The Hauntings of Hood Canal

Busted Hustles

From the Japanese Current, sometimes, a warm front seeps north as clouds command satellite pictures on TV. The screen goes gray, like old-time black and white, as clouds churn slow cyclonic motion. When that happens we get abundant rain, and those who love the forest fear the very soul of wind. Our Pacific Northwest is so wet that trees do not grow massive root systems. When soil turns liquid with rain, and wind arrives, giants crash across the forest, and into houses.

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.

“Bottle-a-pop,” Petey mentioned, “strawberry if you got it.”

A kid bartender practically tripped over himself fishing in the cooler. Petey strolled to a group of Beer and Bait regulars who trembled behind beer glasses. As he approached their table, which sat close to the fisherman, they stood, scrammed, and Petey rested. Mighty solid for a ghost. Sipped pop. Waited for hookers. Or maybe not. Waiting for something.

“Bust,” the tow truck kid whispered almost joyful, “and here I was, looking forward to the fights.” He flipped bull so easily anyone could tell he was brave. “First time I was ever glad to see a cop.” He looked toward Bertha. “She don’t need a tore-up joint.” Sudden cold entered the room ahead of the first cop. It was winter cold, like the backside of November, not October. The fisherman watched as the cop came through the doorway and stopped. The cop looked around, then took up position beside the door.

A blast of winter wind hit windows and another handful of rain flattened then blew away. Every fisherman in the joint turned from the cop to watch the Canal, and every fisherman knew that winter had just announced the end of fishing season.

A second cop entered and took position on the other side of the door. No one would be allowed to leave.

Local cops. Not too bright. Leg breakers in uniform. Noises came from the front porch where the stamping of feet told of a convocation of cops. The fisherman wondered if the tow truck kid was wrong. Maybe they could bust everybody.

“Gimmie a beer,” the kid whispered to a bartender. “Not a can. A bottle.”

“Don’t,” the fisherman whispered. “We’ve been set up, but don’t. Something more is gonna happen.”

A smarmy little guy, the guy who was a plant, slipped through the doorway slick as snot on a doorknob. He looked over the heads of the crowd. “Mr. District Attorney.” he said. “Illegal gaming; and recess is over. Who runs this joint?”

Bertha stepped from the back of the room, and Bertha had glad lights in her eyes. Bertha had worried herself sick for a long, long, long time and finally had someone she could tussle. The fisherman watched with certain knowledge that the first time the punk touched Bertha the joint would explode. There weren’t enough cops in the world… and besides, there was Petey.

Petey rested. As Bertha got near the guy Petey yawned. He tapped the tabletop with his fingers, said, “I got a better idea.”

Bertha stopped. The smarmy guy turned his attention to Petey, and motioned to one of the cops. Petey watched the approaching cop, and Petey looked bored as a hundred sermons. He turned toward the rotund little rich guy who stood behind a pool table.

“What in sam hill were you and momma thinking?” he asked the rich guy. “You need a wolf pack and you hired puppies. Call ’em off.” Only someone who was totally bored, or else a total hustler, could sound that disinterested. To the approaching cop, he said, “See ya.”

The cop stopped. He looked at the smarmy guy. The smarmy guy shrugged, and looked at rich guy. Rich guy tried to look indifferent, but his face was flushed. He dropped his hands to his sides so no one could see them tremble. At the butterfly table the beetle-lady watched closely, but seemed tentative.

“Thanks anyhow,” rich guy said to the smarmy guy. “Go away.” He flushed even deeper as the hookers came from the ladies’ can. The girls chose a table at the far end of the room where two loggers sat solid as stumps. The loggers, who in their wildest dreams had never been around such classy babes, blushed and found extra chairs. The hookers sat in communicating distance with the butterflies, who they ignored.

The butterflies watched the hookers, were puzzled. Of course, the butterflies had never nuzzled nectar at China Bay.

The rich guys were looking everywhere in the joint except at the hookers. The rich guys pretended total innocence.

“There’s still a tournament,” Petey told the crowd. “Do it.”

Cueballs began to click. People who had been ready for a fight now had to get rid of adrenalin. The crowd grew noisy in spite of the tournament.

“Over here,” Petey said to Bertha, and his voice was affectionate. At the same time he was obviously in no mood to argue. He watched the two cops follow mister smarmy. They stepped outside.

A burst of rain swept against the windows like waves breaking over the cabin of a boat. In Beer and Bait, in what had been an overheated room on a sunny noontime, chill entered from windows made cold by rain. Gloom lowered so that only the white of breaking surf showed the Canal still existed. If the creature was out there it could not be seen.

Bertha took one look at the hookers, like there was gonna be hell-and-hallelujah happening, then decided to go along with Petey’s program. She came to the table. Sat.

“You too,” Petey said to rich guy.

Rich guy didn’t even hesitate. He only glanced at beetle-lady and pretended not to shudder. The rest of the rich guys cuddled up on the far side of the pool tables away from the hookers. Butterflies, still confused, took notes as another shovelful of rain flooded the windows.

In the rapidly cooling room rich guy had sweat on his brow. His tummy was the only normal thing about him, because fear and meanness caused his shoulders to tense. His face filled with anger. “You want something,” he said. “So what?”

“You can buy those girls off.” Petey kept detached and pretty quiet. “But, you can’t buy them off here and now. The minute one of your boys walks toward them they’ll cuddle up to him, and that starts a discussion group with the mommas.” Petey glanced toward the butterflies and rubbed his bald spot, maybe for luck. “How much will that many divorces cost? Gimmie a figure.”

