by John Straley
“I don’t see why you can’t buy us some beer,” complained Ellen from her wheelchair next to the Jell-O molds.
“Ellen, I can’t buy alcohol with the health education and prevention money. We’ve been through this. I’m already on thin ice for the cheesecakes and heavy cream.”
“That’s just like government thinking,” the old woman wheezed. “I mean, what if—I’m saying what if—I’m going back to my place for a beer and I slip and break my hip? What the hell kind of health education is that?”
Bob Gleason piped up, “You’re not going to break a hip. You always drink someone else’s beer.” Here he nodded toward Miles. “Besides, you ride that frigging wheelchair everywhere you go, even though there’s not a frigging thing wrong with your legs.”
Ellen didn’t give even a hint she’d heard Bob’s comments. “Miles, you could at least buy us some beer,” she insisted, “if you were really serious about doing a good job.”
“Listen, Ellen, next week I could maybe include some non-alcoholic beer in the order.”
Ellen stared up at him with strange, squinting eyes as if he had suddenly started speaking Japanese. “Non-alcoholic beer?” she asked feebly. She reached a claw-like hand for something to hang on to, accidentally landing it in a bowl of raspberry Jell-O with bananas hovering at the top.
“Somebody better get her medication,” came a wheezing voice from over by the furnace.
“Take more than near-beer to kill her. Better men than us have tried.” Bob levered a shingle-sized slice of meat loaf onto his plate, set it next to the pond of gravy in the potatoes. “Goddamn, this looks good, Miles. Don’t have any boiled turnips, do you?” He held out his plate.
As luck would have it, Miles did, and he ladled them out quickly. Bob’s hand wavered, and hot water slopped against the side of the old man’s thumb.
“Christ, Miles, watch what you’re doing, would ya?”
“I’m sorry.” Miles handed him a napkin. “I’m just kind of in a hurry.”
“I heard.” Bob nodded knowingly, staring down at his plate of food. “There’s a cop here to talk to you.” He reached onto his plate, fingered a slice of turnip up into his mouth. “It’s about your brother.”
Miles wiped his hands on a dishcloth and took off his apron. He walked out the door without saying a word to anyone.
The police officer, Ray Brown, had sent word to Miles that he was in town as soon as he’d gotten off the floatplane. Miles had been in the middle of getting the giant meat loaves ready and so had arranged to meet with the trooper at the clinic later in the day, just before Brown’s plane took off for Juneau. That way, he thought, he could talk with the officer and then walk him back to the hall to check on the community dinner. It might be a good thing to have a police officer with him when he returned, in case any fights broke out in his absence.
Miles wasn’t eager to show that police officer around. No matter where they were from, visitors always wanted to ask questions. They started with history: why is this place here? To this Miles would usually answer, “Fish … mostly.” He longed to tell the whole story but the truth was people didn’t really want to know.
What they really wanted to ask was, “Why in the hell would anyone live here?”
But to truly understand, it helped to know the whole story. Just walking around town you wouldn’t feel the history of the place, wouldn’t know its old jokes or see the ghosts who still roamed around in everyone’s memory.
Cold Storage, Alaska, was first settled by white men in 1934. These white men were a group of Norwegian fishermen looking for a place to ride out the storms on the outer coast. They drove a few pilings and ran a boardwalk along the edge of a steep-sided fjord. They chose it because of the good anchorage with protection from all four directions of the compass. But as one of the Norsky fishermen put it, “She’s hell for snug except when it’s coming straight down.”
Cold Storage got approximately 200 inches of rain a year; the exact number was subject to debate. That rain led to the second reason the old Norskies chose to build on this particular spot: a natural hot spring just off the beach where the thermally heated water dribbled out between the rocks. The old fishermen cribbed up some walls and a roof and made a quite passable tub where they could lounge in the warm water while watching their wooden boats ride at anchor out in the bay.
