The Hauntings of Hood Canal

The Hustle Begins

The fisherman rode shank’s mare to Beer and Bait, walking slow and a little painful past backed up traffic and parked cop cars. Odd, how quickly a guy got used to being decrepit. Odd, how the mind still worked, but slower. The fisherman walked because traffic backed up to south-a-Cincinnati, and he didn’t feel like putting up with it.

Something big was gonna happen. When Annie returned from the forest accompanied by Jubal Jim, she remained curiously silent. A guy could tell, though, that a decision had been made. The fisherman thought maybe he ought to go back and talk her out of what she decided was gonna be. Then he thought, no, nope, uh-uh. She deserved to take her innings. It seemed like this deal ran on rails. A smart guy just had to stay off the tracks.

Except he had not stayed off the tracks. He had walked right up to that mess with the cop; and while the cop might have learned something… or maybe not… the fisherman only learned about his own obscurity.

Annie had to know that he had been sort of brave. Or, anyway, stupid in a brave sort of way. Annie had watched him closely, saw the way he slumped with age, and he saw sympathy in Annie’s eyes. It was like her. If she felt sorry for herself it didn’t show, yet she pitied him. To be the object of pity… that he couldn’t hardly bear to think about.

Annie had not looked at him with intimate thanks. She assumed he had defended Sugar Bear. It did not occur to her that he had tried to defend Annie.

Now he ached as he walked, and obscurity walked with him. If the whole rest of the world didn’t know about the costs of love he guessed he could bear it. He could put up with being one more blip on the radar screen, one more ball cap bobbing among the crowds, one more pair of trudging feet in the passing show. Being misunderstood by the one you loved meant that finally, when your part of the passing show had passed, oblivion was the desired and logical end.

And what was so all-fired great about thinking, anyway? Look what it did for Socrates.

The parking lot of Beer and Bait was so crowded with iron a guy had to squeeze between bumpers. Beer and Bait stood with its door wide open to catch swirls of wind now gusting to maybe twenty-five knots. The wind would make life bearable, because the crowd inside would bring the place to boiling.

On the front steps a bunch of guys sat drinking beer or pop as they bulled and soaked up sunlight. Wind wrapped around Beer and Bait. It caused cigarettes to burn a little faster, beards and hair to flatten; but these were workingmen, outdoors guys. They knew that when sun shines, take advantage. They looked like a group picture of nineteenth-century loggers, except the beer guys automatically concealed their beer in case of cops.

The tape deck in Beer and Bait sat silent. A low murmur sounded from inside where players tried to be polite while others jousted. Serious dough was at stake. Loud mouths would get shown the door.

As he rounded the corner of a van the fisherman saw the tow truck kid not fifty feet away. The kid sat in the cab of his pickup, doors open for the breeze, radio on but subdued. The kid sat lost in either thought or misery.

When the fisherman came near the kid looked glad. Then he looked shocked. The fisherman paused, tried to figure why, then remembered that he was older than usual.

“It’s a long story,” he told the kid. A realization came to him, crawling all over him, that life was shorter now. Life was gonna be brief. It came to him that if he was this much old, he ought to be a lot more smart. He told himself he ought to feel scared, but only felt dull, flat, toneless.

He watched fear in the kid’s eyes. “Stay away from the dunk site,” he said. “Have nothing more to do with this.”

“I heard bull about the cop.” The kid eased from his truck, and the kid was timid. “You part of that?”

As the fisherman told the story he watched the kid go stupid.

The kid was getting his back up. The kid was ready to fight. “Believe what you’re seeing,” the fisherman told him. “Stay out of it. You saw what’s out there. Now we know what it can do.”

From inside Beer and Bait came a pause in the murmur, then excitement, then voices that could not hold back as someone made a genius-type shot.

“I’m teamed with a loser.” The kid tried not to let his own misery get in the way of the fisherman’s misery. “Might as well start some crap, might as well take a swing at it…” He realized he was talking like a kid, and started over. “If there’s nothing we can do, how far are we supposed to run?”

“I got no answer,” the fisherman told him, and figured a change of subject was in order. “Teamed with a loser?”

“This team stuff is bull,” the kid said. “One on one is the way to go. Why the team stuff?”