Rich guy tried to set his anger aside. He was ready to deal. “You want something. What?”

“Ever since the Phoenicians invented money there’s been only one answer to that question.” Petey looked at Bertha. “I read that in book somewhere.” He still sounded detached, almost indifferent, but maybe a little bit amused.

“What?” Bertha is not used to mystery stuff. She is not used to being in the middle of conversations she doesn’t understand.

“I got a lever,” Petey told her. “We’re talking facts of life.” And, although he was talking facts of life, he couldn’t bring himself to discuss hookers.

“You got hustled,” he told Bertha. “That bust was a setup. This guy bought one of his pet gov-guys, and the gov-guy brought in cops. Cops would run people home. Tournament canceled. You were going to end up owing ten grand to the leader of the tournament at the time of the bust. Plus, you’d owe a big piece of the three grand registrations. You’d have to refund guys who hadn’t had a turn at the tables. This guy never intended to pay a prize. He was gonna bankrupt you.”

It was the absolute worst moment of Bertha’s life. Probably. She sat breathing shallow, turned pale, then began to turn red. The shame. To be suckered like that. The shame. She caught a deep breath. “Why?”

“He wants the joint,” Petey said. “This goes back a ways. You wouldn’t sell, and his boys could have upped their offer. But it’s a game to them. He was setting you up where you’d have to sell. He’s got big plans.” Petey looked toward the group of rich guys. “They got blown out on the tables once before. That was a heist. This guy used the purple momma to open this up, because you wouldn’t have bought in, otherwise. The other mommas didn’t know.” Petey watched the butterflies who were watching each other with lots of questions. He looked again at the rich guys. “After those boys got blown out the first time, anybody could figure they’d bring the mommas to the second joust. Because anyone could figure they’d show off with a fake win.” He looked at rich guy. “Big mistake.”

The fisherman, sitting nearby, told himself that rich guy had about seven and one-eighth seconds to make things right, because Bertha would pretty quick start to flame. The fisherman actually made a bet with himself and checked his watch. Then he noticed general movement toward the door. The outdoors guys, the fishermen and loggers and linemen, the men who understood weather, were bundling their ladies out and into the night… except it wasn’t night yet, it wasn’t even mid-afternoon.

“If you ever need a job,” rich guy told Petey, “look me up.” Rich guy, though totally ticked, could not control his admiration. “So what’s it gonna cost?”

“I’m gonna miss this joint.” Petey watched the rapidly thinning crowd, saw players bent over pool tables, saw butterflies perched on the bandstand and looking absolutely smashing from a distance. He saw a cluster of rich guys pretending to pay close attention to the pool tables. He saw hookers jiving a couple of uneasy loggers, and he saw hustlers packing up their cues; because hustlers may not know a lot about weather, but they know when a hustle is busted. “I been thinking,” Petey told Bertha. “There’s a nice joint for sale in Tacoma.”

Bertha looked the place over, looked at Petey with all kinds of personal questions, stuff that couldn’t be asked except in private. “Why?” She looked at her bar like a thing already lost, her voice puzzled and sad.

It turned into the greatest moment of Petey’s life. Probably. “It’s time to cash out,” he said gently. “I don’t mean to tell you what to do, and there’s stuff we’ve got to talk over.” He paused. “This running the road gets to a guy. Being dead is a pain, but it was a cover for the hustle. These guys bought hustlers, but they couldn’t buy me. I had to fix it where I wasn’t a threat.” He looked at rich guy, then back at Bertha. “He and his buddies own half the real estate for miles around. They own absolutely everything for three miles around you. They’re putting in another housing project, plus they’re buying the legislature. It’s a matter-a-time until the road gets widened, and that much road construction means tons and tons of money. More than we would ever need… “ he paused, blushed all the way from his hairline to his bald spot, because that “we” had slipped out. “…not worth the hassle,” he muttered. “Take the money and run.”

Bertha caught her breath, sharp, caught it again. That “we” had gotten to her. That “we,” right here in the middle of a pool tournament, in front of lots of people; that “we” had come out in public when it couldn’t be said in private. Bertha tried to remain normal. “How much?”

“More than enough. Enough for two joints, if needed.” Petey reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out papers. “You can argue duress,” he told rich guy, “but you’d have to do it in court which means it would be public.” Petey laid papers in front of rich guy. “Take your time. Talk to your boys. If you try to leave, the hookers will get affectionate.” Petey actually touched the back of Bertha’s hand. “Dirty pool,” he said, “but not as dirty as what they tried to pull.” To rich guy he said, “A lawyer wrote that up. The promissory note is for thirteen thou. The other is a binding offer.”

The guy looked it over. Whistled. “It’s steep,” he said calmly, “but do-able.” He looked at Bertha. “You want to sell?”

Bertha, who had already forgotten pool tournaments, bar worries, wrecks, troubled friends, and a dead or dying cop, nodded. Bertha planned a wedding and a move to Tacoma.

“I’ll be double-durn,” the tow truck kid said, “it’s the bust that turned into ice cream.” He touched the fisherman’s shoulder. “I’m outta here. You want a lift?”

The fisherman, who had nowhere to go, and who could not protect those he loved, looked at a joint now stripped of hustlers, outdoor guys, their ladies; stripped of just about everyone except butterflies and hookers and rich guys, plus a couple bartenders and, a ‘course Petey and Bertha who, it appeared, would soon be left alone.

“Sure,” he said to the kid. “You’re headed for Olympia. Let’s go there.”