Pool and its Role in Asian Communism
Page 6
Waldo and the congregation stood behind the chapel, watching it burn. Wasn't one of 'em considered running on down there with a pail. Being Sunday, there wouldn't be no one in the plant. There weren't even a watchman. Desire had been too tight-assed to hire one. Funny thing was, even though the entire town depended on Roundly's for its income, there weren't one single person went to help put out the fire, other than Bill. But that was his job.
Some folks dragged their easy chairs into the garden and popped open a can or two. But no one went down there to get a closer look. I guess they was fearful they'd be blamed for setting the fire. A lot of 'em had thought about it. Anyway, the view was fine from most places cause Roundly's was in a dell, and the houses rose up away from it. There wasn't no homes close by, cause that was Roundly land, the land Mr. Roundly had put aside for extensions. There was real loud pops and cracks and stuff exploding, and the breeze brought up hints of just how frigging hot the fire had gotten.
By the time the real fire engines arrived from South Bend, Roundly's was already deceased. From outside, the big black walls didn't look much different. But the inside was gutted.
Waldo, sister Floretta, and preacher Le Saux had found a good spot on the chapel roof to watch the brave South Bend fire officers fight the smoldering embers. The preacher, apart from being an inspiration, was also a collector of town gossip. He looked at Waldo. Waldo looked at him.
"They're gonna blame you for this you know, Waldo."
"Me? Why would they wanna blame me, reverend?"
"Vengeance."
"Gainst Roundlys?"
"Gainst Desire in particular."
"You hear about that already, preacher? Heck. Vengeance ain't something I'm noted for. You know that."
"I know it, Waldo. But the investigators ain't gonna know it. Just you be careful."
"Yes, sir."
27
Normally, the police would let the insurance assessors do the preliminary investigation in cases of fire, and the owner would be the chief suspect. But in the case of Desire Roundly, there wouldn't be no external assessment, and she wouldn't be a suspect at all. She didn't have no insurance. She hadn't kept up the policy. Apart from the value of the land, she lost every damn thing she had in the fire.
The police crossed her name off the list. She wasn't guilty of arson, but she sure was guilty of stupidity. Can't arrest no one for that but. Most folks in Mattfield would of been in jail if you could.
That left Waldo Monk's name at the top of their list. Him and the chink. She hadn't shown up on Monday for the meeting in the ashes. They figured she'd heard about the fire, and didn't bother coming in. The others was all there to make conflicting statements and collect one of the round flapjackpool balls as a momento.
They had some darn fool idea they'd be getting the two weeks pay they was due, but after a half-hour of Desire ranting and bawling, they knew they was screwed. The cops set up a table under one old singed tree and collected facts. Weren't no question it was deliberate. There was the remains of three gas cans by the back gate. The forensics guy from the state capital knew straight away it was a crime.
28
They called Waldo into the regional police headquarters two days later and sat him at a desk. There was two detectives. They was different detectives to the two that told him about Mexico, but they was wearing the same suits. One of 'em was hazel, even though these was the days before hazel detectives was fashionable. I guess they bought him in cause the suspect was burnt sienna. Kind'a color coordination. He was trying his darnedest to look tough.
"We know you done it, Monk."
"What'd I do, officer?"
"You tell us."
Clever exchanges like this was too much for an uncomplicated guy like Waldo.
"Gee." He scratched his head. "I don't rightly know, sir."
The other detective was extreme white, like stewed bones. He leaned over to Waldo and asked,
"Why'd you burn down Roundly's?"
"Sir, I don't have no good reason to burn the place down."
"That ain't what we heard."
"We heard you had a fight with the owner the day before."
"Officer, I don't reckon I ever had a fight with no one in my life. It ain't my way." The cops looked real disappointed.
"Where was you at the time of the conflagration, Waldo?"
Man, he got a look on his face like this was the twenty-thousand dollar question on Jeopardy. They could see him struggling with it.
"The fire, Waldo. Where was you when the fire started?"
"When we smelled the smoke I was in the Chapel of the Holy Lamb of Bethlehem, sir. It was Sunday."
"How long had you been in there?"
"Got there at five, like I always do.
"Five?"
"I'm the chapel clerk. I set up."
The interview went on like that for another twenty minutes or so, them asking, Waldo answering. When he'd gone, the cops sat at the desk like they was interrogating each other. If the truth was to be told, it hadn't been much of an interview. Soon as they saw the fat guy, they knew there weren't no way he could of snuck down to Roundly's with three cans of kerosene, without being seen. He didn't have no car neither.
The forensics people said the fire was lit about eight AM. Waldo had seven witnesses swearing to God on High that he was in the chapel then. It was peculiar that no one saw no one outside the factory. You'd think someone would of been out in the street by then. Old girls walking their dogs. Sunday joggers. But this is Mattfield we're talking about.
The cops was still looking for the chink, but there weren't no address for her. No one had seen the pink Chevy since the girl left work at three on the Saturday afternoon. The home address and references she'd given Roundly's didn't check out. She'd lied about all of it. But lying didn't necessarily make her a fire starter.