The fisherman had not seen the player lists. He thought for a moment. “Because rich guys need help. They probably bought help, because they can’t haul their own freight.” He leaned against the truck. His weight pressed against the truck, like muscles were glad to take a break, like his body tried to figure out just how tired it was. “Don’t get in for more than ten bucks worth,” he told the kid. “The game is rigged.”

“I gotta understand this.” The kid’s mouth tightened. Flesh lay smooth across his face and arms, but firm, like he’d suddenly shed his baby fat. “There’s not only teams. There’s a sneaky guy in there, checking the action… looks like Deputy Dawg.” He reached behind the truck seat and pulled out his cue. The cue case was getting worn. A new cue case would make a better hustle because it would yell “amateur.” It would suck other players into bland assumptions.

“I’ll watch that show,” the fisherman said, “but I wouldn’t touch it. Somebody’s gonna hurt, and hurt bad.”

“I got a reputation needs defending,” the kid confessed. “A guy can’t duck that kinda thing.”

“You don’t see Petey. If this was legit you’d see Petey. Take it from Petey. It’s time to walk away.”

The kid looked insulted, then he looked afraid, like he stood in the presence of a crazy person. “Petey’s gone. Petey’s drowned.” The kid pointed to the Canal.

“I forgot. You don’t know about that. Petey’s not dead. It’s a hustle.” As the fisherman explained, the kid’s eyes grew wider. Then he grew pale. Then he realized that he’d been brought in on a secret that almost nobody knew. He looked proud.

“I got some stuff to learn,” the kid said. “Or maybe I don’t want to learn it. Who would have ever thought…”

The fisherman looked across the tops of cars, looked at guys loafing on the steps of Beer and Bait, looked at tree tops beginning to sway as wind blew stronger up high. He figured Annie was weaving weather. He wondered idly if it was time to head for high ground. Then he stopped being idle and thought of escape routes. “Nice truck,” he said to the kid.

“To tell the truth,” the kid told him, “it’s a pain in the keister.” The kid also looked around, at high-priced iron, at junkers, at working trucks. “It’s for sale,” he said about the Dodge. “I got my old rig out of impound. I’m rebuilding it. I really liked that little outfit.” Then the kid became shy. “Seems like I’m figuring something out. What do you reckon?”

“There’s all kinds of hustles,” the fisherman suggested. “Maybe you’ve hustled yourself.”

“Probably,” the kid admitted. “Seems like I’ve been doing that since about first grade.” He rattled his cue case, looked toward Beer and Bait. “So it’s rigged. So they teamed me wrong on purpose.” The kid looked toward the Canal where little wavelets danced before the wind. “I ought to be steamed, so how come I ain’t?” Then he answered his own question. “In a little while I’ll walk in there, shoot a hot stick, and lose. Guys will say it means something, and I’m gonna grin like it don’t mean nothin’, because it don’t.”

The fisherman privately told himself that miracles happen. This was a smart kid. In the middle of all this badness, something good. “There’s no such thing as an honest hustle,” the fisherman suggested. “Seems like you just made a choice.”

“Seems like.” The kid turned toward Beer and Bait. “You want to watch the show?”

The fisherman looked toward swaying treetops. He thought of his boat. It was doubled up on lines long enough to handle a rise in tide. He reminded himself he had no place to go, and no way to protect who he loved. “It’s gonna be illuminating,” he muttered. “Why not?”

The crowd inside Beer and Bait seemed nearly civilized. A few loggers even used words of up to two syllables. Hustlers kept their yaps shut as cueballs clicked, and as the aromas of fresh beer, and stale beer belches swirled through cigar smoke.

Rich guys in pastel golfing togs played to a gallery of butterflies. The butterflies, gorgeous from a distance, perched at tables arranged on the bandstand. They could see over heads of a crowd seated around small tables on the dance floor. The butterflies chatted and sipped nectar. They colored the joint with tones most gorgeous; pink and mauve, orange and money-flavor, buttercup yellow, aqua-teal, and purple.

A young guy at the bar took one look at the fisherman and offered his barstool. The guy looked happy, like he’d already lost the tournament and was free to enjoy the rest of the day. A nice guy.

The fisherman felt insulted and ready to fight. Then he remembered how he looked. Not many guys were polite to old men. He said his thanks, took a place at the bar, and had a great view.

