The sun went down rapidly, leaving behind a glaring trail of crimson in the black sky. Grey clouds rolled overhead, heralding the beginning of a storm. Although the time was yet early, the streets had been quiet for almost an hour. The only sign of life came from the weak, yellow lights in the homes and the more sickly lights coming from DJ’s Bar on main street and the flickering blue of its neon sign over the door.
Inside the bar David Bowie sang on the jukebox and in the corner there came a steady “thwip, thwip, thwip” as Marksie threw his darts with catatonic precision into the battered, old dart board. The bar was relatively empty except for the group of night owls that always managed to arrive at dusk and stay until closing time. Behind the bar stood, not DJ, for he was long since laid to rest in Traverston Cemetary, but his daughter Delta.
Delta Jean Johnson was a handsome woman with the luck of good genes as far as age was concerned. Appearing no more than mid-40s, she had recently celebrated her 50th birthday. Delta was a strong woman; the result of her father deciding early on that since Delta did not have an older brother to look out for her, she’d have to do the job herself. From the time she could raise her fists Delta had learned to “street fight” and thus had become a worthy heir to her father’s business. She had no trouble strong-arming an obnoxious drunk out into the empty street if the situation arose.
There were quite a few that wondered why some man hadn’t swept Miss Johnson off her feet, but the truth of it was, there had never been a man who could match Delta in either strength or intelligence. And sadly, DJ’s Bar was not the ideal place to meet one’s future husband.
However, Delta wasn’t one to regret such small things and after all, she had her “night owls” who would risk life and limb to stand by her side, no matter what. Certainly not the cream of the crop, but each one was a decent man.
The first was Oscar Baynes, retired from the railroad and in his late 80s, Oscar had been a night owl at DJ’s since before Delta was born. He’d been one to help select her name and he had attended her christening at St. Bartholomew’s. Uncle Ozzie, to Delta, he was always the first one through the door and the last one out. He perched on his very own barstool, cushioned, at the end of the bar and near the lineup of glasses on a shelf. Directly behind him was the alcove for the dart board.
Second was Henry James Wisher known to the night owls as Professor. Henry was in his 50s and at one time had dated the lovely barkeep, but whatever had kept the two apart, yet friends, no one ever knew. Once in awhile, on very cold nights when Death could be seen walking the silent streets of Traverston, Henry would go home with Delta. Never a word was spoken and the next morning, it was as though nothing had happened. The Professor preferred sitting near the fire, as he had a circulation disorder that kept his feet and hands always cold. Because of this, Henry had a habit of wearing knit gloves with the fingertips cut off to help keep his hands warm. Henry always had Time, Newsweek, and the local paper with him.
Sharing Henry’s table was the youngest of the group, twenty-five year old Doc Howard. Doc was not a real doctor, it was his real first name. Both his parents had been doctors and it had been their thinking that in naming their only son Doc that he would go into the same profession. Doc had resisted, though. With an insatiable curiosity, a glib tongue, and a pen and a notebook always at hand, Doc was an “aspiring reporter”. He had decided in college to keep his first name as he felt it gave him “an edge”. Doc was always the first to break the night’s silence after the doors to DJ’s were shut to keep out the spirits of the evening.
Lastly was Marksie. Marksie was the second oldest of the night owls at age 62 or 65; he wasn’t sure these days. Marksie was mentally disabled; the Retard. His mind, was possibly no older than ten, but he did have some special abilities. He was an excellent dart player and could throw a triple bull’s-eye seven times out of ten, he knew the first name of everyone in Traverston, including the newborn babies at Mother Mary’s Mercy Hospital, and he could cook an onion and BBQ burger that would put Carl’s Jr. out of business.
Delta had gone to shut tight the doors of DJ’s against the rising storm and right on schedule, Doc Howard spoke up with authority in his voice, “You know they found the head today down by the river.”
“I hear it was a sore mess to look at,” muttered Oscar.
“That it was, that it was, Mr. Baynes! As soon as I heard that they’d found another body part, I was in my truck and on the way down…”
“You didn’t see it, did you?” Delta interrupted as a slight grimace curled the left side of her lip.
“No ma’am, I surely didn’t. Shame though, me with new film in the camera and all. I did get to hear what Otis, the coroner had to say. Seems it hadn’t been sitting there all this time, but had obviously been thrown there.”
“Good Lord!” barked the Professor, “Do you mean to say that someone was hanging on to it all this time?”
Doc faced Henry, who was staring at him over the edge of his Newsweek. “Well of course they were! Hell, Professor, that’s what the murderer’s been doing this whole time! It’s a ghastly business hanging on to body parts and then throwing them out here and there like he’s gotten tired of playing with them.”
“Playing with them…. now that’s an unpleasant visual,” Oscar muttered once more.
“The whole situation is highly unpleasant, Uncle Ozzie,” Delta leaned over to replace the man’s drink with a fresh one. “Five weeks of this now, it’s been. The whole town is spooked… Doc, are they any closer to identifying who the murder victim is? I mean, with the head, wouldn’t they…?”
