A Hard Case

by Ron Hess

  “Go away, lady. You don’t want to know me.”

  Her eyebrows raised and I saw her swallow in a nervous way. She wasn’t a bad looker, and she probably wasn’t used to being treated that way. There was no reply, her face just turned down and I watched as she stalked away, probably not understanding my mood. But then again, she wasn’t one of the congregation; she looked too fine.

  Just as I started to turn back to the holy of holies, I did a double take. It was a good thing my glass was mostly empty because I spilled most of it onto my pants. For there, not twenty feet away, stood the love of my life or her identical twin. Oh, she had a wig on and her ears didn’t have earrings, but it was her face all right, even without the makeup. She couldn’t hide that body, loose-fitting sweatshirt or not. The worse part was that she was acting real cozy with some old white guy, balding and fat in a gray plaid suit, of all things. Occasionally, she reached up to murmur in his ear, driving me nuts. I felt like I could almost feel the hair on his ears.

  My first inclination was to go up and confront her, but something held me back. I ordered another drink, took a sip and looked back again. It was her, all right. No illusion. The bile rose in my throat and I wanted to do something, to vent my anger, but considering where I was, I had to hold it in.

  I sat there for a while, getting sober. Thank goodness, there was not enough light to show the tear that wandered down my face. Truth be known, I’m not sure I would have cared if the whole world saw. I turned now and then to see if she was still there, because the idea had come to my mind that whenever she left I would be on her tail. I wanted to know about her other life. Real bad.

  Another drink went down. The thought came to me that if I could see her, could she not see me? If she did notice me, there was no sign of recognition. Maybe she was a secret agent of some kind, acting out a part. I wanted to believe she was good.

  “Hey, buddy, want another drink?”

  I nodded. I felt like I could drink the whole night. I was determined to stay on that stool forever if need be. I gave the bartender a twenty-dollar bill and took what I hoped was a casual glance in her direction. They were gone! I glanced at the bar door to see it closing. Thank God! I could still follow them. I slipped from the stool and started for the door.

  “Hey, want your change?”

  “Keep it,” I answered without looking back. I had something more important in mind.

  I eased out the door of the bar and looked up and down the street. There they were, getting into a white Thunderbird, one of those old ‘55 models. Old guy had a lot of nerve, bringing a classic downtown on a Friday night. The thought came to me that he was a biggie of some sort—the kind no self-respecting car thief wanted any part of. Maybe I didn’t either. But dammit, she was with him! I had no choice. I had to follow, knowing their trail would probably end up in a hotel somewhere.

  Only it didn’t. I half expected the T-Bird to stop in front of one of the swankest hotels, but it made a left when it should have made a right. Before I knew it, we were cruising down dark streets in a warehouse district. I turned my headlights off and wished I could turn invisible. Did they realize I was following and were leading me on a wild goose chase? A flash of light in my rear view mirror reminded me more than two parties could be in this game. My throat began to tighten up. Like it did in Nam when the hunt for the Cong wasn’t going right.

  Trusting intuition, I turned off on the next side street using the emergency brake so my lights wouldn’t show. I parked and waited. Soon a car drifted by on the main street; a full size Chevy by the looks of it, going slower than it should. Who was following who? Concerned about this latest revelation, I waited a full two minutes before venturing out onto the main street again. There was no way I could catch up to the white T-Bird and I had a hunch I shouldn’t be too anxious with the Chevy also in the act. I decided to call it a night; the booze I drank in the bar was making me drowsy, and it was way past my bedtime.

  * * *

  I awoke the next morning with a curse on my lips from the damn hangover. We drunks never seem to learn. I vowed not to drink as much tonight. Nope, it would be strictly a maintenance kind of evening as far as drinking was concerned. Just enough to keep my alcoholic demons at bay. I sat on the edge of my bed wishing for a smoke. That was a bad habit I had given up long ago, when I did it to show myself and my wife, what a disciplined man I could be. Ha! Some discipline!

