by Rick Reed
Jack said, “When I was in high school my dad used to take me and my brother on fishing trips up around this area. The stripper pits were stocked by the Department of Natural Resources, sometimes by the coal company to show what good public partners they were. We’d buy bait, and beer. We’d sit in a boat and fish most of the day. When we got hungry Dad would find a little roadhouse. Sometimes he’d let us have part of his beer. They never complained about underage boys eating in the roadhouses, or if they did, I guess Dad took care of it. It was the best food I’ve ever had.”
“Is that when you started drinking Scotch? In high school?” Liddell asked.
“That’s kind of insulting, Bigfoot. I’m Irish. When I was born I slapped the doctor and told the nurse to bring me a Guinness.”
Liddell chuckled. “I thought you pulled a gun on him and told him to put you down?”
“Yeah. That too,” Jack said.
They passed the access road to Dugger Lake and Shaunda slowed, turning onto a wide gravel road that paralleled the railroad tracks. They followed this a quarter mile until the tracks split, one set running southwest and the other staying with the road to the south. Both sides of the tracks were densely wooded. The trees were bare until mid April but grew so close together you couldn’t see far into the woods. They had passed no houses or structures of any kind.
Shaunda slowed again as they came to a clearing on their left where a two-story building sat smack-dab in the middle of it. She turned into the parking lot and stopped in front of the building.
Except for having a second floor, the building resembled a repurposed train station with brick and wood exterior, iron window frames and iron bars bolted across them. A wooden portico covered a wood plank step up porch complete with unpainted wooden benches and rockers evenly spaced across the front. An antique sign hung from the portico that read:
DUGGER STATION
Est. 1889
The front of the property was defined with heavy black railroad ties laid end to end forming a square. Inside this were pieces of mining machinery. In an enclosure near the front door sat a six-feet-by-three-feet wooden mining cart on a light gauge steel track. The cart was overfilled with chunks of coal. The mine cart was wood sided held together with iron bands. On the side of the cart facing visitors, burnt into the wood were the words:
Coal Miner Bar & Grill
Shaunda stepped up on the porch. “Come on in. She doesn’t bite.”
“Chief Lynch…” Jack began.
“Shaunda.”
“Okay, Shaunda. We don’t really have time to take a break. I thought we were going to find a place to stay and get back to work,” Jack said.
Shaunda held the door open. “Trust me. If you’re nice she might even feed you.”
Liddell patted his stomach. “I guess we could use a bite to eat.”
Jack and Liddell followed Shaunda through the front door. The inside continued the theme of an old railroad station. The tabletops were worn smooth as were the bench seats that may have been the original seating when it was a train station. The floor was solid hardwood, worn down by foot traffic. Antique gray steel dome lighting hung from the ceiling bathing the room in a warm glow. The walls were covered with wooden and steel framed train schedules and railway maps yellowed with age and tools of all varieties associated with rail crews and mining. In contrast with the mining and railway décor in half of the room were comfortable sofas and chairs lined against the walls in a U-shape facing a bank of wall mounted sixty inch television screens. Narrow counter tops ran along the walls on the other half of the room with padded barstools stowed underneath. Colorful blinds painted with depictions of steam engines and rail cars covered the windows from where the railroad tracks could be seen.
On the back side of the spacious room a polished mahogany bar sat in front of batwing doors that led to a good sized kitchen. A variety of beers were on tap and every kind of liquor filled the shelves mounted behind the bar.
“I could use a drink about now but we need a place to stay, Chief,” Jack said.
A voice coming from behind the bar said, “Passed all the health code inspections. You can eat off the floor but I highly recommend a plate. We have rooms upstairs.”
A woman straightened up behind the bar holding a dust rag and a can of Pledge. She was in her 30s, close to Jack’s height with thick copper colored hair worn in a weave tossed over one shoulder. She reminded Jack of a young Reba McEntire, but taller. There was merriment in her pale green eyes and a hint of a smile on her lips that faded when she saw Shaunda’s face. “What happened to you?”
