“If a car has dunked,” the logger said, “that makes number eight or nine. I’m losing count.”
The disturbance near the door increased as people searched for places at tables, and got as far away from that end of the bar as they could without looking too guilty. They scattered like a flock of sparrows before a cat, but what stepped through the doorway was no kitty.
A state cop, who had to know he was where he wasn’t wanted, took a seat near the door. Bertha reacted; shocked, then angry, then ready for a scrap. She quietly reviewed her own transgressions. None of them seemed serious enough to warrant a state cop. She looked over the house, saw customers shrinking into shadows, and a few obscene gestures waving toward the cop’s back. This, the best crowd of the summer, was about to be chased home, or up to Rough and Randy, by a cop who obviously had not been raised to know his place.
Think of it as a dance, even while being surprised about who is dancing. Into Beer and Bait walks a thirsty man in a cop suit. The poor fellow can’t have a beer because of the suit, but he’s almost dry as the forest. He perches near the doorway, looks around, and orders lemonade from a visionary bartender—and the cop has enough experience to guess where those visions come from. This cop knows that every mother’s son and daughter in that bar is guilty of something, because all of us doubtless are; but the cop doesn’t know what, and doesn’t give a flush. When he wants is to drink and be left alone. Which doesn’t work. The dance begins, because the cop sees Bertha and things start happening like it’s daytime television.
The cop sees a lady who, if she wished, could shake out a six-by-nine carpet like it was a ragrug. Bertha tops six feet, has blond hair with sexy streaks, and a figure that causes despair among the average run of housewives. Bertha’s Norwegian blue eyes are smiley above a full and smiley mouth (most days). She has artistic hands. Bertha, in other words, is a knockout when a man is sober, and the stuff of mooshy dreams when a man is not.
And what did our second dancer, Bertha, see?
The cop, were he not a cop, was himself not indistinct. The cop bulked big as Sugar Bear, but without Sugar Bear’s easy ways. This cop had been up and down a few roads. He turned a little too far east on his barstool, and looked into the mirror in back of the bar. This cop, Bertha admitted, would be mighty attractive as a TV repairman, or a garage door installer. He might do as a farmer, a house painter, or a dentist. As a cop, though, he amounted to just one more pretty-boy. He watched her with that sideways, indifferent look guys use when they pretend they aren’t interested. Man or woman, there wasn’t a good looking bartender in all of history who had not picked up on that look; maybe even that wiseass at China Bay.
This cop looked filled with fantasies of moonlight, but Bertha could see he should not even think of women, at least not now. He looked tired to the point of exhaustion, hot, miserable, ready to tell the state to take its cop-job, and its traffic, and its political pizazz, and shove it all in a sunless place. Bertha also knew if the guy got a good night’s sleep, and woke in time for an extra cup of coffee, he’d be right back on top of matters. He’d put in another day. If Bertha knew anything at all, it was certain she knew workingmen. Meanwhile, matters in Bear and Bait grew tippy.
“We got a cop,” the logger muttered to himself, “and I got a hot chainsaw in back of the pickup.” He looked at Petey. “Your dog gonna allow this?” Jubal Jim was nowhere seen.
“This ain’t strictly a dog type of problem.” Petey looked toward the cop. “He wants somebody, but I ain’t done nothing. Lately.” Petey checked himself for violations. He wore his going-to-town clothes, stripedy shirt, narrow pants—you can hardly get good sharkskin anymore—and a baseball cap reading “Alaska Tours and Travel.” He cued and missed an easy shot. The logger saw an opening and seemed somewhat cheered.
Sugar Bear sat unmoving. His shoulders slumped. He seemed fatalistic, resigned. He obviously did not even think of running, or hiding, or digging foxholes.
Chantrell gave a little moan. His eyes widened, the way eyes do in animated cartoons. A fine tremble developed in his hands. Bertha did her best to steady him.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she whispered. “It ain’t got a thing to do with you… or does it? Do we need an alibi?”
Chantrell plucked aimless as a dying man at the front of his shirt. A necklace of illegal stuff might be soaking up sweat beneath that shirt. Chantrell looked guilty enough to hang, to have precise hallucinations when it came to jail.
Bertha glanced toward the cop, listened to whispers and the click of pool balls at her back, and Bertha gave a little giggle, then felt calm. The cop was still checking her out. Her giggle was not enough to get rid of her anger, but enough to keep her from doing something idiotic.
“He don’t care a thing about you,” she told Chantrell. “Act normal as you can. All he knows is you’re a health violation.”
She turned from Chantrell and looked over the crowd. People would drift away if the cop did not leave. For one horrible second Bertha imagined a gloomy and empty bar, the windows beaten by a dry wind, and no one to cast away the gloom. She imagined Sugar Bear sitting alone in the center of gloom while carnival music danced from the tape deck and across an empty dance floor. Bertha shuddered, turned back to the bar. The cop had knocked back his first lemonade. Now he motioned to Chantrell for another. Matters were getting serious.
She paused, thinking if the joint emptied she could get Petey to stay. They could have the privacy they needed… then Bertha told herself she must be nuts. She was not going to drive away the best crowd of the summer just so Petey could practice some line he learned from a movie. Nesting instinct or not, business was business. She changed the tape deck, discarding pop music in favor of guitars and country boys.
She stepped behind the bar, trying to look official but not too tough. If the cop did a number on himself it would be dumb to break the spell. Every eye in the house was on her. It was like being on stage.
“Missing children?” she asked the cop. Up close this cop was more interesting. From a distance she had not seen little crow’s feet around his eyes, or beginning wrinkles on his forehead. His mouth didn’t really seem cop-like, being a little on the smiley side; crinkles in the right places. He looked like he should be a forest ranger, or a fifth grade teacher… something to do with wildlife.
“Tough afternoon,” the cop said, then went into a sort of explanation, and his explanation was mostly a crock. Bertha watched him check out her ring finger. She began to feel a teensy bit warm.
“You got a nice place.”
“Plain folks,” Bertha said. “Just hard working folks.” She leaned forward, like this was intimate, and whispered, “Folks will feel more comfy when you ditch the suit.”
The cop was only mildly dense. He picked up on what he figured was an invitation, while Bertha silently wondered if she should cuss herself.
“Got to get moving,” the cop said. “I’ve done a hand of work in my day.”
“Just plain honest folks,” Bertha said, and watched the cop “show off” as he stood in the doorway with his back to the crowd. When the cop walked toward his car, Bertha went to the door and watched. He climbed in, tired as a winded horse; an outcast driven from among his own kind, but, Bertha mused, the damn fool brought it on himself. No one asked him to be a cop.
Nobody asked her to extend an invitation, either. She announced that the cop was gone, then returned to her seat. The three pool tables began clicking. Murmurs started to liven as Bertha turned up the hick music. She told herself to take a couple minutes and figure things out.