The Ascent of PJ Marshall

by Brian J. Anderson

  “Okay. We should probably get our reservations in now.”

  Butch laughed. His hands disappeared under the table to shift his legs into a new position.

  “Good idea.”

  “And we can probably lose the kiddy nickname now. Paul’s fine.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Butch said as PJ put his camera back into the box. He stopped him with a tip of his chin. “How’d it turn out?”

  “Oh, right,” PJ said, pulling it back out. A smile grew on his face as he studied the photo. “Wow.”

  “What?”

  “All this technology, and I still take shitty pictures.”

  Butch cringed as he shifted in his seat.

  “Ah, don’t worry. You’ll learn fast.”

  PJ studied the crutches leaning against the end of the bench as he put the camera away.

  “Sure.”

  Butch turned aside and leaned back against the window. With a grunt, lifted his legs onto the bench. PJ turned to the window, sipping his water.

  “What’s the…uh…?” Pursing his lips, PJ set down his glass. “What did the doctor say?”

  Butch exhaled, turning his head against the window glass to meet PJ’s nervous stare.

  “More of the same. That there was a lot of damage. That it’s a waiting game to see how things heal. That I should—” Jerking forward off the window, Butch grasped his legs, his face pinched as he delicately moved them aside. Hissing through his teeth, he eased back against the window. “That I may never walk again.”

  Again, Butch turned to face him, and they locked each other in a silent gaze. PJ looked away, shaking his head.

  “How…can you feel anything?”

  “No.”

  PJ looked outside. He raised the glass of water to his lips, but didn’t drink. He set it back down.

  “Do you…remember anything else? About the accident?”

  PJ watched his father across the table, awaiting a response. Slowly, Butch closed his eyes and rolled his head back and forth on the glass.

  “Damn.”

  PJ leaned closer.

  “What?”

  Butch opened his eyes.

  “Yeah,” he said, staring blankly across the room. “It’s starting to come back.”

  “And?”

  Straining, Butch sat up higher against the window. He looked at PJ, forcing a smile.

  “I’m not sure it was an accident, PJ.”

  The clattering drum of rain was snuffed into a muted hum. PJ slumped forward, his arms responding with dubious support. He stared down at his new camera, nauseous.

  chapter five

  PJ

  PJ looked over his newspaper, studying the gash across the back of the opposite bench. Pedestrians cast brief shadows through the window, muting the vinyl’s glossy sheen. Adhesive residue was dried around the wound—a remnant of repairs given up long ago—still holding the color of passing fabrics. He searched for his father’s red flannel, wishing the glue had stripped the monstrosity off his back altogether.

  “You know how to make coffee, PJ?”

  He turned. Beth was behind the counter, reorganizing the shelves on the back wall. Laying his paper on the table, he picked up his empty cup.

  “Uh, sure. New policy? Brew your own?”

  Beth smiled, motioning to PJ’s table.

  “Aren’t you reading the want ads?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I’m not, really. Old habits.”

  PJ rose and went to the counter.

  “So you took the job at the university, then,” Beth said.

  “I did.”

  “Well, congratulations, hon.”

  “Thanks. Consider yourself lucky. My coffee would probably put you out of business.”

  She slid the pot from the coffee maker.

  “Couldn’t be any worse than my ghastly brew.” She held the pot over the counter, ready to pour. “Warm-up?”

  PJ nodded, sliding his cup across.

  “Please.” He sat, studying the pictures on the wall above the back counter as Beth topped him off. Included in the collection was a letter from the state of Wisconsin, declaring the diner a historical site. “How long have you had this place now?”

  Slipping the pot back onto the warmer, Beth gazed at the ceiling, her lips moving in silence.

  “Going on…oh my, thirty years now. Doesn’t seem right. Time does fly.” She wiped her hands on her apron, looking around the empty room. “Bill and I met here when we were both at the university. Jim Clingman was the owner then. Lovely man.”

  PJ nodded, still scanning the photographs above her head. She motioned to the end of the counter, catching his eye.

  “We were sitting at the end of the counter, right over there. That’s also where he proposed.”