“Had a little accident,” Shaunda said.
“That must’ve been one hell of a little one.” She obviously didn’t believe Shaunda’s explanation. She eyed Jack and Liddell. “You said these guys are FBI.”
Jack didn’t know whether to show his badge or order a Guinness. He preferred the latter but opted for the badge. She put the cleaning rag down and examined his credentials closely before handing it back and shaking their hands.
“I’m Rosie. Rosie Benton. The owner, operator and sole employee. Shaunda called and said you’re helping her with an investigation. How long are you planning on staying in town?”
“We’ll be here as long as it takes,” Jack said. “If you have two rooms that would be great.”
Rosie smiled. “Well, you’re in luck. Bill Gates and his wife just cancelled their reservation and I don’t expect Oprah until next week. Let’s go see the rooms. They’re nothing fancy but it beats sleeping at The Park Inn in Linton. I imagine you’re used to fancy hotels, what with being Federal Agents, but the closest four star hotel is in Terre Haute.”
Shaunda said, “You all go ahead. I’m going to wait for them.”
“Wait for who?” Jack asked.
“My daughter and her friend Patty are going to stay with Rosie until this is over,” Shaunda said. “Sergeant Ditterline is bringing them.”
Rosie said, “Follow me G-men.”
Jack smiled at her use of the old moniker for an FBI Agent. ‘G-man’ was underworld slang for anyone working for the government. It meant government man.
Rosie opened a door to the left of the bar marked ‘PRIVATE’ and started up a hardwood stairway. Something crunched under sole of Jack’s shoe. He picked it up. It was a tiny stone that resembled pumice.
“That’s a cinder,” Rosie said. “Damn things get in like sand from a beach. I’d have the parking lot paved but I don’t think it would help. The road here is full of cinders.”
The walls of the stairway were shiplap adorned with framed black-and-white photographs of mines and miners. The miners were young and old, mostly male with a smattering of females. In one picture the miners were bent over at the waist to fit in the claustrophobic shaft, shoveling coal into a rail cart like the one out front. In other pictures child miners in hard hats that were too big for their small heads held pickaxes over their shoulders. The pickaxes were as big as some of the kids. The hard hats were made of steel with carbide lanterns fixed on the brims. Some smiled for the camera, others seemed to stare hopelessly into the distance. He’d seen the same lost expression on prisoners.
The caption under each photograph gave the name of the mine and the year. One photograph was of the Dugger Mine (1873), another was the Sunflower Mine (1900) and the City Mine in Sullivan (1921). Some mining operations were without names or dates, just pictures of adults and children in heavy coveralls and web belts holding unnamable pieces of mining gear. In all of these they were underground with soot smeared faces and hands.
They reached the top of the stairs and turned down a hallway. On their right was a steel mesh door behind which led to an industrial lift. “Do you store supplies up here?” Jack asked.
“For years I had to lug it all up here with a dolly but I had the elevator put in when Shaunda moved back to Dugger. Pen stayed wit
h me for a while. The entrance to the lift is in the kitchen. It was originally a dumbwaiter. It’s big enough for one person but it does the job. Can’t hardly expect the girl to take the stairs. You know the kid’s in a wheelchair?”
Jack said he had heard. “How old is her daughter?”
“Penelope? She’s sixteen going on thirteen. Don’t get me wrong, the girl is smart as all get out, but she’s been sheltered. Shaunda homeschools her and I think the longest trip she’s been on was when they moved here from St. Louis. Shaunda dotes on that girl. I guess I do too.”
“Why doesn’t she go to Union High?”
“You’ll have to talk to Shaunda about that.”
Rosie paused in front of a sepia tone portrait of a middle aged gentleman wearing a suit, vest, and buttoned down white shirt with a stiff collar. “That’s Francis Dugger. He was fifty-two when that was taken. Francis and William Dugger and Neal Henry discovered coal here in 1879 and sunk the Dugger Coal Mine. Dugger was still a viable coal producing town until the 30s when the Depression hit. That’s when he when he started mining. William was seventeen. They both fought in the Civil War under Jefferson Davis.”
