And, not often, but sometimes, a band of arctic cold sweeps south along the Canadian Rockies. It covers Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana; with smidgens left over for the Dakotas. Where warm clouds meet cold, snow forms; then ice. It’s a time of unrest and fear as things happen that should not. Wind chooses a tree in the densest forest, wraps around the top, gives a little twist, and over she goes, though logic and physics say the tree stood protected.
Wind rages on the Canal as dreadful things appear. Waterlogged sternboards of wrecks sweep to the surface, Tinker Bell, Seattle, Junebug, Port Townsend, Plastic Lady, San Francisco, Joseph and Mary, Portland; the stern boards still holding small chips of color; white or green or blue on dead timber.
Sometimes bones wash ashore, bones we hope are those of animals. And sometimes, in the fury of surf, in rain or ice, on water or land, hideous things appear; sometimes unseen, but always unexplained because they should not be there.
Unexplained, and at the time unseen: at a fairy-tale house a man shakes with palsy. His face reddens as if from stroke, then bleaches fish belly white. He tries to form words, makes only protesting moans and goes dumb. His hands cover his ears as though he could trap consciousness. Sugar Bear claws at the last remnant of awareness. Then his face goes blank, nearly lifeless, inert, eyes dull, lips slobbering only a little.
Nor does one see a gray-haired woman, torn by grief, turn to fury as trees shed branches that rattle to the forest floor. The woman sobs and calls forth rain while wiping slobber.
And equally unexplained, a thing rises from the dunk site, redhaired, permed, skinny, but jaunty as it strolls the road, hitches a ride south with a discouraged pooler, and simpers only a little.
And, if no one sees, then maybe it is rain, or maybe the promise of ice; but probably it is the wind that scares everybody, even fishermen, or maybe especially them. Plus, if a guy only sits and watches, the scare-level rises quick.
At Beer and Bait the fisherman watched as the towtruck kid ran the table three times; then get whipped because his partner could not, as the saying goes, bop a bull in the butt with a bass fiddle. The guy was so bad he had to be a ringer, or else so good he could shoot just awful and make it look natural. Either way, it was a heist.
The kid’s pride kept him silent. He did his work, stepped aside, watched his chances slide down to subterranea, then gave an easy smile and ordered a bottle-a-pop. When he looked at his partner he did not sneer. He even smiled somewhat natural. Then he walked to stand beside the fisherman.
“You did that well,” the fisherman told him. The fisherman looked toward the Canal as sun faded behind clouds of darkest gray and the surface of the Canal turned sullen. “We could use a few more like you.”
The kid stood silent, but the kid just glowed.
Tension in the joint crept skyward as butterflies, having aught to do but sip, made low and cutting comments beneath tight smiles. They watched their pet rich guys show off in attempts to impress Beer and Bait ladies, and the rich guys mentally cavorted. The fisherman watched the butterflies sharpen their claws (unusual in a butterfly) while they figured how much they could charge for rich-guy indiscretions. He felt almost sorry for rich guys, then told himself, naw, nope, uh, uh.
“There’s gonna be a bust,” the fisherman told the kid. “It’s a question of do we get busted before, or after the fight.”
“The jail ain’t big enough,” the kid whispered. “They can’t bust everybody.” The kid watched the guy who was too scrawny to be a cop, but who had to be a plant. The guy disappeared through the doorway, stepping into wind that drove everybody else inside. “It’s about to come down,” the kid said, “but it’ll be a wash. I ain’t done nothin’.”
“We’re in for a big hand of weather,” the fisherman mentioned. “You may want to get out ahead of it.” Wind had shifted and now blew from the east.
The kid grinned. “And miss the fights? It’s not like I was never in jail before.” Then he sounded worried. “If this kicks loose, get behind the bar.” He said it casual so it wouldn’t sound insulting. A good kid. Protective.
Sudden wind popped hard against Beer and Bait. The building did not tremble, exactly, but the gust caused tingles in a fisherman-style subconscious. The fisherman looked toward the Canal.
A crab boat ran a little too close to shore as whitecaps rose. The crabber put his helm to port and clawed into the wind and toward the channel. Odds on getting blown ashore seemed perfect.
Another gust hit. The gust held spatters of rain. Water ran on the windows of Beer and Bait, little streams flattened by wind as noon sky turned to gloaming. The fisherman told himself it was time to be elsewhere. Actually, past time. He watched the crab boat struggle and felt helpless. There wasn’t squat anyone could do.
A pause. Silence. The click of pool balls stopped, and murmurs from the crowd drizzled away. The fisherman’s ears proclaimed another mess even before he turned.
A small shriek rose, then faltered as figures appeared in the doorway. Unrest moved across the crowd in waves. A large sigh came from Bertha, and gasps from rich guys combined with fluttering from butterflies. The guys at the pool tables tried to play it cool, and all three guys shanked their shots.
In the doorway Petey stood bemused. Petey carried no cue case, wore no ball cap, thus presented no poolish threat. He took his time surveying the whole room, rich guys, butterflies, loggers, truckers and fishers, bartenders and other enthusiasts, plus hustlers. He watched benevolently, as if he owned each-’n-every one. He continued to watch as two smashingly gorgeous hookers stood on each side of him. The ladies were dressed most splendid. They looked over the crowd with experienced eyes, smiled in the general direction of rich guys, then headed for the ladies’ can to fluff hair, repair makeup, and all that other girl stuff.
Bertha began to step forward. Petey looked her away. He loomed like a colossus, although technically Petey isn’t tall enough to play the part. His dark hair glowed like a close-cropped halo in twinkly barlight, and his bald spot shone with rain. He stood like a championship wrestler at rest. Petey did not even look as the hookers disappeared into the ladies’ can, although every other regular in the joint watched enchanted; except the fisherman who made mental notes… in case he ever had to write stuff down.
a. Beer and Bait regulars in shock, and most scared spitless. A ghost appeared among them. Some pale, some shaking, some gulping beer like it was medicine… at the same time Beer and Bait regulars watch gorgeous hookers: male regulars wistful/lustful, female regulars competitive/steamed.
b. Butterflies unimpressed by Petey who they didn’t know, but terribly impressed by hookers. Butterflies sensing classy competition because their fifty-going-on-thirty-five was not as magical as twenty-five-going-on-twenty-six.
c. Bertha looking hopeful. Bertha looking jealous. Bertha looking ticked. Bertha with soft light in eyes, silly, mooshy, schoolgirl.
d. Other hustlers impressed. A bare nod from one, a tap of pool cue on top of shoe by another, while a third pinches nose and grins slowly, slowly. Hustlers recognizing a major hustle and approving.
e. Bartenders taken out of their game. Bartenders wondering whatever in the cotton-pickin’ universe is going on.
f. Tow truck kid not impressed but mightily amused.
g. Secretary business-like, checking player lists to see if anything amiss.
h. Daylight rapidly fading above dark water.
i. Rich guys recognizing hookers. Rich guys owning memories of cavorting with hookers at China Bay. Rich guys looking like they’d just been shot.