Through windows so clean you couldn’t see them, the fisherman saw moderate chop rising on the Canal. To the east, and headed seaward, a crab boat glowed yellow and blue in sunlight as it traced a silver wake. Toward the middle of the Canal the creature moved ever so slow, like a wreck adrift. Waves were not yet breaking, but chop caused white furrows between crests. The fisherman shuddered. His storm gear, boots ‘n all, were parked in the cabin of his boat. He figured that mister sun would last another fifteen minutes before dirty weather hit.

A low murmur came from the crowd as a logger made a miracle type shot, then ran the table. The game of nine ball, it should be noted, moves quick. It’s possible to drop three or four games without getting a shot. The game asks for plenty of positioning, combinations, and not a few banks. The excited murmur came mostly from the crowd of Beer and Bait regulars, not from the butterflies who were otherwise occupied. Stinky stuff has a way of happening.

Because, arranged around the large room, poolers and wives and girlfriends sat at tables and sipped beer or pop. The women; secretaries, sales clerks, waitresses with rough hands, dressed in blue jeans and logging shirts, or ready-to-wear skirts and blouses. Hair was nicely brushed, tied back, or with bangs, or shoulder length and swingy. Bottoms were narrow or broad, legs slim or chunky, shirtfronts abundant; but mostly, the ladies broadcast vitality; were alive. The Beer and Bait ladies watched the butterflies, and the ladies were hostile.

The butterflies, with beetle-lady acting as choir director, pretended to pay no attention; but a two hundred dollar scarf might be dropped accidentally, or a diamond ring large enough to choke a snake might be twisted into plain view as a butterfly leaned forward, chin on delicately curved wrist.

Tension grew as rich guys watched the Beer and Bait ladies while pretending otherwise. Rich guys gave sideways glances that checked out nicely turned legs, or low cut blouses. The Beer and Bait ladies, in a less-than-loving attempt to communicate with butterflies, showed a little extra leg. Silent messages passed back and forth, and the messages were not kind.

The hustlers stayed out of it. Loners. Never sitting. Never congregating. They remained practically invisible except when shooting. The Beer and Bait players, though, watched rich guys checking out the Beer and Bait ladies. The Beer and Bait players started to get their backs up, a condition not advisable if a guy wants to win at pool.

The trouble being… a ‘course, that it probably wasn’t even a hustle, since rich guys are traditionally known to be horny…

The fisherman watched the two kid bartenders. The kids picked up on the tension and asserted control. They were like a pair of twins, except one had curly dark hair, and one had straight blond; both with white shirts, bow ties, goldy-brass rings in their ears, and hands so deft they could make change whilst wiping bar, drawing beer; and all the time flipping bartender-type bull that tells each-’n-all just who controls the joint.

Mostly the bartenders flipped it at the Beer and Bait guys, because those were the guys who suffered. This early in the game guys were getting shed like mange. Wizardry romped as cueballs backed the length of the table, and as three ball combinations became so common as to go unnoted. The level of play ran so high that ordinary players rose to the occasion, got hot, stayed hot, and lasted three or four games. Other guys who were very, very good, discovered that very-very-good was not good enough. Each time a team found itself eliminated, the players shifted from pop to beer, mutters, and excuses.

Meanwhile, the rich guy’s secretary kept everything straight. She dressed to look plain, wore big eyeglasses to keep butterflies from jealousy, and spoke nicely, but with authority. She took no crapola from anybody, rich guys and bartenders included. The fisherman watched her, thought her the prettiest woman in the joint, and certainly the smartest. Then, thinking about women who were pretty, he searched the crowd for Bertha.

She stood in a far corner and looked onto the Canal. Bertha should be joyous at so many customers. Instead, she slumped. Bertha pretended to look at rising waves, but was actually standing in a place where she could watch a weasel type gent who drifted through the crowd. The guy was too scrawny to be a cop, but a stench of copness dwelt about him; something too observant, something official, something slightly smarty. He dressed in work pants and chambray shirt, both new. He wore pointy shoes. A real wrong guy.

The fisherman told himself that there would be cops. The scrawny gent kept close to where guys were side-betting, even made a few bets himself. Money passed back and forth, and pretty openly. A lot of money.

The guy was a plant for cops. A bust was gonna happen, it was gonna. The fisherman watched Bertha, then watched the hustlers. Hustlers were not stupid. They paid no attention to the guy. It figured then, that the hustlers knew about the bust. And Bertha was not stupid, but looked scared and helpless. Seeing her that way was a new experience for the fisherman. He wondered if it was new for Bertha.