The Last Annual Slugfest Read Free

picture Edwina Henderson choosing for anything, even the Slugfest. I couldn’t imagine her agreeing to be inside here for two hours.
    Another thing I couldn’t imagine was Bert Lucci working. But as I approached the front door, the sounds of hammering inside were clear. Mr. Bobbs might appear to be the antithesis of Edwina Henderson, but Bert Lucci was. Easygoing, he was always willing to stop, talk, and laugh. It was as if the energy for two people had been split between Edwina and Bert, and she had gotten it all. He was an averaged-sized man, bald but for a few tufts of gray hair poking out the sides. Habitually, he wore well-stained overalls and a shirt, denim or plaid, that matched the pants in accumulation of grime. He carried a hammer in his belt loop, but I had never before seen him use it.
    I pushed open the door and spotted Bert Lucci perched halfway up a ladder fixing the paneling along the back wall. Beneath him, the once beer-stained, ash-scuffed floor glistened. And standing at the foot of the ladder, clipboard in one hand, cigarette in the other, was Edwina Henderson!
    “Every panel on that side wall is loose,” she said. “You’ll have to see to that, Bert. Move the sofas back against the walls. The picnic tables can go by the door. Set up the folding chairs, and the stage, of course. And then there’s my podium. Move, man. We don’t have time to stand and gawk.”
    “What about paint?” Bert asked. “You want the place painted in the next two hours?” He glanced back at Edwina and, seeing me, shook his head.
    Edwina ignored his comment. “The kitchen, Bert. Is that ready?”
    “I had Helping Hands in here for three days scrubbing it out. It should be clean enough even for you.”
    Ignoring his sarcasm, Edwina nodded vigorously. Her short, serviceably cut brown hair quivered from the aftershock. She was a little, dark woman, with pale eyes that bulged as if to spot the offending speck of dirt more quickly. Her nose was narrow and hooked. The observation that in profile she resembled a steelhead trout had not originated with me. “And the folding chairs, Bert, you do have those, don’t you?”
    “You had them delivered yourself. Mine weren’t good enough for you, remember?” he said. “Look, don’t you have something to do at the store? Aren’t you afraid Hooper’s smoking a peace pipe in the back and your customers are spitting on the sidewalk?”
    His mention of the store reminded me of Edwina’s guest. “Edwina,” I said, coming up to the pair, “there is a man waiting for you at the store.”
    She spun toward me. “A man? Who haven’t I seen?” she asked herself, as if to short-cut waiting for my reply.
    “He’s not local. Drives a blue Volvo.”
    “Maybe he’s Chinese, Edwina, or an Apache,” Bert said. “You better get down there.”
    Cutting him off before he could deliver a deeper dig at Edwina’s well-known, unquestioning support for Indians and Asians, I said, “He’s about six feet tall, and has curly brown hair and a beard.” I was hoping Edwina would mention who he was, but my description didn’t seem to enlighten her.
    Still, she thrust her clipboard under her arm and said, “I’d best get down there. Can you manage now, Bert? I could have Curr drop Hooper off to help you.”
    “I’ve managed this lodge for thirty years. I think I’ll make it through another three hours.”
    “Call me if anything isn’t right.” She was halfway to the door. “I can get back here.” And then she was gone.
    “Goddamned woman,” he muttered as the front door banged. “Does she think nothing moves without the snap of her tongue? First she’s got to have the lodge. Gives me three months’ notice. I’ve got parties booked in here years ahead. Does that impress her? No, it doesn’t.” Still on the ladder, he leaned his arm on a rung. “ ‘Let them stay in a motel,’ she says. ‘They’ll be in no condition to care where they sleep,’ she says. What she