In 1935, the town got an infusion of energy when a battered logger, a woman Wobbly, and her little girl with glasses fled the mine strike in Juneau in a leaky dory and made the place their home. The logger was named Slippery Wilson. The woman was named Ellie Hobbes. She was a pilot and a committed anarchist. The little girl with the thick glasses was Annabelle. When Slip and Ellie built the first store, the old fishermen complained that the town was growing too fast. But when Ellie turned the store into a bar a few years later, the complaining stopped.
No one in his family had been fond of the police. It wasn’t an active antagonism, it was more of a wary indifference bolstered by living in a town some ninety air miles from a police station. There had been the old man who ran the supply boat who had been some kind of detective in Seattle. But that was long ago, and he had never done any policing in Cold Storage. The old Seattle detective was dead now, and only a few of the older people remembered the stories about him.
Miles stopped at the door of the clinic and put his hand on the cold metal knob. He didn’t want to go in, but as he considered going back to his meat loaf, the door jerked open, and Ray Brown stood before him in an immaculate blue state trooper uniform. He was pressed and tidy. His round, brimmed, Mountie-style hat had gold braid laid out against the blue. He was imposing, like a patriotic monument of some sort. It made Miles feel a little like Jeanette MacDonald.
“McCahon!” Brown barked, as if giving Miles permission to have the name. He jutted out his hand. “Ray Brown. How are ya?”
“I’m doing well, thanks,” Miles began. He was about to mention the fine weather for flying and maybe add something about going fishing if there was time.
“Two things,” Brown lumbered on. “First, a little bit of shop and then some personal business.”
“Personal business?” Miles walked around the big trooper to pick up the coffee pot sitting on a table in a corner of the waiting room. The coffee had been reheating for weeks as far as Miles knew. He just turned the same coffee on and off every day and evening. It didn’t matter because no one ever drank it. He kept it there only to chase people out of the clinic.
“That’s second. The first thing has to do with Harold Miller. Do you know him?”
“Coffee?” Miles held out the pot.
“No, I’m topped off.” Brown patted his flat stomach. “Harold Miller?”
“I know a Mouse Miller.” Miles put the pot back into the plastic coffee maker.
Brown unsnapped the breast pocket of his shirt, took out a small notebook and flipped through the pages. “I think that’s him. Fisherman.” Then Brown rattled off a social security number.
Miles looked for any trace of humor, any sign that the trooper was going to relax. It didn’t seem likely. “I don’t know Mouse’s Social Security number, but the date sounds like it matches his age. How can I help you, officer?” Miles sat down on a chair next to the coffee pot.
Brown remained standing, and for a second Miles worried he was going to click his heels together.
“Harold Miller has been reported missing. I’d like to get some information together.”
“I haven’t seen Mouse around. Have you been down to his boat?”
Brown had started writing in his notebook, didn’t answer the question. After a long silence, he lowered the notebook and asked, “When was the last time you think you saw him?”
“Geez … I don’t know, couple of weeks ago. I don’t know if he even has family here in town. I think I heard he was going to fly in to Juneau for some change of scenery for his drinking.”
“Ex-wife,” Brown said to the notebook, “he had an ex-w
ife.”
“Really? I didn’t know Mouse was married.” And then in a bright voice, a bit curious, “Who’s his ex?”
The trooper was writing again. He looked up with a vaguely thoughtful expression on his face. “So, would you say it was two weeks ago that you saw him last?”
Miles leaned back and scanned the paint on the ceiling. “I don’t remember exactly.” If Trooper Brown had shown any trace of humor or humility, Miles might have offered to look at his calendar to see if there were any notations, but he didn’t.
“Okay.” Brown stabbed a period emphatically onto a page. “It’s just a formality. He’s probably sleeping it off somewhere.” He clicked his ballpoint pen as if unchambering a round, put the pen and notebook back into his front shirt pocket, and pulled another chair away from the wall and around to face Miles. He sat down, knee to knee with the PA. Miles sat up straight and put his coffee cup down.
“Now, two,” Brown said. “I believe you have a family member who is incarcerated?”