Jack was impressed. When he was thirteen he was still doing pushups after class as punishment for something he’d done. The nuns at St. Anthony Grade School were like ninja’s on a mission for God.
Rosie continued giving the tour as she led them down the hall. “This building was originally a stagecoach stop. Then it was part of Railway Station #3 for the Indiana railroad that ran between Bedford and Terre Haute and west into Illinois. When the demand for coal dropped off the railroad closed the station. The building and acreage were bought by a family who turned it into a bar and restaurant and rooms for rent. The rumor is that John Dillinger spent a night or two here.”
“Now the FBI are here,” Liddell quipped.
“You laugh, but during the prohibition era, a basement was dug out and a bootlegging operation was run out of here. That’s why the dumbwaiter was here. There were tunnels leading to the railroad tracks and a place in the woods where they’d keep a car. When I had the elevator installed the contractor found the basement. He said most of it had caved in and it wasn’t worth the cost of fixing.”
Liddell said, “You should try to see what’s down there. It could put you on the map. Lots of people would like to tour a real bootlegging operation.”
“Are you sure you’re FBI?” Rosie asked.
“I ask myself that question all the time,” Liddell answered.
The uneven boards squeaked underfoot as they walked down to the rooms. There were brass plaques on the doors to identify three of the rooms as Truman, Roosevelt and Hoover. The other rooms farther down weren’t marked.
Rosie said, “They’re named after the presidents that stayed in them. Each has its own bathroom. Plus, there’s another bathroom down the hall on the right. Central a/c and heat, mini-fridge, microwave, telephone and internet.” She opened the door to the Hoover room. The room was spacious with an antique four piece burl walnut bedroom suite. The flooring was highly polished hardwood plank. The bed was massive with a thick mattress. A framed photo of President Herbert Hoover shaking hands with a young couple sat on top of the dresser. A watercolor painting of Herbert Hoover hung on the wall above the headboard. An old Royal typewriter set atop a desk in front of one of the two windows that faced the parking lot. Another small frame depicted Hoover sitting in profile at the same desk contemplating something outside the window.”
“The original owners posed for that picture with Hoover,” Rosie said, proudly. “There was a box of old photos, papers, newspapers and books in the storage room when I was clearing it out for my bedroom. Hoover stayed in this very room. That’s the real typewriter he used. I found drafts of notes and some letters. Did you know Hoover was the president that made the Star-Spangled Banner the national anthem?”
“I did not know that,” Liddell said.
Jack remembered from history class at St. Anthony’s school that Hoover was also the president blamed for the Great Depression.
Rosie continued the historical tour. “Hoover was a mining engineer. He traveled the country searching for mineral deposits. My place here was one of his regular haunts according to rumor. This whole part of the state is rich in coal, iron ore, sulfur, fluorine, zinc and limestone. All the ingredients needed for steel production.”
“That’s very interesting, Mrs. Benton. We’ll take the rooms,” Jack said.
“I’ll let you fight it out over who gets what room but if you damage anything I’ll report you to the Secret Service,” Rosie said with a straight face. “Just kidding. I’ll put you in the president’s rooms. Would you like to see the Roosevelt Room?”
“Not necessary,” Jack said. He was anxious to get back to work.
“What’s down the hall?” Liddell asked.
“The one on the right is mine. The other was Shaunda and Pen’s room. I don’t rent those out unless I get a handicapped guest—which is about never.”
“Did someone famous stay in your room?” Liddell asked.
She laughed. “Rats and mice maybe. It was a storage room until I remodeled. The historic tour ends here.”
“Mrs. Benton, we really don’t want to be an inconvenience,” Jack said.
“Really. Mrs. Benton again? I’m younger than you are. Call me Rosie.”
“Okay, Rosie it is,” Jack said.
“You can call me Liddell,” Liddell said.
Jack said, “You can call me Supreme Commander. My cell phone does.”
