David Halliday - The Hole

The detective nodded, then related the tale that the barkeeper at the Zig Zag had relayed to him. The old man listened quietly. The detective hoped he hadn’t drifted off.

“Could have been a practical joke,” Ed said. “I knew fellows who’d say anything if they thought it might get them a free drink.”

“Jack’s been around awhile. He’s heard just about every con. I don’t think he would have been taken in.”

Ed rubbed his chin with his right index finger.

“Jack?”

“The bartender in the Zig Zag.”

“Don’t know any Jack. Hell, I never heard of the Zig Zag.” The detective described the location of the Zig Zag.

“A couple of doors over? Wasn’t that a drugstore?” Ed asked.

The detective nodded.

Ed laughed. “Maybe I could get old Sally to take me over there for a drink some time. We’d make an odd couple. Do you think they’d serve a Negro?”

The detective nodded. “Been the law for years.”

“The law and the way people are… are two different things.”

“They’ll serve her,” the detective said with a smile.

The old man nodded with satisfaction. “So, where did they find the body?”

“The corner of Bloor and Botfield.”

“Where the kids pick up their newspapers?” Ed asked.

“Ya,” Sam responded. “But they don’t make deliveries anymore.”

“Don’t make deliveries?”

“Haven’t for years,” the detective added.

“God!” The old man thought for a moment. “What do kids do for money?”

The detective shrugged.

Ed shook his head. “No paper routes. Negroes being treated like human beings.”

“There’s no record of any deaths there,” the detective continued.

“Fellow said an ambulance and a police car showed up. A policeman interviewed the fellow. That could have been you.” Ed shook his head despondently for a moment, then waved his index finger in the air as if he was trying to catch a memory.

“Ya, there was an incident that sounds similar. It was my birthday. I showed up a few moments after the ambulance drove off. We passed each other on the street. A guy was standing near the telephone booth, smoking a cigarette, and staring down at the sidewalk. He looked like the last man on the planet. I pulled the squad car up to the curb. Didn’t look like he noticed my arrival. When I spoke, he looked at me with a startled expression. I asked him if he was the gentleman who had phoned for an ambulance. He nodded. Looked pretty shaken up. I took down a name and an address but…” The old man shook his head. “I can’t remember it. He was standing there staring at this brown stain on the sidewalk. Like someone had spilt coffee. That sort of stuck in my head. He kept muttering, ‘I could have saved him. I should have done something.’ God, I wish I could remember his name. But that was years ago. And he couldn’t have gone into the Zig Zag and talked to that bartender. There was no bar then. It was a drugstore, right?” 71

“Who was the deceased?” the detective asked.

Ed said nothing for several minutes. “No one knew.” The detective looked up from the pad where he’d been taking notes.

“The fellow didn’t have any ID on him when the ambulance picked him up,” the old man explained. “A John Doe. No one ever claimed the body. We asked around but no one knew any old man. I asked here at the home, it was under different management then, and they weren’t missing anyone. I wish I could remember the fellow’s name who found the old man.”

“It should be in your report,” the detective said.

“Good luck in finding that,” Ed said with a smile. “We didn’t keep very good records in those days.”

“Did you investigate further?”

“I-,” the old man hesitated. “I can’t remember.” The detective smiled and put his pad away.

“Miss the force,” Ed said, his energy spent, drool running down his cheek. “Wish I’d died in action instead of wasting away in this place.” Sam Kelly rose and shook the old man’s trembling hand. As he was about to leave, a thought occurred to him.

“Your wife…”

“Ellen,” the old man answered.

“She didn’t disappear by any chance, did she?”

“Ellen? No, she died from the big C. Lung cancer. Never smoked a day in her life. Secondhand smoke, they say. I guess that’s my fault too.” Shadows

Cathy stopped to catch her breath. She peeked out from the shelter of the Zig Zag entrance into the night. She looked back down Bloor Street.

There was no one there. She looked across the street at the Six Points Plaza. Old Joe Mackenzie walked his beat along the store fronts. She was being paranoid. It was the fight with Terry. It was Johnny. It was everything. She was overwrought. Her imagination was working over-time. She looked back again. The street was empty and except for the streetlights, dark. She took a deep breath and dashed out of the shelter and headed for her car. When she turned into Botfield where her car was parked, she bumped into something and fell to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” a giant of a man said. “Are you all right?” He reached down to help her up.

She waved off his gesture, climbed to her feet, and ran to her car. Once inside, she locked all the doors and started up the engine. It stalled. On her second attempt, the engine roared. She sped out of the parking space, squealing around the corner, just missing a cab, and raced down Bloor Street.

The red Mazda slipped easily in and out of traffic along Dundas Street. Music blared from the radio. Wind swept through the car, tossing Johnny’s hair back and forth. Wiggy looked at Johnny and wondered if he shouldn’t let his own hair grow. Perhaps his image was too severe.

Chicks weren’t deep. They didn’t see into you. Don’t want to look. I’m too deep. Brooding chicks don’t like brooding. Maybe he should grow his hair long. He hated his hair, hated the color, hated the receding hairline. I ain’t going bald! Wished he could shave his head like a bowling ball. A brush cut just wasn’t short enough. Wasn’t worth thinking too much about yourself. Too much to worry about. What about the chicks? Johnny never seemed to be short of women. He had that light wispy blond hair that flowed over his shoulders. Girls were always asking to touch it.

What else did they want to touch? There ain’t anything else. Just chicks and cars and rock’n’roll. Johnny turned up the radio. Beach Boys. Johnny smiled and continued to talk. Wiggy couldn’t hear a thing he said. It was better that way. Johnny never had anything very important to say. What did Terry know? Writing his stories. Talking about the meaning of life. What difference did it make? Wiggy smiled. It was comforting to think that the chicks didn’t listen to Johnny either. Johnny just had to be Johnny and the chicks came running. He was like Mecca for chicks. They don’t want deep. Johnny leaned against the driver’s door, one arm along the back of the seat, the other straddling the window, a couple of fingers steering the Mazda. Wiggy shook his head. Johnny is just too cool. He smiled at Wiggy.

He was always smiling. How could you not like the guy?

“I can’t hear you,” Wiggy yelled.

The car slid onto a ramp and sped up as they moved north onto the Johnny turned the music down. “Don’t you just love The Beach Boys?

Sun, sand, and babes. Man, that’s the life.” 73

“Ya, that’s the life.” Wiggy nodded, leaning back in the seat, taking in the sun. “Where are we going?”

Johnny grinned, tapping the steering wheel with one of the two fingers that was steering. “What difference does it make where we’re going?

You can’t get all caught up in destinations. You’ve got to focus on the journey.”