The Hauntings of Hood Canal

The Cop and the Hustler

The fleet was in. A fisherman, wearing worn rain gear, opened the door. He brushed water before climbing into the Plymouth. This fisherman was either deep in thought, or else needed sleep. His hair looked a rat’s nest, his eyes swollen. He sat like a man who tries to stay on top of things after having spent one of those nights a guy tries to forget.

“You’re looking good,” Petey told him. “Who was she? Or is it truck problems?”

The fisherman looked injured. “My stuff always runs,” he told Petey. “Keep the oil changed regular. Tune ’em up.”

“You got no woman problem. You got no truck problem. You got no problem.” Petey, in spite of wanting to get into Beer and Bait, told himself this day looked sort of interesting.

“I been up all night thinking,” the fisherman said. “It keeps a guy occupied.” The fisherman looked across the lot. “Cops,” he said sadly. “They don’t have enough to do. It makes them nosy.” His voice became apologetic. “Maybe that’s not true. Maybe they just notice different things.”

“You been thinking,” Petey said. “Am I supposed to be surprised?”

“The dead guy’s car washed ashore.”

“I know about it,” Petey told him. “I talked to Sugar Bear.”

“Annie just went inside Beer and Bait,” the fisherman reflected. “Neither of you said anything to Annie. Right?”

“She already knew.”

The fisherman sat silent as a frozen fillet while studying. “Sugar Bear told her?”

“Nope.”

“We were not alone,” the fisherman murmured. “Likely, very likely, that’s the reason I felt someone was watching.”

“You’d better slow down,” Petey told him. “You’re talking to yourself.”

“Sugar Bear went to the beach. I followed. We saw the car, then came away. It felt like someone was watching. Then it turns out Annie already knows, so Annie had to have been watching. It don’t figure she was watching me.” The fisherman sighed, a man grieving, a man who had just seen the last bright tailfeather of hope fly over the horizon. “I guess she really is nuts about him,” the fisherman said, his voice sad, perplexed, a little hostile. “Of course, Sugar Bear’s a sweet guy, and Annie could do worse. “The fisherman drooped like a bucket of stale bait. “She could do a good bit better.” He said this in a whisper, but with conviction.

A beat up International pickup turned from the road and splashed across the parking lot. Rust mingled with pale blue paint, and orange marker buoys tangled among crab pots. The guy parked, got out, and hiked into Beer and Bait with the reluctant step of a drinker who knows he’s getting a too-early start on the day.

“There will never be a second American Revolution,” the fisherman mused, “until we have a beer shortage.”

“We got a cop,” Petey said. “I got to go inside.” He picked up his cue case, then reconsidered. “So Sugar Bear went to the beach. What’n hell was he doing on the beach?”

“The dead guy… I’m not happy with the way the world runs,” the fisherman said. “That dead guy causes as much trouble now as when he was breathing.” The fisherman looked toward the Canal, looked at rain, dropped his gaze to his hands. The hands showed long scars from hotly running lines, from hooks that know a life of their own; and the hands held calluses, thick and stubby nails, blunt from labor. “That dead guy shouldn’t have been let to put foot to ground, and especially not around here. We ain’t geared for this.”

“What’s the problem? The guy wasn’t worth a popcorn poot.”

“Only two guys don’t believe that,” the fisherman told him. “The guy who’s dead and the guy who killed him. We can say Sugar Bear did just right, and Sugar Bear did do just right, but how would we feel if it were us?”

“Not so hot, I’m guessing.” Petey turned the notion over in his mind. “Maybe I’m guessing wrong. I’d feel great!” He thought some more. “I see what you mean.”

“This is gonna end ugly,” the fisherman mourned. “I don’t know why bad guys always win.” He stretched, looked toward the Canal. “Of course, you can’t exactly say being dead is winning.”

“Annie wants a ride south,” Petey said. “Sugar Bear is holing up someplace near China Bay.”

“This is getting morbid,” the fisherman said. “I’ll be the guy who gets to deliver her to China Bay. It’s pre-frigging-destined. People act stage plays about stuff like this.”

He opened the car door and edged out to stand with bowed head in the rain. His lips moved, talking to himself, then did an ounce or two of cussing. “Let’s do it.” He walked toward Beer and Bait. Petey followed. Neither man was prepared for one more situation, but extra situations have a way of happening.

