“That’s the way it goes,” the bicycle explained. “A guy gets blamed for everything when bad stuff happens. Then he does something big, and crooks rush in to claim the credit.”
“It’s the way it goes,” Chantrell agreed. “A guy don’t hardly know what to do.”
“Get high,” the bicycle kindly advised. “That’s always worked before.”
Chantrell’s summer progressed with visits to the hiding places of mushrooms, with a little pick-up work at Beer and Bait, and with helping Sugar Bear by selling off his scrap metal. On two occasions Chantrell, who, out of a keen sense of self preservation never poaches items locally, chanced on tourist cars containing orphan goods; radios, cameras, golf clubs. Adoptions took place. He peddled the adoptees to guys at Rough and Randy. Summer spread its wealth around him, and life was splendid.
Then August arrived. Tourists became testy and unreliable. Traffic backed up. The forest dried. The world turned dreary as nighttime music at Beer and Bait. Without many funds, it became harder and harder to score a decent high. Then a cop showed up at Beer and Bait, and life was hell.
“It all changes because of rain,” he told his bicycle, as he hid it among trees. “This day is gonna work.”
“Luck always turns,” the bicycle assured him. “You got to ride out a bad streak, and you really got to ride a good one.” The bicycle did not explain what it meant.
Chantrell hesitated before walking in the forest. As rain penetrated the thick cover of leaves and needles, he could see glimpses of the road. Traffic was not backing up, not yet. Something went on, though. Chantrell peered through brush.
It looked like more bad driving. The back end of a car showed itself, with the trunk lid sprung and the hood buried beneath water. Chantrell could not remember where he had seen the car, but knew he had.
A couple of cop cars parked alongside the road, plus an unmarked car, plus three cops. One of the cops looked familiar, and Chantrell shivered. It was the cop who drank lemonade at Beer and Bait. The three cops wore rain slickers and hats. They looked discouraged, like guys who came to work, found that overnight somebody trashed their job; like guys who have to do a cleanup before they can even get back to work. Rain pounded. Nobody was going to hook that car out until the rain shunted off a little. Nobody could even move the crane.
Chantrell moaned. Across the fecund field of his inner vision danced a chorus line of policemen holding giant mushrooms before them like balloons of bubble dancers. The police danced on the dark waters of the Canal, and as their feet hit, little splashes flicked forward wetting the tip of Chantrell’s nose. The nose grew and became two noses, one smiling, and one with teeth…
“Not here,” the bicycle advised. “Strictly speaking, you ain’t high and there ain’t no evidence. Get a grip.”
“You got it,” Chantrell moaned. “Uh-huh. It figures. Yep. On the other hand…” He forced himself to pay attention, vaguely aware of rain pounding on the forest. He watched the cops.
The tallest cop looked kind of stoned, or his mind was somewhere else. He got in the unmarked car. He just sat there, maybe listening to cop radio, or maybe just cussing and wishing he could bust somebody.
As Chantrell faded into the forest, the cop started the car, turned it around, and headed back in the direction of Beer and Bait.
Petey Plays Cupid
Those happy folk who have never owned a bar may feel surprised to learn that reliable and honest bartenders are harder to find than a cat’s bellybutton. Reliable bartenders are one of the world’s diminishing resources, a valuable commodity, and Bertha would hire one in an instant if she could afford it. As it is, Bertha opens early, stays late, and exhibits the Norwegian’s ability to work herself to death. Bertha needs a man to help, and no one on the Canal would deny that, especially Bertha.
Most mornings at Beer and Bait remain quiet. The joint opens at eleven. This early in the day the parking lot usually holds a couple of cars or pickups, guys taking a break for coffee, or sport fisherman after frozen herring. On most mornings Bertha has plenty of time to sweep floors, brush down pool tables, and restock coolers. On some mornings, though, routine shatters; a water heater busts, or half of the house cues need new tips, or a cop drags in out of the rain.
When Petey pulled onto the waterlogged parking lot at Beer and Bait, a cold chill grabbed the back of his neck, while hot fury entered his heart. The cop was back. The cop that checked out Bertha, and who Petey knew was going to run a scam on Bertha, was, right now, inside making all kind of important noises. Petey could feel it happening.
He sat in his old Plymouth and looked over the parking lot. An unmarked cop car sat beside a red wrecker, all lights and hook, but towing a flat bed trailer. The kid who hauled wrecks was also inside. If the kid showed up it meant a car had dunked. By now, maybe two or three had dunked.
A deep sigh came from the back seat. Jubal Jim lay snugged up, his nose propped on an armrest. His wet fur placed a comforting but doggy smell in the steamy car. As rain pounded on puddles in the parking lot, and danced on the hood of the Plymouth, Petey felt grateful for the tow truck kid. The kid had a sense of humor. He would help keep the cop humble.
Sitting beside the cop car and the wrecker, two local cars showed a guy who owned a grocery, and a guy who sold insurance were inside tanking up on coffee. Petey cussed, and tried to decide whether to go in, or turn around and go home. He told himself he needed a cop like he needed his head drilled for more nostrils.
Then he told himself he’d better go in. Bertha was smart, but Bertha did not have much experience with cops. In Petey’s world experience counted. A slick cop could run the best hustle in the world if that cop wanted to talk you out of something. A slick cop would tell you somebody else’s life story, pretending the story was his own. He’d seem like such a good guy that innocent people confessed to stuff so they could also sound like good guys.
Still, Petey sat. Rain turned the Canal into a surface every bit as pebbled as sharkskin, and gray light lay over the water so close it was hard to tell where air ended and water began. He told himself that, if he went in there with hatred in his heart and fury in his gut, something real, real wrong would happen. He sat listening to rain, to Jubal Jim’s light snoring, and the sound of a truck engine somewhere behind him. Petey reached for the calmness of the hustler, the patience a guy needs to drop a half dozen games while waiting for the right opening.
A knock sounded on the window of the passenger side, the door opened, and Sugar Bear edged into the car. Sugar Bear’s hair hung matted and straight. He wore ratty old rain gear, and he dripped.
“Feel free,” Petey said. “The seat covers are plastic.”
“Makes a guy feel better.” Sugar Bear’s voice sounded hoarse as the flu. He looked at the unmarked car. “I mean the rain, not mister cop.” Then he sort of giggled as Jubal Jim sat up, looked around, and licked Sugar Bear behind the ear.
“If I was you,” Petey told him, “I’d bail out of here and take a vacation. If you need a beer get one at China Bay. Even with all that hair you got a guilty look.”
“This dog ain’t made for serious conversation.” Sugar Bear reached back over his shoulder to rub Jubal Jim’s ears. “I’m feeling scary. That guy’s car washed ashore.”
“For hellssake…” Petey drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “Lay off,” he said to Jubal Jim, but said it quiet. Jubal Jim stretched, yawned, lay down and once more began to snooze. Rain pounded puddles. “When did this happen?”