Reed Coleman - Little Easter

I left her, but the chill followed. She had my attention and she knew it. I wasn’t about to call the cops until I did some checking of my own. She was right. Johnny was my friend, maybe the best I ever had. I told myself he had no part in this, that she was throwing his name out in desperation. But the knot in my guts called me a liar. Johnny was involved. I knew it. No, I felt it.

When I was almost back to the paved road, Kate Barnum called after me: “You know my number, Klein.” I kept walking. “Don’t forget how to dial it.”

The hike back to my car took a few minutes less than forever. My knees were sore and my head pounded in rhythm with my heart. My stomach was full of nothing. I needed to sit. I did, on the front fender of my old VW. That, like most other things I’d ever done, was a mistake. My added two hundred pounds forced the ancient bug’s tires deep into the driveway’s mud. Now, I thought, there were at least two things other than scavenged ships buried in the soil of Dugan’s Dump.

I needed a drink; a particular drink from a certain bartender.

The Rusty Scupper was busy for Christmas week. Beside the usual crowd, two incongruous Japanese men in pin strikes were furiously waving Scotch-full tumblers at selections on the jukebox and exclaiming over loudly at one another. You didn’t have to be an expert in languages of the Pacific rim to divine that one wanted to hear Little Richard and the other, Elvis. Until they resolved their dispute, we’d all hear nothing but them.

Stan Long, the gas station owner, gave me a vaguely drunken nod and went back to cleaning the grease that would never come out from under his nails. No one else turned cartwheels for me. No one ever did. I was hoping to get to the bar without MacClough’s recognition. Life would be more simple without hope. Before I’d taken my third step, Johnny was busy tapping a Black and Tan. My drink. A drink I never needed to order here.

My head was swimming. No, drowning. Mistrusting MacClough hadn’t really occurred to me before. It occurred to me now. I thought John Francis was a lot of things, but never a murderer. Maybe! Everyone has closets and old bones in them. Some skeletons take a long time to rattle. I guess some never do. I tried telling myself it was just a desperate seed Kate Barnum had planted and that it would never flower. But when you are trying to convince yourself, you’ve already lost.

“Hey,” Johnny slapped the stout and ale on the bar, “it’s the wandering Jew from Brighton Beach.”

I put my right palm in his and we shook them a few times.

“What’s wrong?” he wanted to know.

I took too big of a swallow and nearly spit it up through my nose onto the bar. “Nothing,” I coughed. “Are ya takin’ up palm readin’?”

“Not if they’re all as sweaty as yours. God!” MacClough rubbed his hands on his apron for emphasis.

“Sorry,” I took a more human gulp. “What are they doin’ here?” I pointed at the Japanese contingent in an attempt to change subjects.

“Don’t know,” the barman shrugged his shoulders, “maybe they wanna build a golf course in Dugan’s Dump.”

I managed to laugh. “Tutti Fruiti” was now blasting on the box. Little Richard had won. I turned to the Japanese to wink my approval, but they were too busy mouthing the words and playing air piano.

“So. .” the ex-cop paused, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. The Christmas blues, I guess.”

“You’re Jewish.”

“Exactly.” I put my empty glass up for another pour. “You ever get around to having that chat with the Suffolk cops?” I dropped the question in as skillfully as an armless man threading a needle.

Johnny gave me a killing glance: “In the city we were cops. Out here they’re overpaid meter maids with handguns.”

“Well?” I persisted.

“Well what?” he put down my refilled glass. “Yeah,” MacClough recalled the issue at hand almost wistfully, “it’s all talked out. What are you so interested for, anyway?”

“Hey,” I attacked in a whsiper. “I was the one who lied to the cops. I was the one who found the diamond heart.I was the one who found the body. Your fucking sweater was as close as you got to any of it.”

“Calm down,” he reached across the bar and smacked my cheek affectionately. “I surrender. You got plenty of right to be curious. To the Irish,” the ex-detective shouted over Little Richard, raising a Bushmill’s to the startled Japanese, “and those who wish they could be.”

The two little pinstriped men bowed slightly from the waist, poured a few fingers worth of amber off their own drinks and began arguing over the next jukebox number. Stan Long threw a greasy buck on the bar, muttered something about Guadalcanal and nodded his scornful adieus. Bob Street, from the Star Spangled Deli, replaced Stan at the bar.

“Tall Bud, please. What’s eating Stan?” Bob wanted to know.

As if choreographed, both MacClough and I threw pointing fingers at the jukebox and harmonized: “They’re building a golf course in Dugan’s Dump.”

John and I waited just long enough for the neon dollar signs to flash in Bob’s eyes before we started laughing. I slapped Bob’s back and MacClough roughed the deliman’s hair.

“The two jokers from Brooklyn.” Street finished the rest of his beer in silence with a scowl.

To make amends, I bought Bob another Bud. And in the name of global understanding, I sent a round over to the Nipponese duet by the Wurlitzer. They sent two rounds back. This sparked MacClough’s competitive nature and he bought everyone a shot on the house. Things quickly degenerated into an Olympic drinking event. Everybody would bring home the gold tonight, but we’d all be trading in our medals for aspirin in the morning.

Following a serious bout of bowing, back slapping, winking and hand pumping, I stood with Sato and Tadamichi. There was no golf course in their futures nor in ours. No, they’d just wanted to visit an old American whaling village before returning to their jobs as executives in the commercial fishing industry. Too bad Conrad Dugan wasn’t around to exploit their apparent fascination. After the introductions, we wound up bleating “Suspicious Minds” along with Elvis. God, we were awful, but it felt awfully good.

Kate Barnum’s ruse had been a desperate seed. After laughing with John Francis, I was sure of it. I felt it, or maybe that was simply the alcohol. I don’t know. Maybe in her shoes I would’ve tried the same stunt. I wasn’t anxious to find out any time soon. I was free of the witch’s curse and the world was a better place off my shoulders.

I said my “see ya laters” to Bob and Johnny and did some ceremonial partings with the fishermen in suits. I had to get home. I felt like writing. That lasted until I reached my car door. By then the only thing I felt like doing was throwing up. And not being into self-denial, I did exactly that.

I never did get around to writing that night nor did I find the words to report the dead sapling buried in the mud of Dugan’s Dump. I did, however, manage to have one hell of a hangover.

A week had come between the world and me and that hangover. I was ten pages into a short story about two Japanese businessmen and a small town’s reaction to their visit. I suppose I was trying to say something about stereotypes and judging books. . You know. But really, I was just having fun playing with words.

In Sound Hill, most of the talk had turned from the murdered woman and her pet canary to returned Christmas ties and already broken New Year’s resolutions. Even Kate Barnum had seemed to let it go. Her works in the Whaler focused mostly on pork barrel bills before the county legislature.