A Hard Case

by Ron Hess

  If the old man was aware of my presence, he gave no sign. He walked with head down lost in unimagined sorrow, whether for Ivan or for his whole family, I couldn’t say. His family had shown so much promise, as would be expected for a leading family in any community. Now his line was dead. There would be no grandchildren, no one to carry on the name. Nor would anyone say, “Little Ivan is just like his grandfather.”

  In a few short minutes, the pallbearers placed the body into the ground already frozen a few inches down. Another week and Ivan would have been placed in cold storage until the following spring. Like everyone else, Jeanette and I stood silent, lost in our own thoughts. There was no formal prayer said for Ivan, the ultimate indignity for being a suicide. After a few minutes, the pallbearers began to throw dirt on the wooden box. The rocks in the soil striking the casket interrupting whatever thoughts or prayers we might have had.

  Jeanette and I left with everyone else, leaving only the old man standing there bareheaded in the blustery wind. The strands of hair on his head rising and falling with each gust that swirled about him. Sparse flakes of snow began to fall. An hour later, I looked out the back door of the post office to see him still standing there on the hill, a white specter guarding its own. This made me think of my stay in the woods and the white wolf. Now I knew who the white wolf was, and again, shivers went vibrating up and down my spine.

  “Shouldn’t someone bring him down?” I asked, trying to forget the stay in the woods.

  “No,” the twins said in chorus. “It is his grief.”

  I nodded. I should have known better—I, of all people.

  The rest of the day went quietly. We spoke only when we had to. If not out of respect for Ivan, then out of respect for our own feelings. It went with the snow that was starting to cover the ground. Winter was here. Perhaps it would cover our summer sins and just maybe come spring they would melt away. Such was my hope.

  Chapter 29

  There was a quiet knock at the back door that sounded like thunder to my sleepy brain. Seemed like it was my life’s story—being awakened from a sound sleep—and I wondered what it was this time. The noise got louder.

  “C’mon, Bronski, wake up!”

  I sat up in bed and noted the clock. Hmm . . . damn . . . two o’clock in the morning. Who in hell?

  “Hurry up Bronski! Open the door!”

  “Okay, okay. Just a damn minute!” I said.

  The noise died down and I commenced putting on my pants. I had just got them pulled up when the knocking started again. By then, a few dogs started barking. Whoever was banging on the door was being announced to the whole village.

  “Who is it?” I inquired.

  There was a moment’s silence. Since there was no peephole or window, I dug under the bed for the sawed-off shotgun. Might as well be prepared.

  “Dammit, Bronski! Open up!” Came the loud whisper.

  I unlocked the door and quickly stood back to one side, the shotgun pointed in the general direction of the door. I didn’t have long to wait.

  Three men came bursting through the door dressed in what most city people wear to the bush in early winter, wool pants and heavy parkas.

  They stopped as if they had hit an electric fence. I had the advantage of the door’s light to outline them. All they saw was a figure holding something in the dim light.

  “Put your hands up,” I said, “you’re on government property!”

  Their hands shot up in unison, kind of like a chorus line.

  “For God’s sake, Bronski! Take it easy. We’re good guys.”

  I waved the gun. I was beginning to enjoy this. The fact I had a weapon on U.S. Property bothered me not a bit. “Oh, really,” I answered. “This is not Anchorage, gents, it’s the bush. You could be anybody. Consider yourselves lucky I didn’t shoot first before opening the door. Put your I.D.‘s on the table and back away.”

  “Dammit, Bronski, don’t you recognize me? I’m a postal inspector in Anchorage.”

  In truth, I did recognize his face, but I wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction.

  “Just lay your I.D.‘s down on the table, gents, and we’ll see who you are.”

  By now, their tension had subsided and they began to think.

  “Say, Bronski, what the hell are you doing with a shotgun on a U.S. Postal facility anyway?” the fat one asked. I took him to be the leader.

  “For protection, obviously. You never know who is going to bust through your back door. Now stand back!”

