manufactured some physical labor to keep herself moving. Wiping down the bar, cleaning the windows or glass on the jukebox, dusting the lamps that hung over the tables where the boys gathered after work for a quick euchre game or two before heading home… those were Nellie's reflex movements. Standing in front of the stainless-steel bar sink, as natural as breathing, she soaped, she rinsed, she wrung. She emptied ashtrays twice as fast as cigarettes burned.
But this afternoon, Nellie sat at the bar, sipping coffee from one of those thick jadeite cups, running her hand over something Jane couldn't quite make out as she slipped in the back door of the kitchen.
"Coffee break, Ma?" Jane asked, risking tirade number seven, "Who has time for a coffee break?"
But Nellie looked up slowly and shook her head.
Jane came over and saw that her mother was studying the punchboard, Jackpot Charley, that Jane had dropped back into a crate after her father had refused to display it.
"I haven't seen one of these things in a million years," Nellie said. "Where'd you say you got it again?"
"House sale, a tavern owner and his wife. He's dead and she's gone to assisted living, and they had all this stuff from the Shangri-La in their basement."
Jane poured herself a cup of the coffee, even though she knew she wouldn't be able to get past one swallow of the tarry paste her mother's coffee became after sitting on the warmer for six hours.
"Why is Dad so touchy about this stuff?"
"How am I supposed to know what he's thinking?" Nellie said.
"You know everything, that's why."
"Gambling hurt a lot of people. Lot of old friends."
"How'd it hurt Dad?" asked Jane.
Nellie looked at the board for at least thirty seconds before looking up.
"Who said it hurt him? "
Nellie hopped down from the bar stool with the agility of someone half her age. Jane knew that this signaled the end of the rare conversation with her mother. Rare since it didn't involve a dust rag; a conversation since Jane was allowed a sentence or two.
Hell, thought Jane, she moves with the agility of someone half my age.
* * *
Jane knew she shouldn't feel insulted by Munson's refusal to discuss Gus Duncan's death with her. She hung up the phone but continued to stare at it. He was right— she was not the police. Nor was she a member of the coroner's staff. She was not even a reporter for the Kankakee Daily Journal . She was not a relative of Duncan's. She was not a PI. She blushed slightly, remembering just how high-handed Munson had sounded when she had interrupted his litany of what she was not, to ask what a PI was.
"That would stand for 'private investigator,' Mrs. Wheel, and you are clearly not that either."
Why am I not that? At least why am I clearly not that? Jane packed up all the tavern stuff rejected by Don and Nellie. She planned to drop it off for Tim, who might want some of it. She would then inventory the boxes, photograph some of the more interesting finds, and send the listing off to Miriam in Ohio, who would tell her what to pack up and send to her. Jane was Miriam's prime picker, and Miriam was Jane's professor in the study of buy and sell. Antiques, collectibles, vintage memorabilia, junk. Killer stuff. Miriam taught her what she needed to know and provided her with the trickle-down paychecks of other people's manias.
Jane bought it for a dollar. Miriam gave her two. Mr. Collector gave Miriam five. As long as someone wanted a handmade primitive shoeshine box with an art nouveau brass last fastened on the top, and as long as Jane could spot it and grab it at the Saint Nick's rummage sale for a dollar, Jane would have a job. Sort of. A picker. It wasn't exactly a job, she knew— more of a calling. She was good at it, though, and getting better. She hadn't quite made enough to prove to herself— or Charley or Nick for that matter— that she could actually pay the mortgage, but she was getting better.
She did come pretty close last month when she turned
But this afternoon, Nellie sat at the bar, sipping coffee from one of those thick jadeite cups, running her hand over something Jane couldn't quite make out as she slipped in the back door of the kitchen.
"Coffee break, Ma?" Jane asked, risking tirade number seven, "Who has time for a coffee break?"
But Nellie looked up slowly and shook her head.
Jane came over and saw that her mother was studying the punchboard, Jackpot Charley, that Jane had dropped back into a crate after her father had refused to display it.
"I haven't seen one of these things in a million years," Nellie said. "Where'd you say you got it again?"
"House sale, a tavern owner and his wife. He's dead and she's gone to assisted living, and they had all this stuff from the Shangri-La in their basement."
Jane poured herself a cup of the coffee, even though she knew she wouldn't be able to get past one swallow of the tarry paste her mother's coffee became after sitting on the warmer for six hours.
"Why is Dad so touchy about this stuff?"
"How am I supposed to know what he's thinking?" Nellie said.
"You know everything, that's why."
"Gambling hurt a lot of people. Lot of old friends."
"How'd it hurt Dad?" asked Jane.
Nellie looked at the board for at least thirty seconds before looking up.
"Who said it hurt him? "
Nellie hopped down from the bar stool with the agility of someone half her age. Jane knew that this signaled the end of the rare conversation with her mother. Rare since it didn't involve a dust rag; a conversation since Jane was allowed a sentence or two.
Hell, thought Jane, she moves with the agility of someone half my age.
* * *
Jane knew she shouldn't feel insulted by Munson's refusal to discuss Gus Duncan's death with her. She hung up the phone but continued to stare at it. He was right— she was not the police. Nor was she a member of the coroner's staff. She was not even a reporter for the Kankakee Daily Journal . She was not a relative of Duncan's. She was not a PI. She blushed slightly, remembering just how high-handed Munson had sounded when she had interrupted his litany of what she was not, to ask what a PI was.
"That would stand for 'private investigator,' Mrs. Wheel, and you are clearly not that either."
Why am I not that? At least why am I clearly not that? Jane packed up all the tavern stuff rejected by Don and Nellie. She planned to drop it off for Tim, who might want some of it. She would then inventory the boxes, photograph some of the more interesting finds, and send the listing off to Miriam in Ohio, who would tell her what to pack up and send to her. Jane was Miriam's prime picker, and Miriam was Jane's professor in the study of buy and sell. Antiques, collectibles, vintage memorabilia, junk. Killer stuff. Miriam taught her what she needed to know and provided her with the trickle-down paychecks of other people's manias.
Jane bought it for a dollar. Miriam gave her two. Mr. Collector gave Miriam five. As long as someone wanted a handmade primitive shoeshine box with an art nouveau brass last fastened on the top, and as long as Jane could spot it and grab it at the Saint Nick's rummage sale for a dollar, Jane would have a job. Sort of. A picker. It wasn't exactly a job, she knew— more of a calling. She was good at it, though, and getting better. She hadn't quite made enough to prove to herself— or Charley or Nick for that matter— that she could actually pay the mortgage, but she was getting better.
She did come pretty close last month when she turned
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