A Hard Case Page 14

  I paused a few seconds and braced myself on the back of a chair. I gave Charlie what I hoped was an earnest inquiring look.

  “Jimmy says the men of the village did it.”

  “The postmaster killed himself.”

  I let go of the chair and rocked back on my heels, hands in my pockets.

  “Where were you when this happened, Charlie?”

  His face took on a sullen look and I had a hunch he had an answer ready.

  “Well . . . Mr. Postmaster, I was upriver. You know, I’ve already been over this a hundred times with the Troopers and the postal inspectors. By what right do you question me again? Who are you? Are you really a postmaster? Or are you some kind of postal inspector?”

  “I am a postmaster, Charlie, just like I’m supposed to be. I don’t like this anymore than you. It’s just my boss wants me to find out the truth. It seems he has his boss after him who has a US senator after him. Justus’s relatives seem to think he would never commit suicide. So, now you know, Charlie. I didn’t ask for this job. I was pushed into it. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be, I have my own problems.”

  “So, I’ve heard.” Charlie answered dryly.

  I decided to change tack.

  “Do you know if Justus was working with the bootleggers and the grave robbers?”

  Charlie winced at this, making me think I was getting somewhere. He was silent a few seconds, thinking on his reply.

  “I couldn’t prove it, but yeah, I think he was.”

  I came back to the chair and leaned forward again.

  “Charlie, could they have killed the postmaster and Mary?”

  “Justus committed suicide.”

  I threw my hands up into the air and wished mightily for a drink. Just one drink. I eyed the two sentinels on the shelf and wondered if Charlie had noticed them. Now it was Charlie’s turn.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Postmaster, gettin’ thirsty? Is that all the whiskey you have left, those two bottles?”

  I glared at him. Dammit! Why hadn’t I hidden the two bottles?

  “It’s not easy, is it, Bronski, to do the right thing?”

  Charlie’s voice took on a softer tone.

  “Look, you think I don’t know about the booze and the drugs? You can’t know what it’s like to walk in the middle of everything, white man. I’m going to get rid of this stuff, but it has to be in my own time. You can preach, but I have to have most of the village behind me.”

  I must have stayed quiet longer than I thought because the next thing I know, Charlie is out the door, telling me he will be on the lookout for Jimmy, but that’s all he can do. Without another thought, I head for “Old Jack” standing quietly by on his shelf. I needed something to think with.

  Chapter 16

  I threw the empty booze bottle into the trash can. So much for that one. I turned and regarded the last bottle on its shelf. Ordinarily, I would have hauled it down and opened it since the buzz in my brain wasn’t strong enough to block out the bad memories that threatened my sanity. But I was in desperate straits. That bottle had to last at least a week and for an alcoholic that’s a drop in the bucket.

  I had been wracking my brain after Charlie left, trying to make sense of what was going on. There was one thing that I wondered about—Helen hadn’t been at the funeral. Why? Even if people didn’t care for her, the funeral was still a village event. Even Ivan was there. I passed over that thought and went on to the more immediate problem of Jimmy’s disappearance. Why had he taken off like that when he seemed so content watching TV? I couldn’t picture him as being sophisticated enough to put on a big act, but I’d been fooled before. Well, life had to go on and the post office was a part of that scenario. I rambled up front and unlocked the door, not that I thought there would be any customers, but like anywhere else in the U.S. of A., we were there.

  I hung around the front counter for the better part of an hour, looking out the front window. I was so bored I would have even welcomed the old man and his statements about what is real in this life. Although there was a stool to sit on, I knew if I did, it would be only a matter of a few minutes and I would have been asleep. About the only excitement I had was watching Ivan through the front window walking at a fast clip by the post office. He must have known I was there, but instead of giving me his usual glare, he walked on by. Interesting.

  The phone rang in the back room. Most likely, it was the boss calling. Was my old brain ready to talk to him? There was no way I was going to have him hear a slur in my voice. After the second ring, I decided what the hell, I needed something to relieve my boredom. I picked up the receiver on the fourth ring. This time I was smart and held it six inches away from my ear.