Miles waited, wondering if that was the final form the question was going to take. “Actually, if you include my extended family, I have several relations who might still be serving time. Maybe you could be a little bit more specific.”
“So, that’s the way it’s going to be.” Brown stared down at Miles for several long moments.
“Excuse me, Trooper Brown, is there some reason that you’re being rude?” Miles smiled and tried again to be friendly.
Trooper Brown didn’t hesitate and didn’t smile. “I don’t like drugs, and I don’t like Satan worshipers.”
Miles looked perplexed. “Wow! No. I mean, who does? Well, drugs … I assume you are not opposed to penicillin, unless you are a Christian Scientist?”
The Trooper waved him off. “Your brother worked for a major drug dealer in Seattle. I don’t want him moving his business into Alaska.”
“First thing, Trooper, I haven’t heard from Clive in years. I have no reason to think that he’s going to come to Alaska after his release. Frankly, I doubt it, and even if he does, I have absolutely no reason to believe that he will be engaged in any illegal activity. This is not exactly a promising spot to go into the drug trade. Unless you had some blood pressure meds or fiber supplements you wanted to move.”
“You are a veteran … Army Rangers, is that right?” Brown said.
“That’s right,” he said patiently.
“You were the guy in that photograph?” This was neither a question nor a conversation starter; it sounded more like an accusation.
“I know the one.” Miles’s flat voice did not invite further comment.
“That was some shit, huh?”
“Yes, it was some shit, all right.”
“But that doesn’t mean I want your brother up here selling drugs.”
Miles was beginning to wonder if Trooper Brown had some kind of neurological damage or perhaps a kind of Tourette’s syndrome that manifested itself in non sequiturs. “Trooper Brown, does this somehow tie back around to Satan worship? If not, I’ll keep my eyes open for Mouse Miller and if I find out anything, I’ll be sure to let you know. And if my brother shows up and is involved in any illegal activity, I’ll let you know that, too.”
Brown leaned forward. “I’ve heard things. I’ve heard things about a Weasel character and about drugs off shore and about his sick movies and about his gatherings of men. Listen, I don’t care if you are some kind of war hero. If I get one whiff that you’re allowing some Satanists to use drugs or that your brother is back in business, if he gets one strange package, if he makes one phone call to his old associates back in the Seattle area, I’ll have him and anyone who helps him”—Trooper Brown paused and stared at Miles for emphasis—“back in jail so fast it will make their head swim.”
A swimming head, Miles thought to himself. What does that really mean anyway? “Look, we’ve gotten off to a bad start.” Miles tried to brighten the tone of his voice. “You’ve never been here before, have you? Let me show you around town. I’ll give you the whole tour. It will help you get to know the place. We can ask around about Mouse.”
“Thanks for the offer.” Brown’s smile was icy. “But I can do my own legwork. I was born in Alaska, you know.”
“Ah!” Miles said, as if long-term residency explained and forgave everything. He walked over to the door of the clinic and opened it.
“Let me explain something to you.” Brown loomed over Miles. “Your brother has an old associate named Jake Shoemaker. He’s a smart guy, he has a lot of holdings in Seattle, and a lot of money. Your brother never gave up this Jake Shoemaker, and let’s say Jake owes him now.”
“All right, let’s say that,” Miles said, smiling to the scowling face of the trooper.
“We have reason to believe that right now your brother is looking to reestablish contact with Jake Shoemaker. I also have reason to know that law enforcement in Washington is very interested in taking Jake Shoemaker down. So if you hear from Clive, you tell him to talk to me right now. You understand? If he sells one ounce of product in this state, he’s going away for much longer than the seven-year bid he just did. But if he helps us put Jake away, he can breathe easy for a long time. You understand me, Miles?”
“I understand, Trooper, but this is all theoretical as far as I’m concerned. I have not heard from my brother, and I honestly doubt that I ever will.”
“Really!” the Trooper boomed. “Well, we know that there are people right now bringing drugs in off the coast of this town. Right this second.”
“This second? Wow. You better get to arresting somebody then!”
