Poodie James

excerpt

“George,” he told Pearson, “I need your help with this hobo
thing. Winifred Stone is going to fight me on it.”
“I’m not on the council, Pete,” Pearson said, “and I sure don’t
have much clout with Mrs. Stone.”
“You’re one of her biggest advertisters.”
“So are you. Has it done you a lot of good politically? She knows
we need the paper to sell cars, and, anyway, she’d throw our business
away before she’d back off in a showdown. What do you want
me to do?”
“Just be at the next council meeting when we open this thing up
for citizen discussion, and make the case. You can get the business
community stirred up.”
“Pete, if we were talking about dozens of derelicts down by the
tracks, I might get upset about it. But there’s never more than a
handful of those guys in that jungle, and they’re always coming and
going. Hell, most people in town don’t even know they exist. What
are you going to do with that hand?”
Torgerson glanced at his cards.
“Raise.”
He put down five dollars.
“Sure,” Pearson said, sighing, “I’ll come to the council and say a
few words. We’re old friends and partners, and I’ve been taking
business away from you. It’s the least I can do.”
Fred Lawrence chuckled, and raised.
Two hands later, Torgerson looked at his watch, tossed his
cards into the center of the table and pushed his chair back.
“You folding, Mr. Mayor?” Pearson asked.
“Only in this poker game, George. I got a meeting with a man
from the railroad. Thanks for your help, pal. I’ll owe you one. We’ll
get those bums out of town, and Poodie James, too.”
“He’s harmless, Pete.”
“He’s going, George.”
Torgerson puzzled for a moment over the hard look Angie gave
him as he waved goodbye, but the hollow moan of a train whistle
made him hurry to his car.

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Poodie James

“Well, you keep an eye on him. This could be our opportunity.”
Spanger peeled off back to the curb, erasing his frown and nodding
greetings as parade watchers who stood packing the sidewalk
looked up and let him ease through. The first contingent of horsemen
was passing, a sheriff’s posse from Colville. The riders doffed
their white Stetsons to the crowd. Behind the posse came two
clowns with brooms, outsized dustpans and barrels on wheels.
“They should be following the Packard,” the chief said to himself.
A platoon of Marine Corps reserves from Seattle approached.
Spanger watched as they executed their maneuvers to commands
from a gunnery sergeant with a chest a size too big for his body.
“Oodareah, hah,” the gunny bellowed. The platoon reversed direction.
“Oodareah, hah,” and they were headed north again. The sergeant
halted the platoon and ran them through the manual of
arms, their M-1s snapping from one position to the next. “Pah ray
reh. Ai lehf.” The Marines dropped their rifles, extended them to
the side and stood with their left hands behind their backs. Their
heads swiveled toward the crowd in front of the hotel.
Spanger looked into the young faces and saw Riley Patterson
crouching in the Guadalcanal mud at dawn, the chin strap of his
helmet dangling, his rifle to his shoulder, slowly pitching backward
as the blood began to gush from the hole in his chest. “Jesus, Sarge,”
Patterson said, “oh, Jesus.” He died before Spanger could crawl to
his side. That left Darwin, the little B.A.R. man Eddie Krotz and a
Japanese machine gun nestled in the trees 50 yards up a rise.
“What’ll we do, Sarge?” Krotz said.
“Stay the hell down, for one thing,” Spanger said, “and whisper.
They may think we’re dead. I don’t know what we’ll do. What have
we got?”
“I got this Browning and three clips and a satchel charge and a
couple of grenades.”
“I’ve got a little ammo for the M-1, plus whatever Patterson had
left,” Spanger said. He reached toward a body next to him. “And now
I have the lieutenant’s .45.” He was shaking, but he was surprised at
the calmness of his thinking. The machine gun was quiet.

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Poodie James

excerpt

Marcie returned the smile, then
splashed him, hoisted herself up the ladder and walked away.
When she looked back, he was standing in the shallow water,
watching her, smiling.
After she cleared the pool house of the last of the swimmers,
Marcie peeled off her suit, showered, and stood examining her
image in the big locker room mirror, turning from side to side,
looking over her shoulder, running her hands down her waist and
onto her hips. She liked the contrast between the tan sections and
the rest of her. She liked the chestnut hair tumbling onto her
shoulders, the firmness and upward sweep of her breasts, the balancing
swell of her behind, the flatness of her tummy, the curve of
her calves into her ankles, the length of her legs. Too bad she had
to be covered all the time, she thought. She knew there were plenty
of boys, and men, too, who wanted to uncover her. She felt their
stares and sensed their craving. Poor things, thank goodness they
don’t know what I feel most of the time, she thought. It isn’t easy
to want what I want and live in a small town where everyone knows
everything about everyone and talks about it. In the heat and steam
of the locker room a long shiver invaded Marcie’s thighs.
She pulled on her blouse, skirt and sandals. Leaving the pool
house, she started in the direction of town. Poodie was sitting on
the edge of his wagon. She stopped and turned to look across the
lawn toward the river. Poodie joined her and took her hand. He led
her to the beginning of a trail, and they stood watching the
Columbia. The surface shimmered copper from the sun lowering
toward the Cascades. An advance guard of nighthawks swooped
low, gorging on colonies of gnats. Halfway across the river,
expelled by the churn and velocity of a deep eddy, a log heaved out
of the water. It flopped onto the surface with a crash that she could
hear 150 yards away and floated for a few seconds before the
unseen power of the river pulled it under. Marcie looked back.
There were no other people. All of the cars were gone. The sun
balanced like a coin on the roof of the ice plant across the road. The
old shamble of a building was a deep silhouette.

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Poodie James

excerpt

often playing the grand piano in their living room, but she stopped the
minute she heard his feet on the porch steps. He could never persuade
her to continue. If he could just get at what it meant. Her piano playing
had been an important part of their lives, but now Sue-Anne
refused to share it with him, even to discuss it. Talking between them
came seldom. He wished he could fix it, but something kept him from
trying, something that frightened him. He could not identify the barrier
any more than he could name the sonata.
A group of children gathered at the piano. He stood at the edge
as the pianist put up a piece of sheet music. They began singing.
Tell me why the stars do shine,
Tell me why the ivy twines,
Tell me why the skies are blue,
And I will tell you just why I love you.
“You sing too, mister.” It was Dwayne Ellwood Mortensen.
“You wouldn’t want to hear me sing,” Torgerson said, leaning
down toward the boy.
“You don’t gotta be good at it.”
“No, you go ahead. I’ll listen.”
Dwayne gazed at him for a moment and turned, singing, back to
the group. The young voices harmonized. Torgerson felt an ache
for Sue-Anne, for their lost communication, for the child they had
tried to have, for the confusion in his mind and soul, for his fear,
for the boy. He found himself absently humming the song low in
his throat.
Because God made the stars to shine,
Because God made the ivy twine,
Because God made the sky so blue,
Because God made you, that’s why I love you.
The sky glowing a faint blue above the mountains hinted at the
longer evening beyond, but the camp was nearly dark when they

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