David Halliday - The Hole

“Couldn’t hear anything?”

“Do you think that’s important?”

The detective shrugged. “It is strange. You get used to the roar of traffic but it’s always present. But he noticed the silence. There’s nothing else that stood out about this fellow, no scar or accent, no tic, no idiosyncrasy?”

Jack thought for a moment. “He was upset. And he sweated a lot. Real sweet smell. And his clothes.”

“What about his clothes?”

Jack shook his head. “It’s so obvious, Sam. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before. He was wearing shorts. On a cold fall day, this guy was wearing shorts. And one of those ugly Hawaiian shirts.”

“Maybe he was jogging,” the detective suggested. “You mentioned that this guy called for an ambulance. There should be a record of that.

And a squad car should have been sent as well. I’m surprised I didn’t hear about it.”

“An old man’s death can’t be that uncommon,” Jack suggested.

Detective Kelly scribbled a few more notes in his pad before placing it back in his pocket.

“People die everyday, but not in the streets. I’ll look into it,” he said.

“I appreciate it, Sam. Been preying on my mind. The police talked to him. He told me that. A few minutes after the ambulance left, a squad car arrived and a cop asked him a few questions. It seems that the old guy was on the line to the police. He’d had an argument with someone.”

“The police questioned him?” the detective asked.

Jack nodded then blushed with embarrassment. “Didn’t I tell you that, Sam?”

The detective reached for his pad.

Wiggy leaned against the wall of George’s Barbershop, smoking a cigarette. Occasionally he took the cigarette out of his mouth to spit tobacco juice onto the street where it sizzled on the asphalt.

“I guess they call that hot,” he said, glancing over at Terry who was silently drinking from a can of soda. Wiggy nudged Terry’s shoulder with his hand. Terry ignored Wiggy.

“I thought that was all ancient history?” Wiggy said, looking out over Bloor Street. Above the bank an airplane descended from behind a cloud.

Wiggy spat again. The plane was carrying a sign behind it. Mild, isn’t it?

The spit sizzled again and Wiggy laughed.

“Apparently not,” Terry responded, wiping his chin with his arm.

“When’s Johnny getting back?” Wiggy asked. “I’ll bet he has some awesome tales about college. Man, those college parties! Dudes zeroed across the floor. Chicks upchucking in the toilet. Dope passed around like bubble gum. And the pranks. So cool. Tying people naked to flag poles. Hoisting the wheels off professors’ cars. Panty raids. Man, I can’t wait until I go.”

“You ain’t going to college,” Terry said with a smirk.

“Who said I ain’t?” Wiggy demanded.

“You’ve got to graduate from high school first,” Terry answered.

“Where’d you hear all that shit about college?”

“I heard it,” Wiggy responded defensively. He stepped several feet to his left. The sound of the airplane was louder now. Wiggy looked up.

The sign that the plane had been dragging behind it had disappeared.

Terry laughed. “Where’d you hear it?”

“I just heard it,” Wiggy repeated. “Jesus, who got your shorts tied in a knot?”

Terry spat on the sidewalk. There was no sizzle. He took another drink. “You don’t know shit, Wiggy.”

Wiggy fidgeted. His cigarette fell out of his mouth onto the ground.

For a brief moment he considered not picking it up. Terry watched Wiggy pick up his cigarette and place it back in his mouth.

“Jesus!” Terry said, his face squirming. “I just spat there.”

“It was my last cigarette,” Wiggy replied peevishly. “Besides, we’re buds.” Why you all over my case? “I was just talking. How’s my talking harm you? Okay, wrestling is fixed. I’ll grant you that. And maybe there is a God, maybe there isn’t. But don’t tell me we haven’t been visited by aliens. They’ve got proof. And don’t tell me that they don’t have drunken orgies at college. It’s a rite of passage. I’ve seen movies. And they don’t go making up stuff like that.”

Wiggy moved away from the wall and flicked the cigarette he’d just picked up off the ground back into the street. He looked up and watched the plane begin to descend. Shit! It’s going to strafe the street with machine gun fire. Wiggy flinched. The plane pulled up and climbed toward the midday sun.

“What the hell!” Wiggy cried.

Terry grinned.

“When did you say Johnny was coming back?” Wiggy kept one eye on the sky.

Terry emptied his drink onto the ground and flipped the can into the street. A passing car flattened it. Terry smiled with satisfaction and looked up into the sky. If only that plane would crash.

“He’s back. Arrived in town on the weekend.” Wiggy jumped up and gestured with his arms, crying out, “The weekend! This is Wednesday. Where’s he at? We’re supposed to be tight. Why hasn’t he called me?”

“What are you, his girlfriend?” Terry said with a smirk.

George, a balding middle-aged man of small stature stepped out of his barbershop. He pointed to the crushed soda can on the street.

“Is that yours?”

“Ain’t mine. I’m allergic to sugar,” Wiggy cried.

George turned to Terry. Terry shrugged his shoulders. Looking both ways, George stepped out into the street and picking up the can, tossed it into a nearby bin.

“Why do you want to make the place look like a dump? Why don’t you fellows move on, eh?”

“Free country,” Wiggy cried. “Besides, you’re interrupting a very important conversation I’m having with my friend.”

“Hey, you’re scaring off my business!” George snapped. “It’s slow enough without you two hanging around the entrance. You’re discour-aging people from entering the shop.”

Wiggy laughed. “Look, man, either they want a haircut or they don’t.

It ain’t like we’re out here mugging folks.” George examined Wiggy. “You look like you could use a trim.”

“Ah hell, George, I’m letting it grow long,” Wiggy said, brushing the short stubble on his head with his hand. “I want to look like one of The Beatles.”

“Why do you always have to be a smart-ass?” George asked. “I remember you. Your father used to bring you into my shop. You were a nice boy then. Very polite. Your dad used to boast about your hockey.

Said you were the next Big M. He must be disappointed you turned out to be such a bum.”

“He’s disappointed with a lot of things,” Wiggy replied. “He’s dead.” George lowered his head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen him in a while and…”

“Airplane crash,” Wiggy said and winked at Terry. “Outside Chicago.

One of those prop planes. He was dusting crops. Hit a hydro line.”

“That’s terrible,” George said, his voice turning contrite and sad.

“There wasn’t enough of his body left,” Wiggy continued, “so we buried his barf bag.”

George looked at Terry then back at Wiggy. The two boys began to laugh. George’s face turned red as he realized that the boys had been toying with him.

“Get away from my shop!” he barked, waving his arms. “Young punks! You got no respect for anything. Talking about your father like that! It’s a sin.”

Still laughing, the two boys wandered off, crossed the street, and headed for Terry’s apartment.

“Sucker,” Wiggy muttered.

The boys walked across the hydro field. The airplane appeared again, flying low over the towers. Wiggy looked up. That asshole is going to hit the hydro lines!