  Then it hit me from nowhere—the scene, the accident, my wife’s voice.

  “Leo, it’s late. We should be going home.”

  “Yeah, sure, honey.” I had said with a wink at my host. Obviously, my wife thought I had too much to drink and wanted me out of a social situation before I did something really stupid. This time I didn’t argue with her. She usually had an instinct for this kind of thing. One I hated. By the time I had my coat on and had dithered around getting to the door she was seething. That probably made me go slower, to show her who was really the boss in our unit.

  Once in the car she let me have it.

  “Dammit, Leo! You know how important this client is to me. Now, I’m going to have to do all sorts of repair work because you couldn’t keep your lips away from that bottle. Leo, I don’t know what happened over there in Vietnam, but you have got to get counseling.”

  “I don’t need counseling!” I roared back. “Besides, what would those counselors know about the real Nam anyway. Just a bunch of pimple-faced kids working on their next degree!”

  “Leo, keep your eyes on the road!”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Don’t forget, we have to pick up Cheryl.”

  “Dammit, Charlene. Shut up or I’ll smack you one.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath. I never before had threatened her. She shut up, no doubt thinking up all kinds of reprisals for the next morning. It was still quiet in the car when we pulled up in front of the baby sitter’s house. She uttered just two words.

  “Stay here.”

  I grunted a reply. She was probably worried I would say or do something embarrassing. Soon she returned, our daughter Cheryl in her arms.

  “Aren’t you gonna fasten your seat belt?” I asked.

  She gave me a stony look. That was another argument point.

  “I’ll hold her, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.” I answered. For some reason Charlene was against seat belts. I never did find out what her reasons were.

  I squealed the tires as we left the sitter’s place. I don’t know why. Just a drunk’s answer to the world, I guess.

  “Leo,” she said in a tired voice, “watch where you’re going.”

  “I’m watching! I’m watching!”

  I was getting real sleepy. If only I had a cup of coffee . . .

  “Leo! Watch out! The bridge!”

  I came out of the trance. My mind evidently thought I had tortured myself enough. I was sweating like a pig. The trance was over with, but my thoughts went on about how things really went to hell after the accident. I lost my position with a good company, the whole works—my friends—everything. Yeah, Charlene should have had her seat belt fastened, but I was drunk and that took precedence. A tear drifted down a cheek and I automatically reached for the bottle at the head of my bed. Good “Old Jack,” just one sip . . . .

  * * *

  I climbed into the Ford, my face nicked from a too-hurried shave. I didn’t take that sip, but only God knows why. I did know, though, that I had to get out of the apartment ASAP. My stomach was roiling, whether from hunger or pain, I couldn’t say. Breakfast was something I felt I needed and there was only one place to go, a favorite place of mine over on Third Street. The smell of grease hit me when I walked in the restaurant, making my stomach turn flip-flops. I ordered and surprised myself by getting the eggs and sausage down. Sort of a punishment for the previous night’s boozing. The owner strode over.

  “How yuh doing, Leo?”

  “Okay,” I muttered.

  “Yeah, you look like it. H
aven’t seen you around for awhile.”

  “I’ve been out West on a job.”

  “One of those small villages, huh?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Seeing I wasn’t in a conversational mood he wandered off. That’s what I liked about him. Knows when to butt out. I sat there, sipping coffee, staring straight-ahead, thinking about the day’s objectives. First, I had to see to my booze supply. One last sip on my fourth cup with some aspirin and I was ready as I was going to be. That meant going to a liquor supply store, getting a case of whiskey, plus a couple of bottles to see me through whatever terrors might await me in the meantime. That part was easy.

  You just put the case in a slightly larger box, throw in some of those shock absorbent peanuts and “voila” or whatever the French say, and you’ve got a box that at least hides whatever is inside the other box. Once you have all the taping done, you head over to the airport to bypass-mail. Now here’s the tricky part. You have to know who’s working that shift. Luckily, I knew the manager on duty. I pulled into the parking lot, got my prize box out and made for the dock. As usual, it was full of people, scrambling to get the next shipments ready.