  “Bronski! Is that you?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s me, right here on duty.”

  “Bronski, you haven’t been drinking have you?”

  Could he hear a change in my voice? I decided to bluff my way.

  “Oh, no, sir.”

  “Well, I should hope not. All right, how’s the investigation going?”

  “Uh . . . slow.”

  “Slow? Okay, Bronski, maybe you better fill me in.”

  Against my better judgment I went on to explain to him about the archeology site and how I was pretty sure the people were using the artifacts for mostly liquor and drugs. Then I mentioned to him how a kid who was now missing had told me the men of the village had done it, but that the village constable still insisted it was suicide.

  “Well, hell, Bronski, why don’t we send in a team to grill each man in that place? I’m getting tired of all the runaround.”

  “Not a good idea, boss. Politically, the Postal Service would be hit hard for coming down on the people here. The news media would love to have a story like this. It would be Goliath against David. And David would win—again.”

  I heard the boss’s chair squeak.

  “That’s not what I wanted to hear, Bronski.”

  “Well, that’s my advice. Maybe the next temp out here can break this case. By the way, who’s coming out to take my place? You remember I have just about used my month up, you know?”

  There was a pause on the other end. I sat down. I knew what was coming before he said it.

  “Actually, Bronski, I’ve been thinking that since Smith can’t come out there as planned, I would have you sit out there another month.”

  “Dammit, boss! You told me a month! That’s what you said! I distinctly remember.”

  “Now don’t get all hot, Bronski. You have a job, right? Not everyone has a job. I got a stack of applications a foot high on my desk. Some of those people on those applications are so qualified, it’s scary even for me. You see what I mean . . . Bronski?”

  Of course, I knew what he meant, but I didn’t give a damn. I tried to snow him.

  “But I have things that need to be tended to back in Anchorage. You know, administrative stuff.”

  I was in a panic. What was I going to do for booze?

  There was a distance chuckle and another squeak from the boss’s chair.

  “Don’t worry, Bronski. We’ll forward your mail to you. That’s what the Postal Service does, remember? Nope, you keep on chipping away out there. Something will break. Are you in immediate danger?”

  I wanted to say, yes. Please get me out of here, but he wouldn’t believe me.

  “Maybe not in immediate danger, no. But I am not well liked. One man in particular hates my guts.”

  “Who’s that?”

  I went on to tell him about Ivan Ermoff. The boss’s response was brief.

  “Okay, Bronski, I have his name. If something happens, we’ll go after him first.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I muttered. Knowing it would be over my dead body. He agreed to keep quiet about the archeology site until I was out of the village. Then after a few more platitudes of “hang in there,” he rang off.

  I slammed the phone down and ran my fingers through my hair, trying to think. I could leave. B
ut what would I do? I had no job prospects. There was no other option; I was stuck and the boss knew it. I walked up front and locked up. If anyone wanted their mail, well, they would have to wait until the next day. To hell with the Postal Service. I needed relief—right now. As I walked through the door into my quarters, I knew right where to get it.

  The bottle on the shelf stood there, its label gleaming in the light. Not waiting another second, I closed my door and walked over to it. Sweat broke out on my brow. I wanted it. If I didn’t have it, I knew what would happen. The shakes and maybe worse. My hand reached for it and stopped, but I was powerless to keep it stopped. It inched forward and slowly tightened around the bottle. The tension broke inside me. I was safe for the moment, and that’s all an alcoholic really cares for.

  I awoke in the early evening around five o’clock with a splitting headache. Not so much from the booze as from the tension of wondering about where my next drink was coming from. I sat up and rubbed the back of my neck, but I had a hunch I was stuck with the pain for a while. A spot of sunlight coming through a crack in the old pull-down blinds slowly made its way across the floor. I watched it for several moments looking for answers, but there were none. Finally, I stood up. It was time to do something, anything to get out of the room. The bottle was in its place on the shelf, but it was not new any more, just a used bottle of booze.