Inside, and back before Annie and Jubal Jim showed up, two small groups sat at opposite ends of the bar pretending to ignore each other. Two local business guys, plus the local drinker, sat at the end farthest the door. The cop and the tow truck kid sat at the end near the door. Bertha, flustered by the early action, and a little breathless because of the return of the cop, hovered behind the bar and midway between groups. The cop wore a rain slicker he unzipped but did not remove. The slicker hid his cop suit. Bertha wore Scandinavian stuff, skirt and blouse modest as church, and well pressed as a politician’s morals. Bertha actually looked kind of starchy. It seemed to impress the cop.

The kid fooled with a cup of coffee, had thoughts about the pool tables, decided to wait further developments. Not much seemed likely to happen for the kid until the crane got a car snaked out.

Bertha fussed with her hair. She told herself the cop was there to see her and that was good. All she usually got was a collection of stiffs. Then, with her luck, an interesting man finally came along, and the stiffs got in the way.

What everyone else in the bar saw was a tall blond woman and a tall blond cop, who, should anyone think about it further, could, with luck, get harmonic. They could do things that would increase the population. There are already more Norwegians in America than in Norway. This pair could keep the trend alive.

Then Annie and Jubal Jim stepped through the doorway, Jubal Jim in a state of happy relaxation, Annie in a tiz. Jubal Jim headed for a nap beneath a pool table. Annie headed for Bertha.

The tow truck kid, still young enough to be in that tempestuous stage of life, took one look at Annie and figured that if the good Lord had created anything better, the good Lord was keeping it for Himself. The kid blushed, squared his shoulders, breathed about three reams of bad song lyrics under his breath, and fell tonsils over toenails in love.

By the time Petey and the fisherman arrived, Annie stood leaning over the bar whispering to Bertha. Because it’s a wide bar, and because Annie leaned close, her bottom became an item of interest to six pairs of men’s eyes, while the cop’s eyes remained with Bertha. This early in the day only half of the beer signs were lighted. Twirly glow in the gray morning struggled to make a point that, under these conditions, the best that could be expected was an exercise in pastels.

Annie wore a greeny-bluey dress designed to evoke lust in men named Sugar Bear, but there was a certain amount of spillover. The tow truck kid saw other guys watching and became possessive. The business jocks and the drinker rubbed their noses, tugged at ear lobes, looked thoughtful, and sucked in their guts.

Annie, meanwhile, experienced throes of anxiety. She whispered to Bertha, bounced in a way she really didn’t mean, and completely ignored the guys.

“She needs a ride,” Bertha said to the bar in general. “Are any of you deadbeats driving south?”

“Me,” the fisherman mourned, and stepped up to the bar beside Annie.

“Me,” the tow truck kid said. “All the way to Texas if that’s what it takes.” Then the kid turned red. Ah, youth.

“Actually you’re not,” the cop said quietly to the kid. “What you’re actually going to do is load a wreck.” The cop’s voice sounded firm, but not unkind. He seemed about to chuckle.

The kid got redder, that being a correct response for youth when made a fool of in front of a girl.

“Are you my boss?” the kid said. “You’re not my boss.”

Attention shifted from Annie to the kid. It takes passion, or stupidity, or reckless abandonment of reason, to sass a cop. The kid tried to turn even redder, but was already red as his truck. He made movement to stand, then realized standing up might be pushing his luck. He wiggled on the barstool.

“Not exactly your boss,” the cop said, “but in a manner of speaking, yep. I’m a friend of your boss. Your boss is in the towing business. I got a couple of cars need towing.” This time he actually smiled. He held his hand up like he stopped a line of children at a crosswalk. He turned to the rest of the bar. “You should watch him with that towing gear,” he said about the kid. “I’ve never seen a man handle a tow truck any slicker, and I’ve seen a lot of tows.”

The kid sat before his coffee, gulped, but not the coffee. The cop had him cut-from-under. Somehow the cop made the kid into a big hero while the kid was making himself into a hind end. The kid’s face looked like it was going to turn inside out as he tried to figure what in the rainy world had happened.

“Thanks anyway,” Annie said to the kid. “I already got a ride.” She touched the fisherman’s hand. “Could we drop by my place for a couple minutes?”

“Sure,” he told Annie. He followed her toward the door, Annie still in a tiz, the fisherman slumping. “…talk about getting your hull scraped,” the fisherman murmured to himself, or possibly to the Fates.

“Eight-ball,” Petey said to the kid, and actually said it kind. Even Petey wondered, probably, why he tried to take the kid off the hook. As the kid walked to the table Petey whispered, “Don’t let it getcha down. She’s already spoken for.”

