The Hauntings of Hood Canal

Petey Deceased

On the morning after, a Saturday, and before news of Petey arrived, worlds looked a tad off kilter. A new Cadillac sat in the parking lot of Beer and Bait and a chubby rich guy spoke with Bertha. He was gone before opening time. Guys slurped coffee at Beer and Bait, talked in low voices, and watched Bertha. She moved quiet but happy, well, happier; well, not gloomy. Jubal Jim lay beneath warm waves from the heater. Nobody, nowhere, relaxes like a snoozing hound.

Gray light in the windows showed October rain pattering the Canal. Beer and Bait glowed slightly pink because of a couple beer signs. As midmorning marched toward noon the cop showed up looking grim.

His cop suit held spatters of mud, and he looked ready to bust everybody in the bar: a fisherman, two loggers, a masonry guy, a port-a-pot guy, and a used car salesman riding unemployment. The men crouched like scared kittens.

Something was up. Somebody was gonna swing. The fisherman kept his big yap shut. He watched developments while remaining one of the throng. He watched Bertha move along the bar with the grace of a young girl. At the same time she looked sorta practical. Her greeting was friendly but nothing special, because she greeted truck drivers the same way. Bertha’s hair no longer piled and braided. It swung long and full, softening a face that had been solemn for far too long.

The cop seemed puzzled because Bertha’s greeting was not as warm as expected. She treated him like he was temporary, a guy just passing through. Later, in the wake of grimness and misery, the fisherman would think that the cop had already looked lost.

The cop turned from puzzled to solemn. He had to figure Petey meant something to Bertha. He spoke so low only Bertha heard. She leaned across the bar as he told about Petey. He whispered, but words “car” “Canal” “missing” were like echoes along the bar. Bertha’s face lost happiness, lost all expression, and then showed sudden sorrow; the kind that breaks hearts just watching it. The fisherman sipped coffee and experienced total admiration. The cop also looked stricken. Jealous, actually. He checked out everybody in the house, like he memorized faces. He turned back to Bertha, whispered, and received a sad smile that pretended to be a bright smile; the whole thing fake. The cop seemed confused, then sorta ticked off. He tapped the bar a couple of times, brushed a little spot of mud on his sleeve, turned toward the doorway. He paused, like he was about to deliver a parting shot, then shrugged and went out to his car. He must have stood beside it and watched the Canal for a minute or two; maybe cussing. The door of the cop car finally slammed, but the engine did not start for a couple minutes. The cop must have sat there wondering.

Bertha turned toward the bar and delivered the next-to-greatest-moment of her life. Probably. She sniffed, wiped moist eyes, squared shoulders; she turned to the backbar, touching things, like she tried to convince herself the world was still real. She did not face the bar when she told about Petey, but her face reflected in the bar mirror. Guys saw enormous grief, did not know what to say, and sat abashed. The fisherman sat absolutely stunned with admiration, because, while he could not always spot a hustle, he spotted this one.

He told himself to get away from the bar because he was about to get droll. He told himself to stay away from sober, serious guys, because he might bust out laughing. Maybe, he thought, he ought to go see Sugar Bear. Maybe he ought to ride on down to China Bay.

He eased off his barstool whilst feeling slick as a dose of cod liver oil. He gave a sad little wave to Bertha and managed to keep from tossing in a wink.

He left wondering how Bertha could get through the day with a straight face. Only the greatest kind of actress could pull it off. And, only a born hustler would recognize that Petey pulled a hustle. Of course, Bertha had advance information.

Bertha had to have known, the night before, that a hustle was underway. When Jubal Jim showed up the game began. Jubal Jim arrived relaxed and happy. No hound, nowhere, and especially Jubal Jim, would snooze at peace if someone valuable was dead. Ergo, Petey was alive. Ergo, Petey hustled. Hounds knew about this kind of stuff.

The fisherman told himself that Irish wakes were gonna come of this, despite nobody was Irish. Memorials would come of this. Plus, this was genesis of Canal stories that would make recent history look like pale pink pudding. The fisherman vowed to give himself twenty-four hours before making any moves. There was always work that needed doing on the boat.