  Beth’s eyes were glazed, her face taking on the orange tint of the sunset flooding through the front window. PJ took a thoughtful sip from his cup. He turned to her with a sympathetic smile and set down his coffee, fixing his gaze on the highly polished counter top and tracing his thumb along the handle of his cup.

  “You glad you bought the place?”

  Turning slowly from the window, Beth gave him a quizzical nod.

  “Of course. We…well, we were here all the time anyway. Fish on Fridays, Sunday brunch. We’d meet for lunch several times a week. Bill was an engineer with Power and Light then. Oh, he didn’t care for that job, let me tell you. I was a secretary at Canfield’s, downtown here. I didn’t really like my job either, so we…”

  She trailed off, turning back to the window, sniffling. She brought a hand to her face. PJ looked up.

  “Found something you both liked.”

  Beth closed her eyes, nodding as she began to tremble. She laid her hand on the counter and hung her head. PJ stared into his cup, lightly swirling his coffee.

  “Sorry.”

  Waving him off, Beth wiped the tears from her cheek with her fingers. She took a napkin from the pocket of her apron and turned to him, dabbing her eyes and nose.

  “It’s fine, honey. I do this all the time.”

  She smiled and put the napkin back in her apron. As PJ watched, she continued to organize the back shelves.

  “We had it really good here, PJ. And Bill was so strong. Never let anything get to him. Even during the worst of it, he was so calm. I don’t know what I’d have done.”

  With a nod, PJ returned to the photographs over Beth’s head, lingering on the largest—a faded image taken outside the diner. Four men were on the sidewalk out front, dressed in pinstripes and fedoras. Three were in front of the window, rigidly posed, with the fourth exiting the diner near the edge of the photo, walking gravely towards the camera. ‘JD exits the Crosstown, April 1934’ handwritten on the sidewalk near the picture’s bottom edge. Beth leaned back against the counter, her arms crossed, looking at the picture with PJ, smiling.

  “It’s quite a story,” PJ said. “I’d say you two were meant to be here.”

  “It is a wonderful story, isn’t it?” She pointed to the photograph. “That’s Jim in the middle there. Handsome young man, wasn’t he?”

  “Uh-huh. And those two are his father and…his uncle, right?”

  “Right.” They stared at the picture for some time, neither of them speaking. PJ sipped his coffee, looking at the man exiting the diner. “How is your photography coming along, PJ?”

  PJ set his cup on the counter, chuckling.

  “Slowly. But I’m learning from a real pro.”

  Beth nodded.

  “Your father’s a terrific photographer, PJ.”

  “He is.”

  “You may not know this, but Bill was pretty good with a camera as well.”

  “You’re right, I didn’t know that.”

  Beth adjusted her stance and cocked her head to the side, her eyes still fixed on the photo.

  “Ever notice anything strange about this picture, PJ?”

  PJ studied it, his brow furrowed.

  “No. Should I?”
/>
  “No. Because you can’t see it. I can’t even tell.”

  “Can’t see what?”

  Beth turned her head, looking PJ in the eyes. Her detached stare was broken with a smirk, and she returned to the picture.

  “He was never here. At the Crosstown.”

  PJ looked from the photo to Beth and back again. His confusion gave way to a gasp, and he stood, his jaw slack in stunned silence. Beth grabbed the coffee pot, beaming.

  “Oh my god,” PJ said, leaning over the counter for a closer look. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Bill did this?”

  Beth topped off his cup, draining the pot.

  “He did. Like I say, he was pretty handy.”

  “I’d say. How long has this picture been up there?”

  “Twenty-two years.”

  PJ began to laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Wow. How did he—I mean, what’s the story? Is that really him?”

  “Of course it’s him, PJ. He wasn’t that good. Ted—Bill’s father—took his picture at a gas station up in Rhinelander. He saw him go into the bathroom, so he waited outside until he came out. That was the day before the FBI closed in on him. He left Bill the negative after he passed.”

  PJ squinted at the photo, still shaking his head.

