The Hauntings of Hood Canal

Bertha Troubled

Night blew into the northwest, wind backing and shifting as it rose from the ocean. Sleepy sailors stood watch on bows and bridges of tankers, tugs, destroyers, container ships and cutters. Sailors wore foul weather gear and thought of storms birthing out of Russia, the Aleutians, and Japan.

Along beaches tiny filaments of sand flew like mist above sturdier grains, and thin moonlight pressed through blown mist. Wind walked from beach to land, blew into cities as cops cruised three AM streets, and street people huddled beneath freeway overpasses.

And wind wrapped around joints. It tumbled butts and crud from the paved parking lot of China Bay. It nagged at cedar shakes roofing Beer and Bait. It salted Rough and Randy with needles of fir. At the housing project yachts rocked against fenders, and wind, as if it held dour opinions, blew on past and headed for Montana.

In the joints a few things happened. At Rough and Randy two rats nibbled spilled potato chips beneath a red nightlight. At China Bay an aura of luminescence appeared above the bar, maybe reflection from the moon, maybe.

At Beer and Bait, Bertha sat, sleepy, but in charge of an empty bar, that come ten AM would fill with poolish hopefuls. Bertha did not quite know what she felt, or why. She was tired from stocking and icing beer, storing nuts and chips and microwave sandwiches, pickled eggs and sausages to serve a mob of poolers snacking their ways hour to hour.

She ought to sleep but her mind raced with fears and problems. Talk along the road claimed the cop was dead, or if not dead, dying, or if not dying so wrecked he’d never work again. A lot of talk was bull, but Bertha knew Canal stories and this was serious.

Bull said other things. Cops were gonna rampage. Joints would be closed… but Bertha figured herself an expert on Canal stories and discounted all that.

In dim light from beer signs, this tall, well-formed woman, almost scandalously beautiful, not a little troubled, and only mildly mercenary, wanted a man; and had just lost what might have been a good one… but that was not the point.

Bertha wondered how guilty she was, and did she actually have anything to do with this? She had led the cop on and then run him off. Bertha experienced a dark night of the soul, the kind once talked about by an old-timey saint who saw dark nights as opportunities for learning something.

But, people having dark nights generally don’t think of opportunity, plus they can’t sleep. Beyond the windows wind whacked trees, blowing at twenty knots. Thin moonlight lay on the water. Across the shaft of light a hump moved, slower than usual, like an underwater limp.

She mourned the cop. She might’ve said something, or done something that would have kept bad stuff away, but she did not know what. Bertha, who was older than Annie, but not as old as the fisherman, had business experience. She did not have much experience of other kinds. This was her first brush with losing somebody who meant something, or might’ve meant something; a real person hurt and gone.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Petey’s hustle did not include her, because Petey would’ve said something by now. A ‘course, Petey was still playing at being dead.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, her arrangement with rich guy had her fearful. He put up prize money, she hosted the tournament and he supplied help, a secretary for himself, a couple of kid bartenders for Bertha. He paid the secretary. Bertha paid the bartenders. Plus, she was overstocked, heavily, with enough stuff to run the joint for two months and enough cash to pay for half of it.

The whole day had been confused. At opening time rich guy showed up with a secretary and two kid bartenders. The kids were quick, funny, and smart enough not to play games at the cash register. She stored stuff, then mostly sat and watched.

The secretary registered a long, long string of poolers, collecting ten bucks a pop. Guys signed up in teams, or if they had no team were assigned partners. The secretary restricted time on each pool table to fifteen minutes because poolers needed to learn the tables. Guys stood watching other guys, estimated the roll, the possible tilt, saw where one cushion was a little low which might cause the ball to hop. They ran fingertips across the mouths of pockets, feeling for ridges or declivities that might louse up a gentle shot. On this day before tournament, poolers drank beer like it was nourishment. When the tournament started beer sales would drop.

Rich guy stayed in the background. When player lists were posted Bertha spotted part of the setup. Each rich guy was teamed with a known hustler, which meant, of course, that the winner was already decided.

Bertha did the math because she had to. She figured the rich guys invested ten thou, were taking back three from sign-ups, and would split the ten thou prize with the hustlers. That totaled an eight thousand buck take-back for rich guys. If that was the case, there remained a two thousand dollar investment that was not covered; but the hustler-factor was present. Likely, most likely, rich guys figured to split side bets with hustlers, which ought to mean a small profit. Otherwise, the only thing that made sense was revenge; but was revenge worth two thousand bucks?

In subdued light from a couple beer signs Bertha did not know whether to mourn or fear, but knew both needed doing. When the pool lists came out, the name, Petey Mulholland, was nowhere seen. It wasn’t normal, it was fearful, actually… the all time champ hustler of the entire northwest, with a ten grand pot… and Bertha needed him like never before. Love had something to do with it, but not a helluva lot. In the dimness of Beer and Bait, Bertha tried to persuade herself that rich guy was not running his own hustle. She was not succeeding.

Petey would know. Maybe Petey did know. If Petey did know, Petey would maybe save her… or maybe Petey wouldn’t. She felt such fears, even as Jubal Jim lay snoozing but protective at her feet.

Beyond the windows where wind moved tips of branches, moonlight cast a streak across water; and clouds blew past, sometimes making the streak go dark. Along the streak the hump patrolled, like it sought moonlight, or at least, light. It moved across the mile long width of the Canal, back and forth, like a prisoner pacing a jail cell, or a caged animal; except the movement was so slow. To Bertha it seemed the entire weary world was going sour. Things had been pretty good until that monster showed up. She told herself, “Slow down. Get a grip. You’re scared and blaming anything that comes along.”

She watched the hump move along the path of light. It meant something, probably, but it might mean nothing to her. Or maybe, like her, it mourned the cop, or, like her, felt guilty.

Or maybe it was a wakeup call telling her to keep close watch. Because, truth to tell, while she knew she was a good pool shot, she had fooled herself She understood that pool was one thing, hustling quite another; and she was a failed hustler.