  “Hey, Mark. How’s things?” I tried to be cheerful.

  He looked up from his clipboard, only a little annoyed.

  “Okay, I guess, when you consider we’re behind schedule.”

  I chuckled in sympathy. I then told him about the paperwork in the box that I had to have in the village on Monday.

  “Paperwork, huh?”

  “Yeah, we’ve completely run out in the village post office.”

  He rubbed his chin.

  “Damn, Leo, I don’t know, the postal inspectors been coming around. All the inventories on the pallets have to match the manifests, know what I mean?”

  I nodded, my throat dry.

  “Tell you what, set the box over by that pallet and I’ll slip it in when I think the coast is clear.” He winked.

  “Thanks, Mark. I owe you.”

  “Sure, we managers have to stick together, don’t we?”

  “Damn right.” I answered with a return wink.

  I turned and left after setting the box down. Mark probably had an idea what was in the box, but I knew I could count on him to say nothing. It was the code of the hills. And you never, ever violated that code, not even to a postal inspector. As far as Mark was concerned, there was just paperwork in that box. I left, relieved the hard part of my morning’s objectives had been accomplished.

  Now came the interesting part. I drove over to the Anchorage Art Museum. After asking around, I was directed to the office of the museum’s curator. Maybe he would know about the value of the object in my pocket. I opened the door of his office.

  “Anybody here?” I asked.

  “Yes,” came an irritated voice, “come in.”

  He sat there in dark rim glasses stroking his beard and smoking a pipe, with enough haze in the air to justify calling the EPA. If ever a guy looked like a scientist then this guy was it. I gave a discreet cough.

  “Uh . . . good morning.”

  I decided by the look on the man’s face I had better get to the point.

  “I was wondering if you would take a look at this artifact and give me an idea as to its value.”

  His beard twitched as he sat his pipe down.

  “You, too?”

  “Sorry. I don’t follow you.”

  “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s see what you have.”

  I handed over the little Astarte-looking pendant. He took a magnifying glass and muttered to himself for a few minutes.

  “Hmmm . . . old. Very old.”

  He sat the glass down and looked up at me.

  “Where did you get this?”

  I shrugged. “Uh . . . can’t say.”

  He strode over to a window and looked at the small object again without the glass.

  “It’s old and genuine. I can tell you that. Are you aware it might be stolen property?”

  “I guess there’s always that chance.” I replied. I wasn’t going to give him anything. It wasn’t any of his business. I held out my hand. His beard twitched. I could see he was reluctant to give it back, but he did, despite his suspicions. I decided to lie a little.

  “It was given to me and I thought you might be able to give me a hint about its value.”

  He gave me a direct deadpan look.

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t, whether I wanted to or not. We don’t deal in goods that may be of questionable ownership. By the way, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “It’s Bronski. Leo Bronski. You don’t know of anyone who would be interested, do you? I mean, in this piece.”

  His face never changed its look.

  “I’m afraid I don’t, Mr. Bronski. We run a clean shop here. Is there anything else you wish to discuss? I have a lot to do this morning.”

  I stammered that I didn’t and left. I hate myself when I do that. My doing so made me look, or at least feel, like I really was a thief. And I really didn’t know if I was. I resolved to myself that I would find out. Walking down a hallway, my head down and lost in thought, I bumped into a guy in a white shirt and tie.

  “Oops, excuse me,” I muttered.

  He nodded and actually got red in the face. I turned and looked as he moved down the long hallway. Hadn’t I seen him somewhere before? Ah, well, I had been in many places in this world, and after all, there are only so many ways skin can be stretched over a face.

