered the kitchen he saw that bunny curtains had been exchanged for something green which reminded him of trees. Jubal Jim sat beside Annie. The two looked like the dreams of Mormons, of hearth and home and family. When he looked closer, Annie seemed better, not so drawn. Or, maybe not.
“I planned to talk to the cop,” Annie said even before greeting. “But the cop came to us.” She poured coffee for the fisherman, sat across the table from him, and even in mild distress could not help being beautiful. Much of the elven look had disappeared. Her face seemed a little fuller, and her dark eyes were as alive as a gypsy. Her hair was braided, but not pinned up. The fisherman felt a pang of loss, then reminded himself that Annie also sometimes scared him silly.
“He came to hassle Sugar Bear. He did. A little. Turned out, he was hassled. Now we’ll never know what he thinks.”
“Do I want to hear this?” The fisherman imagined that Annie had caused a coven of bears, or an attack by Greek-speaking lizards.
“He came down with a case of damp socks,” Annie murmured. “It started small and stayed that way which was a real break.” She looked toward the shop. “Sugar Bear is still a suspect. You have to guess that’s true.”
“The shop is slicked up.”
“He’s convincing himself everything is normal. He’s working so hard he’s about persuaded.”
“At least he’s working.”
“I got a problem.” For the first time, maybe ever, Annie looked at the fisherman with real trust. “That coldness still shows up like an attack. When it happens he heads for the Canal, and it mostly happens nights. He wants me to stay out of it. Is that right?”
The fisherman reflected on the problems of being young. “Up to a point. Maybe there comes a time when you step in.”
“He’s got a temper.”
“Always has,” the fisherman agreed, “but you don’t need to fear.”
“I know it. You know it. The birds in the trees know it. What scares me is he’ll get mad and walk into something he can’t handle.” Annie looked in the direction of the Canal. “Something darker than night,” she whispered. “Why here? Why us? What is it?”
The fisherman reflected. The bartender at China Bay had asked the same question. The bartender had spoke of accumulations, of the fall of civilizations, of creative ugliness. “Something awful old,” the fisherman guessed, “but new to us.” He told of his conversation at China Bay. “. . . it has something to do with cheapness, with phoniness . . . or maybe those things are only the wrappings.” He knew he stumbled badly. “What does it mean?”
“It means I don’t understand you.” Annie flopped Jubal Jim’s ears, looked toward the shop. “Sugar Bear’s finished his job.”
“He’s no longer getting sick?”
“It’s confusing.” Annie watched Sugar Bear step rather too lightly toward the house. “The minute he fought back, things changed. Whatever’s out there is big but cowardly.”
“A comfort.”
“Cowards sneak. I’m afraid he’ll get sandbagged.”
If he had the least smidgen of hope left about Annie, the fisherman gave it up when Sugar Bear entered the house. The two looked at each other in a way that seemed like they’d been together for years and years. He touched Annie’s shoulder, she reached to touch his hand, and Jubal Jim thumped his tail. Beyond the windows sun slanted through silver mist, and the fisherman thought things were getting a little too sentimental. Then he figured things looked that way only because he was standing on the outside lookin’ in.
“Maybe you’re off the hook,” he told Sugar Bear. “The cop doesn’t think of a single murder. He’s thinking of all the murders under the heading of one murderer.” The fisherman told about cop-conversation at Beer and Bait. “The cop figures somebody forces cars into the Canal. The dead guy is one of many.”
“He came here to hassle,” Sugar Bear said. “Now I understand. He talked about road stuff.”
“Something ugly is still trying to jump you?”
“There’s this,” Sugar Bear said, “I still feel the wrong of what I did, but the guy does me a favor. When he attacks us, he’s attacking Annie. That means I don’t have to feel guilty if I smash him. Which,” he added, “I’m gonna do as sure as breakfast happens.”
“What are you seeing? You could get jumped from behind.” The fisherman watched Annie and saw her approval.
“I get to the dunk site,” Sugar Bear said, “and the thing stands in the water. It’s looking more and more like the dead guy. It’s dark and nasty-smelling, but getting less smelly. I say, ‘Try something you sonovabitch’ and it backs down. It oozes back into the water.”
“What happens on the night it doesn’t back down?”
“I got a nice chunk of rebar,” Sugar Bear said. “Better than a ballbat. It bops and slices at the same time.” His voice held very un-Sugar Bear tones. His face, normally sweet behind a mop of fur, hardened. He looked like a guy who should be getting knee-walking drunk at Rough and Randy.