Canal stories began right away. From Rough and Randy, all the way south to China Bay, guys sat at bars and remembered classic games of pool. No man among them had not been cleaned and pressed by Petey, sometimes scorched. Men told stories in which they were almost-heroes, except where they had to admit Petey outgunned them. Canal stories started by being sentimental. Somebody even wrote in the men’s can at Beer and Bait, “Petey the Pooler, I miss you slugger”; that was the only truly sloppy thing that happened.

As hours passed, Petey became a legendary hero who had been snuffed by a power crazed cop. Petey grew in stature, so guys who showed-off at pool tables bragged to strangers that they had known Petey, had actually teamed with him many-a-time. They remembered Petey’s forceful presence and stature: seven foot tall, blond hair, cool blue eyes with a steely look, and a dimple on his chin.

The stories turned complicated when the tow truck kid pulled Petey’s drowned Plymouth past Beer and Bait without stopping. The kid was delicate enough to wait for suds and bull until he got to China Bay. Word spread from China Bay saying there wasn’t a scratch on that Plymouth, or at least no scratches not put on by Petey. Then the story turned sad.

The story claimed cops pulled a fancy pool cue from beneath the seat. When they opened the trunk out came a cloud of blue; water swirling bluey-blue where a stash of cue chalk melted. Except for a spare tire, and a cue-tip repair kit, the trunk lay empty. In the glove box Petey had stashed a flashlight, a clutter of papers, road maps, and a worn baseball cap reading “Kennel Club of Cambridge.”

That was when the story took on weight. The story claimed Petey was not dead at all, but was at rest in a marble tomb hidden far back in the mountains. On some future day when people along the Canal needed a champion, Petey would rise from the fog and mist of valleys. He would slay all transgressors; senators and cops. A new social order would rise. Downtrodden masses would gain a place in the sun, and the meek would prosper. This story started at China Bay where an amused bartender proved, once for all, that you can sell anything if the price is too dear and the pitch is sincere.

As Saturday morning worked toward afternoon, then into evening, and finally into night, situations occurred. The first situation spelled “cops.”

Guys were stopped for weaving, stopped for not weaving, stopped for 46-in-a-45 zone, stopped for holding up traffic doin’ 34-in-a-35 zone, stopped for dirty tail lights, stopped for windshield wiper checks, stopped for the hell of it.

And, when guys were stopped, guys were hassled. “Where have you been? Where haven’t you been? Is this woman your wife? Why not? Have you ever heard of missing persons? Are you one?…” Guys wore themselves out trying to remember every smidgen of hassle. The cops wanted something or somebody, or else cops were steamed. Guys walked through doorways of joints, talking to themselves. Nobody could figure what was wrong, and almost everybody stayed away from Beer and Bait.

And, all Saturday night, when he should have been home in bed, the Beer and Bait cop seemed connected to the hassle. He stayed in the background, quiet, parked not far from Bertha’s joint, like he waited for something to happen that he knew was gonna hap­pen. Bull claimed the cop went from polite to palooka because he lost his prime suspect, what with Petey underwater laughing his dead self silly. It was a bitter little story, and no one told it in front of Bertha.

Another story surfaced on Sunday afternoon when Bertha announced that Beer and Bait would close for twenty-four hours as a memorial. Starting Monday. The story claimed Bertha was crushed, was gonna sell Beer and Bait, and move to some crazed place like, maybe, Peoria.

Bertha did not say that a service was planned. It would take place at Sugar Bear’s house. Only a few select folk would attend. Bertha did not say, because she was dubious and a little scared, that something else, something seriously-serious, was in the works. She had made a deal.

A rotund rich guy showed up at Beer and Bait. He screwed around the pool tables for a few games, and the little finger on his right hand looked sorta rigid as he held it away from his cue. He lost twenty or thirty bucks, then announced a pool tournament. A grand prize of ten thousand dollars was the stake, plus side bets a ‘course, and with an entry fee of only ten semoleons… a deal too good to pass up. Still, a bunch of bikers, plus loggers, plus mill guys, shuddered and felt scary.