  They stood back and I began to look at their I.D.‘s with a flashlight. Just for drill, I shined it at their eyes now and then to keep them off balance. Postal inspectors are not generally loved in the Postal Service. I don’t even like them; always sneaking around, seeing if they could catch someone in some nefarious act. I recognized their need, but I sure as hell didn’t approve of their tactics.

  “You are all postal inspectors, then?” I asked. Sure enough, they all nodded their heads in unison.

  “Why wasn’t I notified of your coming out here?” I asked. “By the way, close the door, it’s getting cold in here.”

  I stepped back from the table with the shotgun cradled in my arms and turned on the light. They stood there blinking. I sighed, knowing I was about to lose control. Now they had been properly identified, I couldn’t screw around with them anymore.

  Seeing the shotgun wasn’t directly aimed at them, they lowered their arms and the fat one began to talk.

  “Listen, Bronski, this is supposed to be a need-to-know operation. Hits are being planned all over Southwestern Alaska. We had to keep the information to a limited few. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

  “I see,” I said. “But do you realize that you have woke up about half the people in this village? Those dogs barking out there mean something, you know. Besides, there has been a rumor of a bust for days now.”

  “Well, Bronski, rumor or not, we’re here to arrest one Helen Ermoff. We understand you are a close acquaintance?”

  While the fat one was talking, the other two started to move around the room, looking for evidence, no doubt, something they could justify their existence with. I decided to let them. If they wanted to make a big deal about the whiskey bottle in a dry village, then to hell with them. I decided to keep calm.

  “We were close at one time, yes.” I answered. “Look, why don’t we sit down and you can tell me what you need from me.”

  By now, one of the other two had centered his eyes on the whiskey bottle. “Take a swig, if you want one,” I said, as I headed for a chair. His face took on a pained look, like I had asked him to partake in an old remembered sin. “Go ahead,” I said, “there’s a glass in the sink.”

  He shook his head, as he evidently couldn’t talk. I was beginning to have fun.

  “Bronski, we’re well aware of your problems, and we’re not here to play games.

  “Then what are you here for?” I asked, as I sat down. Jacobs, the fat one, hesitated only a second before joining me. Desk jockeys do their best when they’re in a chair.

  “We’re here to tie up loose ends. Helen Ermoff is one of them. I understand you’ve had quite a time since you’ve been here. Do you know who killed John Justus?”

  I sighed. As far as I was concerned there was only one answer for the time being and maybe the only answer. “Postmaster Justus committed suicide. Why he killed himself I have no concrete idea, but I believe from my questions around here that he did just that. His sins caught up with him.”

  One of the other men now lying back on the bed interrupted, “We don’t believe that.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said, “but I stand by the suicide option. He may have been of ‘strong character,’ if that’s what you want to call it, but every man has his breaking point, and I know all about breaking points. I’m sure my boss has told you most everything that has happened to me.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table. My other arm still cradled the shotgun. The fat one’s eyes glanc
ed at it from time to time. “Bronski, now that you’ve ascertained we’re good guys, don’t you think you could put that thing away?”

  I grinned. “Oh, you mean my camp gun?” I got up from the chair and put it on the shelf beside the whiskey bottle. By now the other man was opening cabinets, still looking for something to use as evidence, I guessed. He immediately grabbed the gun and started emptying its shells. “Don’t shoot yourself,” I cautioned. “I keep it to scare away the bears.”

  Jacobs folded his hands on the table with his face taking on a pious look. “You know we could charge you for having a weapon on government property, don’t you?”

  “Yep, but you won’t, because when I get through singing to the press about how the investigation concerning Justus was bungled out here, my having a camp gun on the premises out in the wilderness will seem like small potatoes.”

  I sat down again and crossed my legs. Jacobs studied me for a minute.

  “Don’t get smart. There are enough questions about you already. There are questions about your involvement in the drug trade out here.”