  “Ted was pretty brave. He looks mad.”

  Beth rinsed the coffee pot.

  “Should I start another batch, hon?”

  PJ held up his hand.

  “No, thanks.”

  Setting the pot upside down on a towel, Beth began cleaning the coffee maker.

  “He was very mad. He ripped the camera right out of Ted’s hands and smashed it. He didn’t quite finish the job though.”

  “That’s for sure. So the rest of the photo is what Bill found in the basement?”

  “That’s right. We had just lost our appeal to the county board. We were getting our affairs in order, so to speak, when he found it. It was stuck in a pile of old bills and such. I guess a light bulb went on.”

  “Uh-huh. Did he tell you how he did it?”

  “Oh, he tried. I didn’t follow much of it, though. I was more worried about getting caught. Some sort of hocus pocus with chemicals and double exposures. I do know that he ruined his father’s negative.” Halting in her work, Beth looked at PJ, her face drawn. “That was so hard for him, PJ. He felt worse about that than anything. Ted was so proud of that picture. Bill made dozens of prints beforehand. We—I have them at home in our safe.”

  “That would be hard. But I’d say it was worth it. It really paid off for you guys.”

  “It really did. You know what they wanted to build here?”

  “A disco bar.”

  “A disco bar. Honestly. Can you imagine?”

  “No. That was a horrible idea.”

  Beth shook her head and soaked a dish rag under the faucet. She checked her watch and began to wipe down the counter. PJ drank his coffee.

  “I still can’t believe we got away with it. They really wanted this place, PJ. The county brought in a couple of historians to look at it, to see if it was authentic. One of them was some sort of Dillinger expert. I’ve never heard of such a thing, have you?”

  PJ shook his head.

  “Anyway, there he was, looking at it with a magnifying glass. Just about gave me a heart attack.”

  “I’ll bet. Must have felt great when it was over.”

  “It did. And you know what? Not an ounce of guilt since.”

  “Well, I’m sure Jim would have done the same thing. I mean, come on. A disco bar?”

  Beth smiled. A pedestrian passed the window, glancing inside. He looked above the door and kept walking. PJ finished his coffee as Beth wrung the dish rag in the sink and hung it on the faucet.

  “He was really something, PJ.”

  PJ stood and pulled a five from his wallet. He set it on the counter and waved off the change.

  “Well, I’m honored to know the both of you. You are the envy of the unfulfilled worker.” PJ returned to the corner booth and collected his paper as Beth removed her apron. “Lot of that going around, it seems.”

  Beth walked around the counter and followed him to the door.

  “Maybe it’ll happen to you too.”

  PJ stepped outside to the sound of tires on wet pavement and the smell of a city fresh from the wash.

  “Maybe,” he said, looking to the sky. “Turned into a beautiful evening. You knocking off early?”

  “As soon as I chase the riff-raff out of my place,” she said. PJ rolled his eyes as he waved goodbye. “Good luck with the new job, PJ. And say hi to your father for me.”

  “Tell him yourself next Saturday. It’s been a year already.”

  Beth waved and shut the door, locking it as PJ merged onto the sidewalk. He walked the three blocks to his apartment with a precautionary limp, the pain in his ankle all but gone. As he neared his building, his pace quickened to a jog, an ad hoc test of strength motivated by a bladder full of coffee. He climbed the three flights of stairs with relative ease and hastily worked the deadbolt, driven by Butch’s garbled voice on his answering machine inside. His keys swinging in the lock, PJ picked up the receiver a moment too late.

  “Crap.”

  He hung up and played the message as he retrieved his keys.

  “Hey partner. It’s Friday night about eight o’clock. I wanted to run something by you, but I’ll try you again later. Mysterious, I know. Sort of a business proposition. If I don’t talk to you tonight, have fun this weekend.”

  PJ shut the door and dropped his keys on the table, pointing at the phone as he walked to the bathroom.

  “Be right back.”

  He parted with two cups of used coffee and washed his hands. On his way to the kitchen, he called his father back, searching the freezer as Butch’s end rang. The machine picked up.