Jubal Jim gave a low whine. Unusual, because Jubal Jim is a barker, a growler, a woofer. He pointed his nose toward the Canal, and he moved away from Sugar Bear. Annie reached toward him, touched his shoulder, and Jubal Jim relaxed.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sugar Bear said, and his voice was still harsh. “Answer me this. What choice does a guy have. You got to fight back.”
“Bad stuff makes it stronger,” Annie said. “When you fight back that makes it stronger.” Her voice was subdued. She did not want a disagreement with her man.
“I don’t doubt it,” Sugar Bear said. “But where’s the choice?”
“Let Annie give it a shot,” the fisherman suggested.
“I started this,” Sugar Bear told him. ‘’I’ll finish it. Annie ain’t to be involved.”
“She already is. At least listen to her.” The fisherman had a sneaky notion he was about to do something stupid. He was also afraid for Annie.
“I can listen,” Sugar Bear said, “but I ain’t magical.”
“Tell you what,” the fisherman said, while knowing he closed in on maximum stupidity, “Let me try it. Tonight I’ll go, and we’ll see if it acts any different.” He realized he talked stupid because he wanted Annie to love him, even if it was only sisterly. He also felt, in a way, like some kind of mythical champion . . . a dragon slayer . . . or a golden-haired knight . . . and told himself that a youth misspent reading comic books must be dictating his actions; and Lord help those who love literature.
When the fisherman departed, Jubal Jim followed. Jubal Jim couldn’t stand to be around Sugar Bear.
Petey Reveals a Motive and Two Guys Get in Trouble
On that Thursday night clouds scudded before a high wind and were cut by streaks of silver. Waters of the Canal looked like abstract painting beneath a silver moon. And while winds blew up high, on the surface no breath of wind stirred as the fisherman left Beer and Bait. For the past two hours he had sipped soft drink, listened to one line of bull after another, and watched Bertha while knowing matters moved way too fast.
Talk was of the big pool tournament. Fantasies of wealth had guys practicing at pool tables. Although a couple of cynics looked deeper into matters, most guys took the bait.
And, the bait was a ten thousand dollar prize, with only a ten buck entry fee, in a team tournament scheduled to last as long as it took, if it took a week. Bull said no less than three hundred guys would sign up. Three hundred guys at ten bucks a head came to three thousand dollars. Since the prize was ten thousand, somebody was buying something. The fisherman smelled dirty weather clouding over the noble game of pool.
And bull said Rough and Randy would come to Beer and Bait, and that the boys at China Bay sent challenges. Plus, every pool hall in western Was
hington, Oregon, and British Columbia would hear the news. The fisherman foresaw a convocation of hustlers that would make the Mafia look like prize pink piglets.
Through the layers of bull, Bertha tended bar, kept her own council, razzed pool games, stocked extra beer, and tried to make the place seem normal. Bertha looked optimistic. Part of her optimism came because news traveled fast. Everyone knew the cop was history and that Beer and Bait no longer lay off limits. Part of Bertha’s optimism came because a week of tournament meant a packed bar, and a packed bar meant cash.
And, bull said, cops were everywhere pulling back. The TV cop was nowhere seen, so maybe the whole show had ended. Maybe cars stopped dunking and the road ran clear. Still, going for a drive around midnight didn’t seem the world’s best idea.
As the fisherman entered that dark and silver night, his loyal companion, Jubal Jim, trotted by his side. From Beer and Bait came the lonesome sound of bashed guitars. It seemed there was/rain on the hay/and worms in the corn/I wish to this day/I’d never been born/ something like that. The fisherman figured Jubal Jim felt uncertain and wanted company, which made two of them.
Through late afternoon the fisherman had perched on the pier beside his boat while Jubal Jim snoozed. The fisherman first thought of work on the boat. Then he thought of good and evil. It came to him that the business of true evil was to make nice people join its program, which explained Sugar Bear.
The fisherman thought of the bartender at China Bay who spoke of the fall of civilization. Then the fisherman thought of all the folks he knew. The fall of civilization seemed like a pretty sturdy charge to lay against folks who were only guilty of misdemeanors, or maybe teeney-weeney felonies. A ‘course, the bartender said the whole deal was gradual. It figured, then, that everybody was in the middle of something.
Then the fisherman thought of Sugar Bear, and especially of Annie. He finally understood about men and women. The realization came so quick he didn’t trust it. Then he did. He saw that men got to run around making all kinds of noise and doing all kinds of stuff. Then women got to come in after guys were up to their armpits, and say, “Now that you’ve made a complete, beautiful mess of your life, let’s see what we can do to fix it.”