  The hackles rose on the back of my neck. Now he had my attention, but damned if I was going to show it.

  “Mister,” I said quietly, and I looked him straight in the eye, “I was not ever involved in the drug trade out here. Justus might have been, but I am not. I think the facts will back me up.”

  Damned if he didn’t look away. I had the feeling he was simply digging around. There was no so-called, “evidence.”

  He looked back at me. “All right Bronski, here’s what’s going to happen. The minute you hand a certain package that we know contains cocaine to Ms. Ermoff, we come around the counter and arrest her. That’s all you have to do. Think you can handle that?”

  “Yeah, I can handle that,” I said. I wasn’t happy about it. I still had some feeling for Helen, but she had to know the score, especially with all the rumors of a coming bust.

  “You’re sure?” he went on, “we don’t want any slip-ups from you.”

  “There won’t be,” I answered.

  Chapter 30

  Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep the rest of the night. After about an hour of talking and planning we settled down for a little sleep. I counted myself lucky in getting my bed back. Of course, that might have happened when I mentioned bedbugs. I did this in jest, but the three straight arrows took it seriously. The fat one took both kitchen chairs and began to snore almost instantly. The other two made do on the floor in front of the stove.

  When the alarm sang its song at six-thirty, I was ready. Fifteen minutes later, I had the coffee going and a bowl of cereal half-eaten. The three postal inspectors looked at me like I was a freak.

  “Don’t you have any real milk?” one of them complained.

  “Nope, I said, cheerful as hell, “Dried milk is all we have. Cows haven’t got to this country as yet. Besides, haven’t you heard? Cow’s milk is bad for you.”

  I proceeded to munch on the bowl of granola. If I had my way, I’d eat the stuff for every meal, but they tell me you need your veggies, so I comply at dinnertime.

  They all sat there, munching on last night’s stale breath. Finally, the fat one aroused himself, and got a cup of coffee. Their next complaint was that coffee was too strong.

  “So leave,” I said. “Go to the restaurant.”

  They gave me a sour look. There was no way they could go to the cafe without letting everyone know they were in town.

  “You know, Bronski, we could find something to put you in jail. You keep up the smart mouth and that’s exactly what’s gonna happen.” This came from one of the two underlings. I knew now where I’d seen him. It was in the hallway at the art museum in Anchorage, and I was willing to bet he was the one who followed me around town. Good old Postal Service, always keeping track of its own.

  I shrugged and finished my bowl of cereal, deciding that maybe discretion was the better part of valor. I put the bowl in the sink.

  “Well, gentlemen, what’s next? My two employees will be walking in the side door in about fifteen minutes. What do you want me to tell them about you?”

  Jacobs frowned at his coffee. “Can they be trusted?” he asked.

  “I would trust them with my life,” I said. “They are not involved in the drug traffic we have here in this community. One of them dates the village constable.”

  “Can he be trusted?”

  I drew a deep breath. I was getting tired of this line of thought. “Yeah, he can be trusted. He’s a good man. But then, I imagine you knew that, right?”

  “Just checking, Bronski, just checking. Tell the employees we’re here to arrest somebody, but don’t tell them who.”

  “Don’t you think they deserve to know? What if they get hurt because they didn’t know? That won’t go well here in the community.”

  “All right, Bronski, you made your point. But they can’t leave the building until Ermoff is arrested.”

  I nodded. “Fair enough.”

  The rest of the morning went okay, considering what was to happen. The twins came in as scheduled. We did our work like we always did, except there wasn’t the usual chatter. We spoke only when necessary. The twins accepted the postal inspectors as necessary evils, even though they weren’t too happy about the coming arrest.

  I stood at the front window, selling stamps and getting packages ready to mail. If any customers thought this unusual, since the twins usually handled the clerical work, they said nothing. Above it all, I wondered when Helen would come, or if she would. Surely, she knew that picking up the cocaine would be a one-way ticket to jail. The morning progressed slowly. I was starting to get the jitters.