  I stumbled across the floor to the other side of the room and opened the blind over the kitchen sink. The wind was blowing, making for dusty conditions out on the street. Jimmy. Where in hell was Jimmy? Was he in Ivan’s hands by now? Would Ivan be slapping the kid, trying to make him tell where the mask was?

  Tired of waiting for answers I put on my shoes, slicked my hair back and wandered out the back door. Trying not to attract too much attention, I walked down the back of the houses until I was opposite Charlie’s place across the main street. There were some dog barks, but I hoped the wind would make them hard to hear. Then, choosing a couple of houses with no visible dogs, I walked between them out onto Main Street to Charlie’s place. I rapped loudly on the door and waited. Finally, Charlie opened it part way, barely enough to show his eyes.

  “Yeah?”

  I stuck my foot in the door.

  “Any news about Jimmy?”

  “No, Bronski. No news.”

  “Have you talked to his mother or sister?”

  Charlie gave an exaggerated sigh.

  “No, but they will let me know if they think he’s in trouble. You can talk to his sister down at the cafe.”

  “But don’t you think you ought to get a search party put together?”

  “Bronski, you are one pain in the ass. No, not yet. Right now, I’m busy. Go away.”

  He opened the door further, as if to slam it on my foot. It was then I understood, because there stood Jean visible through another open doorway into what I guessed was the bedroom, with a sheet draped around her small body. Her face was red as a beet. I almost smiled as I withdrew my foot. No wonder Charlie didn’t want me around. He had more important things to attend to. The door slammed shut and I was left to my own devices.

  I turned and trudged on down the street to the cafe. As I climbed the steps and walked in, I gave a quick look to see if Ivan or Helen was there, but all the tables were empty. Fine, I thought. Just what I needed, more time alone. I draped my jacket over the back of the chair and sat down. And waited. And waited some more. At last, after fifteen minutes or so, I politely gave a loud cough. There was a stir in the kitchen and the kid came out. Her eyes were all red and puffy. Obviously, she’d been crying. She flipped her order sheet over and stood quietly. There was no animosity this night, and I guessed this was a worried sister hoping her little brother was okay. Even though I knew her name I decided to ask it anyway, just to be friendly.

  “You know, I’ve been coming in here all these nights and I don’t know your name?”

  “Martha,” came the one word reply. Was that a sniffle I heard?

  “Ah . . . my mother’s name was Martha.”

  She nodded and looked down at her tablet. I decided to push on.

  “I understand you’re a sister to Jimmy?”

  “Yes.” Was that another sniffle?

  “I’ve gotten to know him,” I replied brightly.

  She looked up from her tablet, eyes brimming.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I cocked my head and looked directly into her eyes.

  “As a matter of fact I’m worried about him.”

  Since there was no one else in the place, I proceeded to tell her about her brother and the mask. There were nods now and then, but she remained quiet as if not quite trusting herself to speak.

  “Do you know where he might be?” I asked.

  She shook her head no; slowly and sadly. I believed her. Big sisters may think their little brothers are a nuisance sometimes, but when it comes to personal safety, they’ll usually tell the truth. I nodded and sighed. It was up to Jimmy to crawl out of the woodwork. Some people came in the front door and my stomach started growling. Or was it my imagination that needed to be filled? They say real alcoholics don’t eat much, so maybe the stomach growl meant there was hope for me. I figured it was time to act normal. It wouldn’t do to have the villagers think I was making Martha cry. I looked up from the menu and gave her a smile.

  “I think I’ll have the meatloaf dish.”

  Damned if she didn’t smile back. It was a smile that said everything: “I trust you, and I know you’ll do your best.” If I had been twenty years younger, I’d have been sitting on her back step. Without speaking, she whirled and went back to the kitchen. Little brother might be in a pickle but there were customers to attend to.