There was a hundred things more important for the police department to be doing than chasing smoke. That drive to solve cases you see on the movies don't happen in real life. Actual cops are only too happy to admit when they're clueless. In general, a criminal has to be real dumb to get himself caught. Fortunately for the police, there's a hell of a lot of dumb criminals around to make 'em look good. The Roundly's arsonist wasn't dumb.
Them two cops looked at each other. The extreme white one asked, "Any thoughts on what we do next?"
"Go get a beer and a pizza?"
"I mean Roundly's."
"You see anyone really gives a shit?"
29
So, that was the end of the Roundly's case, and the start of the end of Mattfield. Folks started moving away almost immediately. With no factory there wasn't no income. No income meant no spending. No spending meant no point in the stores staying open. Sendrine's girl shut up the bakery and completed her ma's cut-short mission to Canada.
Three months after the fire, Mattfield was already something of a ghost town. Christmas had come and went but folks was holding on to their money. Fact was, the only person there with money coming in, if you don't count alimony, was Waldo. Course he didn't know he had money coming in. Since they'd uncovered the Lerdo de Tejada scam, a lot of the old folks had passed away from the shock. That wasn't good luck for the old folk in question, but it was for Waldo.
The cops had found a bunch of money in the con-men's account and made some more by selling off their cars and stuff. The court ordered that the proceeds get shared equally between the victims. So, one day, this pretty gal from the South Bend Justice Department turned up on Waldo's door step and told him,
"Mr, Monk, I'm going to make you a happy man today." She giggled and wiggled some.
Now, there's some dirty old men with less manners than Waldo, would of taken advantage of an offer like that. But Waldo just invited her in and give her an apple. In return, she give him $3,783. 32 cents. That was a lot in them days. Of course it was a cheque, but they're every bit as good as money.
It wasn't just luck. It was divine providence. The Sunday befor
e at the chapel, he'd asked his Maker what the hell he was gonna do with no job and no bread. The Sabbath services had become, what you'd call, 'intimate' since the fire. There was just him and Preacher Le Saux. Even Sister Floretta had packed her cats and headed off west to her sister's.
As Preacher Le Saux didn't have a lot to keep him occupied them days, he found himself answering questions he wasn't asked.
"What am I gonna do, Lord?"
"I think you oughta …"
"Hold on, Preacher. I'm talking to the Lord here."
"I was just gonna make a suggestion, Waldo."
"I'm sorry Lord. Where was I? Oh, yeah. If'n you got any suggestions as to how I can stay alive through these troubled times, I'm ready to hear you."
"You know Waldo? You got a few dollars saved up. (That was Preacher Le Saux talking, not the Lord.) I think you oughta head south and leach off Aretha's family in Baton Rouge."
Waldo opened his eyes and glared at the preacher, then he got back to God.
"Well Lord, what you think of that idea?"
And in a sign clearer than a Las Vegas neon, the ground shook, and a goddamned candle fell off the altar. Preacher Le Saux dropped to his knees and joined Waldo in prayer.
The contractors had finally gotten round to bringing down the unsafe walls of Roundly's with a ball and chain. They was all agnostics so they didn't worry none about Sabbath retribution, just overtime.
"I hear you tumbling down the walls of Jericho, Lord. I hear." Then he whispered to Preacher Le Saux so's He couldn't hear. "What d'you suppose that means, Preacher?"
What followed turned out to be Preacher Le Saux's final interpretation of spiritual signs before his transfer back to Boston, and the transvestite scandal. But he did a good job.
"Waldo, the bringing down of the walls signifies the bringing down of your limitations. The prison ofRoundly's has been destroyed. Your soul is liberated." He put his palm against Waldo's forehead. "The falling of the candle signifies that a small orange person will fall surprisingly into your life. (It was a small orange candle), and together you will flee the crumbled masonry of your respective histories."
It sounded like Preacher Le Saux was just making it up at the time, but Waldo come to think back on that prophesy a hundred times after his airplane ride. He wished he could of gotten back in touch with the preacher and told him how his interpretation had been right on, apart from the "orange person" thing. It should of been a magnolia white candle.
30
It was so damn quiet in Waldo's apartment he'd gone out and bought one of them transistor radios and put it on loud so's he could think. The electric store had everything on sale. They was almost giving it all away before they shut up shop.
He'd played all his records so many times the needle was blunter'n a thumb and he couldn't get a replacement cause they stopped making that model in 1942.
There weren't even no neighbours' screams to whine about.
"There's only me, the Dacostas, skinny Blue and his wife, and that scary guy with the lips, Reet. All the others are moved out already. I don't reckon there'll be more than a dozen folks in the whole of Mattfield by next Christmas."
He'd almost drowned himself in the shower that morning there was so much darned water coming out the spout. He'd gotten dressed and walked around town, and seen folks loading up their trucks with mountains of bad furniture tied on with stolen Roundly's packing thread.
He'd come back with the newspaper, made himself a pot of coffee, and reached for the cookie jar. Weren't nothing in it. He knew that but his hand sometimes had a mind of its own. In the months since Roundly's got toasted, Waldo had gone cold turkey on sweet stuff.