The Trooper put his hand on the doorknob to leave. “Your mother’s name is Annabelle. Isn’t that right?” asked Brown, as if he knew every thought Miles had ever had.
“That’s right, it’s Annabelle. You know, that’s a great idea. You should go talk to her.”
Not expecting this answer, Brown squinted at him.
Miles walked over and tapped the big blue policeman on the chest hard enough that they could both feel the bulletproof vest underneath the uniform. “But I’d be sitting on this if you’re going to talk shit about Clive to Annabelle.” Miles raised his eyebrows, faintly nodded. “And while you’re at it why don’t you ask her about Satan worship?”
Brown turned and walked out the door.
“I’ve got to get out of this town,” Miles sighed to himself. The only thing keeping him from walking down to the boat dock right now and striking out was the possibility of being there when Annabelle gave Trooper Brown a monumental ass chewing.
Annabelle lived alone in a damp frame house near the end of the boardwalk and up a set of stairs into the hillside. She had not been feeling well for the last three months, and Miles had tried to talk her into going to the hospital in Sitka. She had chronic heart disease and diabetes, but lately she’d been losing weight and her color was not good. Miles suspected she had something new, something more serious going on, but he didn’t know. Neither did Annabelle. Miles wanted to find out, but Annabelle did not.
Miles thought about that as he watched Brown’s lumbering figure barrel down the boardwalk. Miles had tried to talk his mother into moving to Arizona where the hospitals were clean and warm, where they could sort out what was going on with her health, where she could eat avocado sandwiches and watch the Mariners on TV.
“I don’t even like avocados. What in the heck are you talking about?” She’d shaken her head bitterly. “Besides Arizona? What do I look like? A cactus?” She shook her head again and looked out the window, closing the book on the subject.
Miles knew it wasn’t Arizona that was the problem. Annabelle didn’t want to leave Cold Storage because she was waiting for Clive. She imagined seeing her older son, tall and rangy, walking in the door of her house. He would have some outrageous story to tell about who he had met on the road and what adventures they had gotten him involved in. Miles was a good boy, but Clive made her laugh. Clive would lift her off her feet a
nd swing her around the kitchen while Miles fretted about what might get broken.
Recently, Annabelle had been considering the possibility that she might not be alive by the time Clive walked through her door again. Still, she did not want to leave Cold Storage. She suspected the weight loss and the weakness was cancer, but it didn’t matter that much to her. She liked the taste of the meals Miles cooked. She liked to watch the tapes of old movies she had flown out from town. She liked to do needlepoint in the late afternoon while the tea kettle rumbled on the oil stove, and she liked listening to the rain. Death was no big deal, she told herself. At least she was under her own tin roof and not in some concrete jail.
Miles waited a few minutes before walking back up the boardwalk. As far as Satan went, there were only two signs of the Dark Lord in Cold Storage. One was a band that two kids had tried to start called the Boomerang Bombers, which had caused quite a stir in the school about six years ago. The boys, Ajax and Billy, painted pentagrams on the school district’s drumheads and had to write a letter of apology and work at the school for two weeks during spring break. As far as Miles knew, the Boomerang Bombers had never played a public performance, but out of solidarity for the only death metal band along the coast, the man named Weasel had the band’s name and a pentagram tattooed to his shoulder, fostering the rumor that Weasel was some kind of Satanist mentor to the boys. Which was dismissed as far too ambitious for Weasel by anyone who knew him.
By the time he got within sight of the community center, Miles could tell Trooper Brown was ready to leave. A loud screeching voice was issuing from the windows like smoke. Miles couldn’t make out the words, but old people were steadily streaming out of the front door. Some were using their canes, a couple had walkers, but they were making remarkably good time. They moved as if flames licked their heels.
Miles reached the door just as Trooper Brown hurried out. His face was scarlet, almost as if he’d been burned, and he was trying to put his notebook into his pocket but seemed to be having trouble finding the front of his shirt. Miles didn’t say a word. The trooper looked at him momentarily, averted his eyes, took two steps away from the community center.