That just messed the kid up worse. Beyond the windows, while the kid tried to decide whether to fight or play pool, rain pounded on the Canal and water humped. Something out there moved slow, like it was tired, or lazy, or just waking up. The kid didn’t see it, the cop didn’t see it, and Petey had other things on his mind. The cop kept busy looking at Bertha.

Petey, who is copwise, understood that a pool game amounts to invisibility. No one pays attention to pool players, although sometimes people pay attention to the games. If Petey shot pool, and kept his hustle quiet, he could keep eye and ear on the cop without being noticed.

“Your boss is a pal of mine.” The kid mimicked the cop, but in a whisper. The kid tested the house cues. “Talk about police corruption…” He found a cue that suited. “Play for a buck,” he said under his breath. The kid knew Petey had him outclassed. The kid seemed suicidal. On the other hand, the kid had to redeem his manly self

Word passes fast up and down the Canal. On the evening of that same day, and while he was almost sober at China Bay, the fisherman heard a story about Petey. The story claimed the tow truck kid hustled a hustler. The kid rode in like the mythical hero Parsifal, slaying dragons with a cue stick that glowed with ancient charms, while mystery maidens scattered begonias at his feet… something like that.

At any rate, the story said, the kid hustled Petey for a young fortune. The kid, the story claimed, would use the money to start his own towing business. It was a good story, maybe a noble story, and possibly held Freudian symbols.

The fisherman had enough experience with Canal stories to know that somewhere in the bull lay a small seed of truth. By the time the story began to circulate with complete abandon, and grow, the fisherman had his own problems. Later, though, he wished he’d been around to see the show.

Because that morning, with rain pounding on the Canal and barlight glowing, the kid got on a roll. Petey paid attention to the cop, and not much attention to his game. His hustler’s calm slipped toward quiet agitation. He dropped a game, dropped another. The kid, with an attention span somewhat better than a tree squirrel’s, sensed an opportunity. The kid upped the ante. In the excitement of the chase the kid forgot trucks, beautiful women, and bossy cops. By the time the kid hustled Petey for a hundred bucks, the story started taking form. When that much money changes hands before noon, people talk.

All during the hustle the cop did his quiet best to impress Bertha. The cop exhibited charity, because he knew betting went on, and that took money away from the state gambling commission. The cop sipped coffee, ignored the pool game, and stayed friendly.

This cop was no social giant, but Bertha knew workingmen. If you want a workingman to spill don’t ask about his line of work. Ask about his current job. Before he gets done cussing, he’ll tell you about his line of work; and the time, when as a kid, his uncle took him fishing. He’ll tell about his big project—restoring a ’53 Pontiac, or redesigning his front porch. If he is the lower class of workingman, he’ll sink to the level of bankers, professors, and surgeons by suggesting he is good in the sack.

“You said a ‘couple of cars,’” Bertha wiped the bar in front of the cop, although the bar didn’t need it. Bertha often keeps control by acting official. That, together with modest clothes, stops most guys from messing up. She tried a sad smile and succeeded. “Nothing like this ever happened before. How many is it?”

“Nine. Maybe ten.” The cop looked toward the Canal where rain raised sheets of mist. “Another one just came ashore. It don’t look fresh. Plus, it looks like someone went in last night.” The cop sounded unhappy. “You’d think you’d get used to it. Some guys do. Other guys look for better work.” Then, realizing he was confidential and uncoplike, “We thought we had this job buttoned up. Then one washes in and another goes down.”

“People are starting to wonder,” Bertha said, and spoke the truth.

“Worst stretch of road in the state,” the cop told her. “Not a fast road. It’s technically not unusual. Except, it’s making a name for itself.”

“Folks are scared.” Bertha once more spoke the truth.

“So far it’s a problem for the state investigative unit,” the cop said. “Of course, the officer on the scene has some responsibility. More than that I’d hate to say.” He looked toward the Canal. “Some things you can’t know,” he said, and it seemed almost like he talked only to himself. “That night road is different… sometimes you can find out.” By now he definitely talked to himself, and Bertha waited in reluctant admiration. This cop was turning out to be a thoughtful guy; almost unheard of in a cop. Bertha felt warmth rising in her cheeks and elsewhere; this from a woman, who, if quizzed, would say that anyone who experienced racing hormones before eight PM was sicko.

“The coroner handles the hard part.” The cop looked at the rain. “You’d think it would stop. It never rains this heavy this long.”