For the first time after fifteen Arethaless years, he'd started eating food that didn’t come in aluminum. He had more fruit in the kitchen than Tarzan. He'd been doing a lot of walking too.
One night, and this is a secret, when he was out and no one was watching, …he ran. You probably wouldn't of recognized it as running. He kind'a toppled himself forward and his legs had to move faster to get under him again. There was a couple of scary seconds where he wasn't sure he could stop. If he hadn't gotten hold of the street lamp when he did, he could of ended up in Texas.
He took his coffee over and stood in front of Aretha's full-length, half-width mirror. He couldn’t see no difference in his shape, but he sure felt better. He wasn't so out of breath no more. He slept pretty good too. Maybe there was something to this health food. It was times like this he regretted not being in Mexico. He had his health, he had money, but he didn't have no place to go. Nothing tickled his fancy like Lerdo de Tejada.
It was weird, retiring. When you're working full-time, you cram all your housework and homework, and hobbies and shit into late evenings and weekends. But when you don’t go to work no more, all them things sort'a expand and fill up more time. Ten before-retirement minutes and a hundred after-retirement minutes is the same thing. It's like crossing into the Twilight Zone. He'd been afraid he'd get bored but he couldn’t find the time to be.
31
One evening he was sittinglooking up words from the newspaper in Aretha's Webster's. The doorbell didn't ring cause it wasn't connected. But he knew the sound of it not ringing real good. It was only a little click but there weren't nothing wrong with Waldo's ears.
He was shocked when he opened the door and found Saifon outside stabbing at the bell, trying to get a ring out of it.
"Saifon. Son of a gun."
"Hiya, Waldo." If he hadn't been blocking up the doorway she would of went inside. The guy with the lips was standing out in the hall. He had a habit of kind of mashing them old lips together and drooling. It scared a lot of people. "You gonna let me in?"
"Sure …sure." But he wasn't. Sure, I mean. Waldo didn't get many visitors carrying a suitcase. He rolled out of the way and she went in. She was wearing heels, and a skirt so short he could see what she had for breakfast. They stood looking at each other. She hadn't put her suitcase down. Waldo coughed.
"How'd you find me?"
"Asked some guy on the bus. He knew you."
"The bus? What happened to your car?"
"Sold it. That's why I'm dressed like a hooker."
"It is?"
"You'd be surprised how much more guys pay for a piece of shit on wheels if they think they might get some tail."
"How much you get for the Chevy?"
"Eight hundred bucks."
"Jees. What'ja tell the guy?" They was still standing facing each other like gunfighters.
"That I needed the money for a down payment on an apartment in the area. I might of give him the idea he could come calling after I moved in. He took me to the bus depot to pick up my suitcase. I guess he's still waiting."
"You wanna put that down?"
"Yeah. Thanks. Roundly's sure looks a lot flatter'n I remember it." She sat down on the sofa.
"They thought I did it." He sat on the easy chair. "The cops called me in for questioning. But preacher Le Saux told 'em I was in the chapel."
"You wouldn't do nothing like that, Waldo. You're the world's last nice guy. You should be in a museum." He did one of them burnt sienna guy blushes, and she laughed. "It's true. You're the only person I can remember who's been nice to me without wanting nothing back." He didn't like hearing about himself too much.
"Give it a rest, girl. What you come back here for anyway?"
"Two things really. First thing is that Desire owes me two week's pay." Waldo grinned.
"Saifon, you got more likelihood of getting pigs out of a mamma cow's rear end. She ain't paying no one."
"She'll pay me."
"Admire your confidence, but I seen bigger things than you try to get money out'a that woman."
"She'll pay me."
"Good luck. What's the other reason?"
"For coming back?"
"Yup."
She looked down at his rug.
"I want you to be my daddy, Waldo."
32
The owner, Elk, was a stubborn son of a bitch who never admitted he was wrong. When the sign people called him up to tell him he'd spelt the name of the bar wrong on the paper, he cursed 'em out and told them he should know how to spell the name of his own goddam bar, and they should just get on with making it, and shut the hell up. That's how the The Elk's Mouth Bar and Grill got to be called The Elk's Mouth Bat and Grill. Most folks was used to it now.
Weren't never any of the Roundly's morons in there, except for two. One was Snowy the accountant. The other was his boss, Desire. Desire? That's a laugh. There weren't never nothing 'desirous' about the woman. She'd been soaking her insides with gin since she was fourteen, so you can imagine. Her nose was the shape and colour of a button tomato. Elk and the short order cook called her Rudolph, not to her nose of course.
But she sure helped keep The Elk's Mouth open. Elk was more'n happy to help her spend her old man's money. The only reason he didn’t date her was cause he feared she'd stop spending and start drinking for free. That would of wiped him out. And there wouldn't be 'special' nights like tonight.
She'd booked a table at the back, like anyone else might of wanted it. He laid on one hell of a feast and wasn't charging her the full hog. If things went well tonight, he figured he could afford the jukebox he'd dreamed of. Tonight they was all hoping she could sell off the land that used to be under Roundly's factory.