DOWN IN THE HOLE
Jake looked through the eyehole. “Who is it?”
“Detective Sergeant Barker. Open up.”
Ash fell from a cigarette in Jake’s mouth. He hummed a ditty while he worked the
locks.
“Last one.” Jake opened the door, spun around, fell.
Barker stepped over.
Jake said, “Make yourself at home. Mi casa … whatever.”
“Too much to drink tonight?”
“Nope.” Jake picked himself up, staggered to the couch. He slid down, heels
digging into the carpet.
Barker snorted, brushed newspapers off a chair, sat. He looked around; saw empty
bottles, empty casks, plates. “Your wife’s been reported missing. Her boss says
she hasn’t showed for three nights.”
“You seen Betty? I sure could use a Bloody … Betty Mary.” He laughed, then
coughed.
“That can wait. Do you know where your wife is, Jake?”
“At work.”
Barker looked around the room, then at Jake. “Where’s the phone?”
“On the box.” Jake pointed at the television.
Barker got up, flicked a pile of clothes from the television onto the floor. The
phone was underneath, off the hook. He lifted it to his ear, pressed the
receiver, nodded, put the phone down. “Mind if I look around?”
Jake shook his head, tapped ash into a wine bottle. Barker walked into the
kitchen. Jake drank from the bottle, coughing at the taste. He shrugged,
finished the rest.
Barker came back. “The door’s locked.”
Jake moaned, pulled some keys out, jangled till he found the right one. He went
into the kitchen, unlocked the screen door to the backyard. “For functions of
all sizes, long as they’re small.”
They walked outside. Jake flicked on a light. A poodle with matted brown fur
pranced over, rubbed on Barker’s leg.
“Excuse me, officer.”
Barker stepped out of the way.
Jake kicked the dog. It ran off, whimpering. “That’s Rupert, he thinks that hole
over there is the john.”
Barker covered his nose, looked at Jake, held for a minute, then nodded.
At the front door, Barker said, “Keep the phone on the hook. If Betty calls or
turns up—”
“Will do, top of the evening.”
Jake shut the door, went into the kitchen, bent down under the sink. He heaved
out a four-litre bottle of kerosene, then dragged it to the backyard. Set the
bottle next to the hole, undid the lid, tipped. Lit another cigarette, listened
to the liquid drain.
When it was empty, he dropped the cigarette into the hole. Flames spat out. Jake
jumped back, the flames lowered. He shuffled over, shook his head.
“No more Bloody Marys for me.”
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