No one, except Annie, believes Annie has a blessed thing to do with weather. Still, at the time Annie was preoccupied. She would not think to turn off the faucet. Of course, nobody believes Annie has anything to do with causing sun or rain.

“You must put in quite a few hours,” the cop said to Bertha. “Hard work.”

“It keeps a girl busy.” Bertha smiled what she hoped was a brave smile. She felt a little shiver, because Bertha can smell a lead-in a mile off.

“Your bartender comes on nights?”

Bertha told herself that this—this—this was just exactly what she deserved for not having decent help. The cop wanted to know if she was free, evenings. The cop wanted to take her to dinner, or a show. The cop looked serious.

Bertha, being poor at lying, and knowing it, decided to stick with the truth. “Know of anyone honest? I use pick-up help, or none.”

“I get around.” The cop sounded disappointed. “Could be I’ll run across somebody.”

“Do it quick,” Bertha said, then blushed. When a Norwegian blushes the room sort of lights up. Bertha had enough sense to look away, shy; and that is about as promiscuous as Norwegians get. “I’m grounded,” Bertha admitted. “It’s a pretty good business, though. The problem with running a bar is you sometimes put up with drunks.”

“That’s a common police complaint.” The cop chuckled. “I had one the other day who tried to trade a DWI for the name of a murderer.” The cop’s voice sounded not unkindly. “You hear all sorts of stories…” He was interrupted as a cueball hopped a rail, bounced high in the air, then hit the floor and rolled quite a ways. Jubal Jim gave a yip from beneath the pool table, and dashed to Petey for comfort. Petey stood, red as a tow truck, embarrassed down to his pool player socks. Hustlers do not hop pool balls… unless, a’course, they want to. The shame of it.

“That’ll be a buck,” Bertha said, her tone merciless. Hopped pool balls at Beer and Bait are costly. The buck goes in a tin can. When somebody makes the eight ball on the break, he gets what’s in the can.

Petey patted Jubal Jim, fished a dollar from his shirt pocket. He walked to the bar, still blushing. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” he whispered to the cop, but the whisper was so loud everyone in the bar took notes. For some reason, maybe the hopped cueball, Petey looked guilty enough to hang. He kept his eyes downcast. When he raised his head he looked shifty.

“There’s a problem on the road,” the cop told him. “Something has changed with the sight-distance, or the grade. The slide-rule boys can figure it.” The cop pretended Petey acted normal, but the cop obviously took notes. “There’s another problem.”

“Oh, yes sir.” Petey backed away, made a movement like he would return to the pool table, then thought better about turning his back on a cop. He stood, looking sort of hangdog. Bertha smacked the bar with a damp bar rag, and Bertha was disgusted.

“Something strange happens when cars hit the water, and that’s why people talk about murder.” The cop sounded real positive, which mean the felt confused as everyone else.

“I got it figured out about the cars,” the beer guy said from the other end of the bar. “The Navy’s got a sub fitted with grapples. The CIA forces stuff into the water so the Navy can practice grappling.” The guy gave a polite hiccup.

“You’d better have another,” Bertha advised. “You sound like a man who’s dangerous when he’s sober.”

“There’s something mechanical down there,” the cop admitted. “It must be like a clamp or a grapnel.” The cop smiled. “Does the CIA have that much imagination?” He stood, and motioned to the tow truck kid. “Rain or not, we’ve got to give it a try.” To the beer guy he said, “If you come up with something more let me know.” He checked Petey out, turned to Bertha and smiled, this time sort of shy.

“Don’t make yourself too scarce,” Bertha said, while wondering if she was nuts. She watched the cop leave, then turned to Petey, gave a little sniff and got busy restocking a beer case.

“In case I ever have to punch him,” Petey said apologetically, “I want a sucker punch. Right now he thinks he’s got me running.” Petey absent-mindedly set up a four ball combination and tapped it home.

“I believe it,” Bertha said. “Why wouldn’t I believe it?” Her voice held a small edge of contempt, and Bertha was not happy.

“You’re runnin’ behind on the work,” Petey said. “I’ll give you a hand.”

“I can take care of my own,” Bertha told him, and Bertha sounded colder than ice cubes.

A story circulated along the Canal. By the time the fisherman, who was practically sober, heard it while sitting at China Bay that same evening; the story said Petey not only lost a fortune, but Bertha kicked him out. The story also said some traitor tried to sell out Sugar Bear in exchange for a free pass on a charge of driving while under the influence. There’s always a slight germ of truth in every Canal story.