by John Straley
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-wife.”
“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 bullet-proof 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 and 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.
“Did you find Mom? I think she’s in here,” Miles said evenly, without sarcasm.
But Trooper Brown was in some sort of preverbal state of rage or perhaps shock. He had never before been tongue-lashed by an old lady in a wheelchair. Annabelle was probably lucky he hadn’t pepper-sprayed her.
“D … D … D …” the trooper tried to say.
“Don’t leave town?” Miles offered. “Don’t worry, we’ll be here. We’ll keep an eye out for Mouse. Have a safe flight.” Miles waved, turned, and walked into the community center.
Bob Gleason was standing by the door, eager to greet Miles. “By God! You missed it, Miles. She unloaded both barrels on him. I’m telling you, I’ve worked in logging camps some thirty years and I’ve never heard the likes.” He grinned.
Miles looked over to where Annabelle sat by herself, tears rolling down her cheeks. He walked over and handed her a paper napkin. “Got something on your chin.” He didn’t look at her, didn’t draw attention to anything in particular.
“You’re a doll,” the old woman said. She took the paper napkin and held his hand for a moment, took several deep breaths as if shaking off some great exertion or bad dream. “That wasn’t really a cop, was it?” she asked.
“State trooper. I guess he found you, huh?”
“Oh my God, Miles.” Annabelle smiled up at the younger of her two sons. “You know what your father would have called someone like that?”
“Well, there are several names I think he might have used.” He smiled back, remembering.
“He would have used some choice King’s English on him,” sniffed Annabelle.
“Yes, I suppose he would have.” Miles laughed.
“My God,” she huffed. “You remember Uncle George?”
“Dimly,” Miles said. “I was just tiny when he died.”
“Well, he was a good man, and he had been a cop. I told you about how he didn’t arrest Slip and Ellie, haven’t I?”
“Yes, you have, Mom.” Her son smiled and stroked her thin arm.
“If that flibbertigibet of a cop thinks I’m going to drop a dime on Clive before he’s even done anything wrong, then … well, then … I just don’t know.”
Miles smiled at her. His mother had always peppered her speech with crime jargon she had gotten mostly from Travis McGee novels. But he noticed she used more of it after Clive had gone to jail. Miles thought it was her way of showing loyalty to her wildest son.
She sat smoking her cigarette, remarkably tranquil for a woman who had apparently used some choice King’s English on an officer of the law.
“You really think Clive will be here soon?” She stared out into the swirls of smoke surrounding her head.
“I don’t know, Ma.”
She looked around the room at the dishes of uneaten food sitting right where people had left them before fleeing: meat loaf and cooked cabbage, potato salad, and gelatin. She smiled.
“Say, Miles?” Annabelle looked up at her son. “Can you do something for me?” She snubbed out her cigarette and slid her glasses up her nose.
“Sure, Ma.” They both knew he worried about her. “What did you have in mind?”
“Could you boil me an egg?”
Bob Gleason broke into applause.
AFTER THE DUST settled, diners started creeping back into the community hall; they hadn’t forgotten their free dinners. Miles sat by himself in a corner, listening to people talk, eating some of his own meat loaf and mashed turnips. Bob and a friend from Juneau were doing the dishes, laughing, joking, calling out to people in the hall. When they were done, Miles made himself an extra sandwich and wrapped it up. He waited until he heard the trooper’s floatplane take off, stuffed the sandwich into his wool coat, and walked down to the floating dock where his skiff was tied.
It had been years since Miles had caught a king salmon. He had spent hours in his boat dragging a line through the water. He used the right gear, fished at the right depth, trolled at the right speed, and still he had been denied. He had a subsistence permit and had dipnetted enough sockeye salmon to smoke up for the winter. He had brought in coho salmon and chums when they were running. But there was nothing quite like catching a king salmon. The electric tug and the zing of line spooling off into the deep green. It had been so long since he had had that feeling. He longed for it like an old man longing for youth.
Tonight as he scanned the sky and checked the wind fluttering through the pennants in the rigging of the few boats left in the harbor, he was—despite all odds—flush with optimism.
He walked down the boardwalk, noticing the soft spots in the planking. Rot was creeping up from the wa
ter through the pilings and in around the edges of the entire town. He could smell mildew, sooty diesel stoves venting out of broken stacks, a whiff of fish slime, and the egginess of the thermal water trapped in the old, concrete bathing tub.
It was early spring; he would have enough daylight for fishing. The herring had been spawning late on the outer coast, and he had heard people were catching king salmon out at the mouth of the bay. He was determined to bring one home.
Miles had an aluminum skiff with a temperamental outboard motor. He had fought the engine, sworn at it, even threatened it with violence. Only in the last three months had Miles’s relationship with the cranky piece of equipment changed; he now tried to think of it as a kind of teacher, one with the temperament of a wild animal. If you wanted something from an outboard such as this, you had to display the virtues of understanding and patience. If you rushed up to it and started jerking on the starter cord, the soul of the machine would immediately fly out into the cold air and what would be left on the stern was an inert pile of metal. You could pull on that cord until your knuckles bled. You could change plugs and clean the fuel filters. It would not matter. The engine was no longer of this earth. It was as if the outboard were watching him from the trees as he pulled and swore and pulled and swore until steam rose from his sweater and sweat stung his eyes.
Miles arranged everything in the skiff carefully; the trooper had put him in a bad mood. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out before speaking softly and gently to all the equipment.
“Well, old girl, I’ve heard there are fish out there. What do you say to going out there with me?” He patted the machine, checked the mixture of the fuel. Whenever he could, he’d add some of the fresh gas stored in a sealed jug under the hatch. He pumped the bulb on the fuel line and pulled the choke halfway out. He pulled three times until the engine sputtered.
Closing off the choke, he opened the throttle halfway, then paused to say a few words he had settled on months ago and never changed. In a perfectly serious voice, free of irony, he spoke: “I want to thank you for all the hard work you’ve done in your life. I promise I’ll treat you well today.”