  While waiting, I sat there sipping on my coffee wondering what my next move ought to be. I was still wondering when my meal arrived with a flourish. This time the plate slid onto the table with nary a sound. Quite a contrast when compared to the other evening, when Helen was sitting opposite me, and I ruminated again about why the kid didn’t like Helen.

  My meal finished, I sat back with a polite burp. My mind was made up about what I was going to do. I paid my bill and walked out into the cool of the evening. Maybe it was only late August with the sun still hanging high in the sky, but the air had a different feel to it. I sniffed. For what, I couldn’t say, but I felt like a hunter that knows he must hunt and hunt well if the clan is to survive. A smile came to my lips as I wondered how many generations of ancestors I would have to go back on the family tree to find someone who actually survived by hunting. The people in this village would only have to count back two generations, maybe, for survival by hunting. Perhaps many of them did live a subsistence life style, yet when it came down to brass tacks, no one would starve in these modern times.

  I came out of my reverie in time to catch sight of a black cassock going into the church. Just the man I wanted to see. Knowing that I was probably being watched, I walked as casually as I could down the street. Upon entering the church, I caught my breath. The beauty of the interior took me by surprise. It was the sun’s rays streaming through the stained glass window and focusing on the figure in black kneeling in front of the altar that did it. I am not a church-going man and at times, I’ve disputed the existence of God, but if there was a God then he was there that very moment. The figure in black rose, and the sun’s rays faded.

  “May I help you, Bronski?” He said, still facing the altar.

  I swallowed. How did he know it was me? He turned and faced me, his arms folded.

  “I saw you down the street and I wondered if you would come. Let’s go into the office, shall we?”

  Chapter 17

  I followed Father Joseph as if some unseen force, made up, I suspected, by my desire to talk about my fears and frustrations, tethered me to him. He immediately went to the ever-present brewed coffee pot, and poured out two cups of what looked liked mud. I waited with bated breath to see if whiskey was on the agenda. To my relief, he added the usual am
ount. He handed me the cup, a smile in his eyes.

  “You know, I think I’m beginning to like this stuff too much. I try to hold myself to two drinks a day, but it’s not easy, is it?”

  His eyes were still friendly, but I had a hunch he knew all about me and my problem. “No,” I answered, “it’s not easy. I wish there was a pill made to cure drinking too much alcohol, but there’s not.”

  He nodded and motioned me to a seat. I sat down and took a tentative sip. The look of surprise that came to my face must have amused him.

  “It doesn’t taste all that bad does it?”

  I looked over at him sitting in his chair. By now, his glasses were off and he was kneading his eyes. Without his glasses to act as a shield, he somehow looked older than what I took his years to be.

  “How long have you been out here?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “Ah, change of subject, now I know my coffee must really be bad.”

  I smiled. “No, sir, your coffee is just fine, really. I was just curious. Call it a social opening.”

  The lines on his face drew closer together as he looked off into the space of his life. There was a few seconds’ silence, like he was struggling to summarize in one sentence. His voice came slow and low, and I knew there was more there than the words spoken.

  “About thirty years.”

  “That’s a long time,” I murmured in my cup, wondering if I should get off the subject.

  “Yes,” he said.

  A few more awkward moments went by. I took another sip of coffee, mostly as an excuse to keep from talking. A look out of the side of my eyes revealed the good Father to be silently jiggling his glasses just above the table’s surface, something that I imagined he often did when he was counseling. He coughed.

  “Are you making any progress in your investigation?”

  There it was. I knew the question had to come. Maybe he was a spy for the village. Thirty years was a long time. White man or not, he was one of the locals.

  “No, not much,” I admitted.

  I then went on to relate to him what I knew: That Charlie said Justus committed suicide and how young Jimmy said the men of the village did it. I jabbered on, posing pro and con, wondering if the postmaster had been tied up in the drug scene and the dig along the river. I sighed and went silent for a few seconds. Dare I ask the question?