  I strolled out the door to my car. I had just got it started, when my heart did its flip-flop thing. It was her, walking to the door of the museum not fifty feet away. I slunk down in my seat. If she spotted me, she gave no indication of it, or else she was damn good at keeping surprise out of her face. I waited until she was through the doors before pulling away. There was no questioning the fact I had to follow her. I drove around the block and parked at a different place across the street from the museum’s parking lot. And waited, keeping one eye on the doors of the art museum. People came and went, while I sipped on a big cup of coffee.

  At last, my coffee gone and my bladder at the bursting point she came out of the building. Hot damn! About time. I watched as she hopped into an old 80’s style Plymouth four-door. She pulled out of the lot like there was somebody chasing her. Naturally, I was pointed the wrong way. It never fails. By the time I turned around by pulling an illegal maneuver, the old Plymouth was just barely in sight. What was she running from? Was she expecting trouble or did she drive that way all the time? Checking in my rear view mirror for a possible cop car, I made a hurried end run around a few cars, gaining a few hard looks for my trouble. I had to know, though, what she was up to. I began to gain. Maybe I could keep her in sight after all.

  It was then I noticed I wasn’t the only one speeding through town. During one of my checks in the rear view mirror, I saw a Ford winding its way through traffic. Was it just my paranoia or was I being followed? Damn! I had to know and there was only one way to find out. I went down another street to see if the car followed. I turned a corner onto a quieter street. The Ford followed me like one of Little Bo Peep’s sheep. I rounded another corner and sped up. As if on cue an alley came into view and I darted into it. Sitting behind a building, the motor running, I waited. Sure enough, the Ford went sailing by. This time I got a look at the driver. I would have bet any amount of money it was the same guy I bumped into while in the art museum. Hmmm . . . curiouser and curiouser.

  I waited for another minute, then drove on down the alley back onto a street going the opposite direction back toward the museum. While going back to the apartment, I pondered my situation. Evidently, I had stumbled onto something more than a murder of a postmaster. That was something I always had to keep coming back to. Why was he killed? Was it because he was getting too greedy? Or knew too much? Was Crazy Mary’s death a simple drunk drowning? What all this running around of various players here in Anchorage meant, I had no idea. The key was most likely ba
ck at the village, and that’s where I needed to be, come Monday morning.

  Back at the apartment I kicked my shoes off, took a large sip of vodka and crashed for a few hours.

  Chapter 14

  Late Monday morning found me nodding off from time to time in a narrow seat of the mail plane. If it hadn’t been for the shoulder straps, I’m sure I would have pitched forward onto the control wheel. The pilot gave me what amounted to a twisted grin.

  “You have a rough weekend?”

  I gave him back what I judged to be a pleasant expression.

  “Yeah, you could say that. You know, trying to make a short visit last forever.”

  With that grand statement made, I closed my eyes and pretended to drift off again. I was in no mood to converse with someone who might be part of what was going on out here in the West. After this weekend, I wasn’t sure whom to trust, except Leo Bronski, and I wasn’t sure about him either.

  After Saturday morning, the cycle of life had turned back to completely normal. After I woke up from my afternoon nap, I groused around the apartment, having a sip now and then, doing my laundry. That evening I went out to a local supper club, and downed a steak, much to my surprise. Nothing like a good, well-done steak to keep the old psyche up to snuff. Then I hit the town’s watering holes. I took my time at about five different places. I was even propositioned by the same woman in the same bar. The look on her face when she realized she had hit on me before. It brought a smile to my face every time I thought about it.

  I was hoping to catch my ladylove or somebody following me. Maybe everybody took the weekend off and Saturday night was free time for all the players. I knew that I had given everybody a chance to find me. It was not to be. The night turned out to be plumb boring. In fact, I was in bed by midnight.

  Sunday was much the same, only worse. I was so bored I took to looking out the front window of my apartment to see if anyone was sitting in their car out on the street. There wasn’t a soul. I amused myself by looking for bugs, and I don’t mean roaches, around the apartment. If there were any, then somebody was downright clever at concealing them. In a word, Sunday was a wasted day, the only enlightenment being an ordered-in pizza to go with a few sips of Old Jack.