  * * *

  At last, it was noon. There were no customers except for the old man sitting at the stove thoughtfully puffing on his pipe. I attempted to make conversation, but I could tell he wasn’t in the mood. Then a few minutes later, he beckoned to me with a wave of his hand. Intrigued, I rounded the counter and squatted down beside him. He regarded me for a moment, his pipe belching out even more smoke. I discreetly coughed. He removed the pipe from his mouth and regarded it.

  “You know, Postmaster, you whites did do one good thing for us. You gave us tobacco. I have solved many problems while smoking. It may be bad for your health, but the good outweighs the bad. So it is with most people, except for my son and daughters. You are a good man, no matter what other people say. You are not responsible for my son’s death, nor Mary’s.”

  He grew quiet. Thinking the conversation was over with, I started to stand. He tapped on my knee and motioned me to squat back down. Seeing there was no reason not to, I did as he wanted.

  “Yes, sir?” I said respectfully.

  “The old postmaster killed himself.”

  “Uh, huh,” I said, this time not so respectfully. I’d heard this from him before.

  “He was always after Mary.”

  He put his pipe back in his mouth and puffed out another stream of blue smoke. I coughed again. If this kept up I was going to be blue. I decided to wait, sensing he had more to say. Sure enough, after a moment, he did.

  “I asked him to leave her alone, but he would not. He said he was in love. He was not in love. He used her to make his animal . . .” he struggled with the words, “sex life.”

  Now I saw tears in the old man’s eyes. He went on with his tale. “I told him to stop, but he would not. Then I told him I would tell his family. He laughed, and said they would not believe me. So, I told Charlie. Charlie got mad. Wanted to kill him. I said no, then the white man would kill him. Then Charlie got a camera and showed me how to use it. I take pictures.”

  “How did you get close enough?” I asked.

  He turned his head and regarded me with those blue eyes.

  “I have ways,” he answered.

  That familiar shiver worked its way down my spine. I looked around, still nobody within hearing distance. Had time stopped for this revelation? Then I noticed the manila en
velope on the floor beside him.

  “Are those the pictures?”

  “Yes. I want you to have them. Charlie had nothing to do with this. You must understand.”

  I nodded. “So you showed these pictures to the postmaster to get him to stop?”

  “Yes. When I showed him, he became sad. He said he would leave her alone. A few days later he hung himself. Like everyone, he had some good in him.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.

  “Because it is the right time.” He answered.

  “But why is it the right time?”

  He chuckled and took another draw. “You white men, always asking why.”

  He grew quiet again. Realizing it was the end of the audience, I picked up the envelope and went back behind the counter. Funny what grief does to a person, I thought, as I slid the envelope on a shelf underneath the counter. The old man continued to suck on his pipe and I drummed my fingers on the counter top, wanting to look at those pictures, but knowing there was no way I could at the moment.

  The room got bluer and bluer. Once, when I went back for a package, Jacobs wanted to know why I permitted the smoking in a postal facility. They didn’t want to hear that the old man had been sitting there for years smoking his pipe. Well, one said, something would have to be done about that. I raised my eyebrows and stole a look at Jeanette who gave me a quick wink as if to say, “Don’t worry, boss, these guys will be soon be gone.” She was right. Fools can be suffered, for a while, anyway.

  Then I saw her coming down the street. For some reason, I wanted to run out and warn her, to tell her to pass on. Only by using cold hard logic was I able to restrain myself. She was a drug pusher. She made money off other people’s misery. Then she was at the door, sweeping through it like the queen she might have been. The only thing missing was her retinue. She was all business, ignoring her father as if he truly wasn’t there. The old man likewise ignored her, staring straight ahead, still puffing on his pipe.

  “Good morning, Mr. Postmaster,” she said. Just for a moment, I thought I saw a twinkle in her blue eyes. A fond remembrance of an old past love. “I believe I have a package here?” She handed me the yellow slip that had been in her box.