Doc leaned back in his chair as he basked in the limelight of the attention, “Well, that’s the problem, Delta. Like I said, Otis was griping about the mess the head was in. So bad as he couldn’t even make an ident on whether it was male or female.”
The Professor clucked his tongue and took a sip of his whiskey sour. “I doubt they’ll ever discover the identity of either victim or killer. Two feet, a torso, a right arm with no hand, and a head… not enough to go on, it seems. It’s certainly not enough for our meagre peace officers to work with.”
“With the head, though, they’ll be bringing in the FBI for certain,” Doc stated.
“The FBI?!” Delta almost dropped the glass she had just wiped clean. She recovered, though, and carefully placed it on the shelf. “Whatever are they going to accomplish?” She turned and eyed Doc critically. “Didn’t you say last night that with the advanced state of decomposition and the fact the body parts were being tossed hither and yon that there was no concrete evidence to show where they came from or how they got there?”
“That’s right, Delta, I did. What’s more, every body part has been strategically deposited in areas where no one has discovered footprints, tire tracks or any other sort of clue. It’s the perfect crime, I daresay!”
“Tut, tut, young Doc,” the Professor piped up. “There’s the butcher’s paper that held the two feet. That was clearly identified as having come from Anthony’s.”
Doc snorted. “So Anthony’s the murderer because his butcher paper imprinted with that silly pig logo of his was conveniently wrapped around two pieces of bone and gristle? Circumstantial, Professor. You should know better!”
“And Anthony is a sweetheart, Professor,” Delta smiled. “You know as well as anyone that he would never do such a thing. He’s a butcher, but not one that goes out to the slaughterhouse to get his own meat. No, it was right that they let Anthony go once he was questioned. Poor man.”
The doors of DJ’s suddenly swung open, bringing in a swath of the cool air and two nighttime customers; an elderly couple traveling through on the way to the big city. Delta greeted them warmly and Marksie pulled himself away from the dart board long enough to offer to cook the couple some of his special burgers. They agreed to the offer and Marksie was soon singing along with Elton John on the jukebox while cooking in the small kitchen behind the bar.
With the new arrivals, local news took a backseat as each of the night owls made the acquaintance of Joshua and Doris North who were on a leisurely journey to visit their daughter on school break. Their daughter, Louise, was learning computers and programming. Upon mention of that subject, the Professor joined the couple as they ate their dinner and spoke at length with them upon “the wonders of circuitry”.
A few more late nighters poured in for refuge from the now striking storm, the loneliness and the road. There were enough that at one point in the evening, the chairs and tables were moved aside to create a little dancing floor. Joshua and Doris turned out to be quite agile to the music of the Bee Gees and the Professor managed to coax Delta out from behind the bar for a swing or two.
It wasn’t long, though, before two a.m. strolled around and the lively crowd was beginning to thin out. Joshua and Doris were headed to the Best Western just down the highway and the night owls all made sure that the other guests were headed safely to home and that no one was driving who shouldn’t be. Delta served a last round of coffee to the night owls just as a bolt of lightning cracked overhead causing the lights to dance crazily for a few seconds.
“Marksie,” Oscar called out. “I’ll drive you home tonight. It’s a little too wet out there for you to be walking.”
Marksie looked up from his coffee, heavily laced with hazelnut cream. “But I… I was posed to ‘liver ‘nite, Unc Ozzie.”
Oscar frowned. “That you were. Hmmm. Doc? You can dovetail past the old mill this evening, can’t you?”
Doc finished off his coffee and began stuffing his notebook and pencils into his coat. He’d gotten a good interview from some bikers that had come in that night that he wanted to submit to the local paper tomorrow. “Sure I can, Oscar. No worries, Marksie. Why don’t you take my night, next week?”
Marksie grinned, “Deal!”
“Professor!” Delta called from the kitchen. “A hand, if you would?!”
Henry shot up out of his chair with a chuckle. “A hand, good one.” He shouted, “Right there, Delta!”
“Wait Professor,” Doc was fishing in his pocket and came out with a ring of over a dozen keys that he tossed to Henry. “Trunk key is the one that’s slightly bent. You have to jiggle it a bit, but it will open.”
“Thanks…” a solid, icelandic thump came from the kitchen followed by an undelicate string of cursing. The Professor cringed and half-jogged behind the bar and disappeared into the kitchen.
There was a short discourse between Delta and the Professor and then Delta’s head popped up through the door. “Uncle Ozzie, close up, would you? We’ll see you out front.”
“Will do, hon,” said Oscar as he went behind the bar for the keys. He motioned for Marksie and Doc to head out and then he flipped off the lights, locked the doors, and just as he was pulling them shut, he commented, “Must be the upper torso tonight, Doc. Heavy thing being frozen. How soon do you think it will be found?”
Doc answered Oscar’s question, but by then, the door to DJ’s Bar was closed and the night owls were on their way home.
~*~*~*~
Written May 18, 2002
Dedicated to an “Old Friend”
