Matt Lennox - The Carpenter

— Oh, said Lee. Okay.

They played halfway through a game. They were not bad but Lee was better. He was down to the last two stripes and the eight ball and there were still four solids on the table. The two townies finished their jug of beer and the man with the Clark name tag went over to the bar to get another.

— I seen you talking to Miss Helen at the cafe, said the sharp-featured man.

— Is that a problem?

— No. Why would you think that?

Clark returned with the jug of beer. Lee clipped the cue ball hard. He took a quick look around the poolroom.

— I think you’re by yourself, said the man. How is Helen treating you anyhow?

— Kind of my business, don’t you think?

— She was treating me pretty good for awhile.

— You’re starting to get on my nerves, buck.

— Well, I wouldn’t want to do that.

Lee breathed. Then all at once he dropped his pool cue on the tabletop. He said: Fuck this.

— Hey now, no reason to get like that.

The two townies were grinning. Lee walked over to the bar, feeling the pulse in his eyes. He sat on a stool and paid off the table and ordered another drink.

— You know them guys? said Lee.

— Who, said the barman. Over at the table you had?

— Yeah.

— I’ve seen them around, I suppose.

A man came up and asked the barman for something and Lee worked on his drink. After a few minutes he looked back over his shoulder. The sharp-featured man and his buddy were gone.

Lee left the Corner Pocket a little before eleven o’clock. He went out the back door and hopped over a concrete knee-wall and cut through the lot of Dutch’s Chevrolet Pontiac Buick, New And Used. He turned up the collar of his new jacket and it was only because he stopped to light a cigarette that he saw them coming for him.

Their motions were reflected dully in the flank of a used Skylark. They were coming quickly down the narrow space between the cars. He turned just in time to see the man with the Clark name patch bearing down in the lead, swinging something. Lee bobbed sideways and the thing Clark was swinging crashed into his clavicle. Pain flashed down through his body and his arm went numb and for just a second Clark and the sharp-featured man, crowding in behind him, looked like maybe they weren’t sure what they were doing. Then Clark took another step and just as he put his weight down, Lee swung his steel-toe boot into the side of the forward knee. Clark dropped and let go of what he’d swung. A long wool sock with a pool ball rolling out of it. The ball rolled to rest against the Skylark’s tire and the sharp-featured man gaped at it. Lee kicked him in the groin. He dropped noiselessly and Lee kicked him again, first in the ribs and then across the jaw. Lee was breathing heavily now and was acutely aware of the pain in his shoulder. He looked. Clark was kneeling on his good knee, groping for the pool ball. Lee stomped the man’s fingers against the pavement and bent over him and punched him a number of times in the face. The man fell over.

Lee slammed a dent into the Skylark with his boot. It seemed there wasn’t enough air he could pull in. The men on the ground were breathing but they weren’t making any motions to get up. Lee walked backwards until he was out of sight of them.

When he got home he turned on the lamp and looked at his hand. His knuckles were swollen but not opened up. His shoulder was tender where the pool ball had struck it. He took off his new jacket and laid it on the table and inspected it closely for damage to the fabric, for blood. There wasn’t any. He hung the jacket in the closet. He went to bed and lay awake for the rest of the night.

A few days later, after work when Lee was walking home with a bag of groceries, he became conscious of a vehicle tracking along beside him. At first he thought it was the police car again but then he saw it was a GMC Caballero. The vehicle angled to the curb beside him and the driver-side window came down. That big man with the glasses from the roadhouse. Maurice.

— Looks like you could use a lift.

— I’m okay. My place isn’t real far.

— If you say so.

A pause.

— I’ll see you, said Lee.

— Hold up, said Maurice. Word was you had some trouble on the weekend.

— Whose word is that?

— Doesn’t matter. Just thought you’d like to know there isn’t nobody going to be talking about it. Like so it would get back to the cops or your parole officer.

— I don’t have trouble with anyone.

— No, that’s true. You don’t. And if you did have trouble with anybody, say, a couple shithead town boys, then maybe you’d like to know these same shithead town boys have had certain things told to them.

— Okay, said Lee, not knowing what else to say.

— Shitty how them things happen to a guy from time to time, said Maurice. You sure you don’t want a ride?

— I’m okay.

— See you around, Lee.

EZ Acres was five miles down the highway south of town. The sign at the gate showed a cartoon fat-man snoozing in a hammock. The park had thirty-five campers sited on the shore of a circular catch-basin called Lake Albert. The office was one of three permanent buildings on the property. The park was seasonal and Stan didn’t know if anybody would still be around or not, but as he walked towards the office, a husky rose from the ground and barked twice.

A short woman with cropped grey hair came around from behind the office and told the dog to shut up. She had a splitting maul over her shoulder. She said: Can I help you?

— I guess you folks are closed up, said Stan.

— We open again on Victoria Day.

The husky trotted over and hung close to the woman’s leg.

— I thought you’d maybe be able to point me in the right direction, said Stan.

— What direction would that be?

— A friend of mine, he’s been in the hospital for awhile. He’s not in good shape. His doctor wanted to have a word with my friend’s niece who’s been keeping an eye on his property. It’s been hard to get a hold of her, the niece, but I heard she had a friend who worked here.

— Well, there’s nobody here now. Just me. We had two or three guys on seasonal but I let them go when we shut down after Thanksgiving. What was his name?

— I believe it’s Colin Gilmore, said Stan.

— Right, Ballin’ Colin. Last time I seen him was a week ago when I had a couple hours’ work in the hydro-cut. I don’t know if he’s still around or not, but up the highway there’s a truck stop where they got this roadhouse. The North Star. You know it? Colin was drinking there when he was around.

Stan thanked her and started to head back to his truck. He got on the highway and drove to the North Star. He knew of it but he’d never had reason to visit it before. He parked at the back of the lot and got out. A cool breeze was carrying small sharp granules of dirt across the asphalt. Stan went up to the front door of the roadhouse and went in. Past the entry, the interior was garishly lit by overhead lights. On the riser at the back, a man was plugging an electric guitar into an amplifier. The drone of the amplifier filled the whole room. Closer to the front door a man with his cuffs rolled up to his elbows was unstacking chairs at a table. The bar was shuttered. The man looked at Stan.

— Bar opens at seven. The band goes on at eight.

— Okay, said Stan.

— Which is to say we’ll see you then.

Stan went back into town and had supper at the Owl Cafe. He took his time reading the newspaper. The minutes were a long time passing. After seven o’clock he got up from the booth and went over to the counter to pay. The big-haired waitress was distracted, involved in some conversation with an angular man, wearing jeans and a Carhartt jacket, down at the end of the counter. The man she was talking to, there was something familiar about him. Stan had seen him before, but he couldn’t think where or when. The man noticed Stan looking at him and he said something to the waitress. She nodded and came over to collect Stan’s bill.