Rosie clapped her hands gleefully together. “Wow! A FBI agent and a stand-up comedian. I’ll call you Jack unless we’re in public and then Supreme Commander it is. You’ll bring some life back into the place. I have to warn you the bar gets a little noisy sometimes, mostly just during football season. Lately we’ve been kind of empty.”
She squeezed Liddell’s bicep. “You played football.”
“Louisiana State University Tigers. Half back. I knew I wasn’t going to go pro. I graduated and went to the Sheriff Department. Plus, I wanted to keep my brains intact.”
“Do you ever regret giving it up?” Rosie asked.
“Nah. I’ve got Marcie and baby Jane. Plus, I get to work with this guy.”
Rosie asked Jack, “How about you? Quarterback?”
Jack said, “I never had time. I was always in detention.”
Rosie laughed and they walked back to the stairway.
It wasn’t exactly the Ritz Carlton, but the room was what Jack’s wife, Katie, would call cozy or quaint or historical and would comment on the ambiance. Jack was more practical. It was a room, it was convenient, and it had the advantage of keeping them near the scene of two of the cases they were investigating. “How much?” he asked.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Rosie said. Sunlight coming through a window glimmered in her copper colored hair. “You catch the guy that killed Troy and we’ll call it even. Plus, I’ll throw in meals. Breakfast is whenever, lunch is on your own, and dinner is at five. I normally serve pizza, pizza, and pizza, but I’ve got a full kitchen down there. It’ll be nice to cook for someone again. As you can see I’m kind of out in the sticks. I don’t get steady business.”
“The Federal Government is footing the bill, Rosie,” Jack said. “I don’t think we can put zero dollars down on our lodging expense sheet. Your normal rates are okay, and we’ll probably eat out.”
“In that case I’ll charge you double what I charge my other guests.” She told Jack what the room rate was and even doubled it was a fair price. He agreed and she said, “It’s about time I got something from the government besides an IRS audit. At least have breakfast with me.”
Liddell agreed wholeheartedly. With lodging sorted, the three of them went downstairs where Shaunda sat at a table with two young ladies, one of them in a wheelchair.<
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“Aunt Rosie,” the girl in the wheelchair said, excitedly rolling over to Rosie. She gave Rosie a tight hug around the waist. The other girl merely nodded.
“Hello Tootsie Roll,” Rosie said.
Penelope’s smile widened into a huge grin. “My name’s not Tootsie Roll.”
“You’ll always be my Tootsie Roll,” Rosie said.
Penelope Lynch gave an exasperated grunt and said to Jack and Liddell, “Hi, I’m Pen. That’s short for Penelope.” She shook hands with Jack and then Liddell and then with appropriate awe, said, “You guys are the FBI.”
“That’s right,” Jack said. “We’re helping your mom.”
“I’ve never met a G-man before.”
Liddell asked, “Do you even know what a G-man is?”
“Sure. I watch all the old detective shows on television. FBI Files is one of my favorite shows. John Dillinger, Bonnie and Clyde, Machine Gun Kelly, Pretty Boy Floyd, Ma Barker’s Boys. You must live a real exciting life.”
Jack said, “We’re old, but not that old. I’m Jack and this is Liddell.”
“If I call you Jack and Liddell you call me Pen. Not Tootsie or Tootsie Roll.”
“Okay, Pen. Who’s your friend?” Jack asked.
“That’s Patty.”
Patty cut her eyes toward them and then toward the floor.
“She’s kind of shy,” Pen whispered.
“Are you two old enough to be in a bar?” Jack asked with a serious face.
“I’m going on seventeen. I’ve been in here a bunch of times.” Pen put a hand to her mouth. “Rosie won’t be in trouble, will she?”
“I guess not. Just this once.”
Rosie pushed Pen back to the table and sat.
Shaunda came over and asked the men, “Have you got kids?”
“Bigfoot just had a daughter. I’ve got one on the way,” Jack said.
“Pen’s my life,” Shaunda said. “You know what she said when she saw my bruises?”
“Tell me.”
“She said, ‘That’s a good look on you, Mom. The eye shadow is perfect.’”