  “Hey dad, I just missed you. Pretty quick on your feet, old timer. I’m home now. I still have to pack, so I’ll be home the rest of the night. Talk to you soon.”

  He slid a frozen pizza into the oven and took a beer from the fridge.

  In the bedroom, he collected his camping gear, staging it on the bed in a sprawling heap. He took the flattened, partial roll of duct tape from his back pocket and tossed it on the pile, smiling and shaking his head.

  “Weirdo.”

  With the beer bottle clenched in his teeth, he managed to move all of his gear out of the bedroom in one trip, sliding sideways through the door and dropping everything in the front hall. The oven timer sounded.

  Leaving his pizza on the counter to cool, he stepped onto the balcony, collapsing in the lawn chair against the side wall. His feet propped on the railing, he nursed his beer, watching the city decompress from another work week. A narrow swath through the streets of downtown gave on a limited view of the lake, already coal black and framed on the near and far shore by artificial light. The moon had lifted off the horizon, its orange glow rippling on the water. PJ went back inside to call his father again. As he reclaimed his seat on the balcony, the machine picked up.

  Come on, get off the computer.

  PJ was in mid-swallow at the beep, and he lowered the bottle to his lap, choking and nearly spraying the phone with beer.

  “Pick up the phone,” he croaked. “I know you’re there.”

  He watched the moon, pulling from his beer, waiting.

  “Look outside.” Setting the bottle on the armrest, PJ checked his watch. “Out the front.”

  The line was silent.

  “All right. Guess you’re not there. I thought we could catch that full moon we missed. Skies are pretty clear down here, but I wasn’t sure about up in your neck of the woods. Next month, I guess. As far as your business proposition goes…I’m in. Anything to keep Monday from coming. So I’m gonna eat something and then I’m out. Hope things are good. Call you when I get back.”

  A lone cloud drifted across the moon, obscuring it with a dim corona. PJ went inside.

/>   ***

  The phone rang, echoing in PJ’s shuttered apartment. Evening shadows flickered across the walls, mixing with the orange glow of sunset. Another day and night would pass before PJ’s transition into the ranks of the gainfully employed.

  The typical Sunday routine was set to play out: Staggering in under his gear, he would drop it just inside the door, his arms exhausted from two days of paddling, the rest of him from merciless heat and sun. The obligatory shower would follow, peeling away layers of sand and sweat.

  His outgoing message played.

  “Hey, this is Paul. I’m on the river this weekend, so leave a message and I’ll call you when I get back. If I decide to come back.”

  He would collapse on the couch for a well-earned nap, a comfortable position elusive among the mosquito bites and sunburn. Replaying the weekend in his head, he would drift off, already planning the next.

  “Yes, hello Mr. Marshall. My name is Steve Porter. I’m a detective with the Vilas County Sheriff’s department. It’s seven-thirty on Saturday evening, the tenth. I’m calling in regards to Butch Marshall, whom I believe is your father. My cell number is 715-555-0976. If you could call me as soon as you get this, I would appreciate it. Please call me at any time. Thank you, Mr. Marshall.”

  A flash of red awaited PJ’s return.

  chapter six

  Hackett

  The garage was nearly deserted, but Hackett pulled into his regular space—well short of the lobby door. He sat in his car, staring across the lot at Ward’s late model Mercedes, its finish sparkling under a flood of mercury vapor. Glancing at the clock on the dash, he unzipped his pack and removed the broken CD cases, tossing them on the passenger floor as a film of sweat formed on his brow.

  “Nice going, dumb ass.”

  He lifted the bag and gave it a shake to settle its contents, exposing the tire iron underneath. Zipping the pack, he tucked the tire iron under his seat, grunting as he worked it up between the cushion and upholstery. There was a knock on his window.

  Hackett rose with a jerk, scraping his palm across the end of an exposed bolt. A uniformed security officer, ducking to look in the passenger side, motioned for Hackett to roll down the glass. Hackett lowered the window, softly cursing as he clenched his injured hand into a fist. The officer laid his hands on the door, framing himself in the open window.