Gunnar In The Carrels

A Note to Readers:

Welcome to what I am calling Season 2 of Gunnar In The Carrels. Anyone who hasn't read Parts 1 through 10 (what I am now going to call Season 1), relax! You are officially absolved. But don't let that stop you if you feel inclined as it will certainly help your understanding of events.

What you are reading is the first draft of a potential novelette? novel? written on the fly. Events and timelines are going to shift around as they find their natural level. Go with it.

Most of all, thanks for reading and feel free to comment.

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Part 7

Walter Hammond believed all stories could be filed into one of seven categories. Love, Money, Power, Revenge, Survival, Glory and Self-Awareness.

Early this morning, he got called to a fire out at the Miller place near Karlstad. He took some shots of the blazing barn before the firemen got their hoses out and then just hung around the scene, talking to anyone who was standing back watching the action. This was always the best way to pick up details, he found.

For instance, he learned from the Miller’s neighbour, George Atkins, that they had been struggling since the auto manufacturer that employed half the region had moved the work to South America and Jean Miller, like many people, lost her job. The money had been needed to carry the farm between loans and harvests.

Money, Walt decided. But then, more kindly, Survival.

It took hours for the firemen to put out the flames in the old barn and, once the sun was up, Walter took the opportunity to hike back along a fence line to a fishing hole he used to visit with Tommy Miller when they were boys. Buds were just forming on the trees that sheltered the little pond, but the ground was dry and the sun was warming, so Walter stretched out and had a bit of a nap.

Sleeping outdoors always invigorated him despite the fact that his hip joint sometimes stiffened. Later, as he limped back toward the farm and saw that the fire was entirely out, he thought maybe he’d go over and visit his cousin Bill after he got the statement from the Fire Chief. He and Bill used to run together in highschool, working on cars and drinking beer all weekend. He hadn’t seen Bill in awhile.

They’d had a lot to talk about, as it turned out. Bill had come into some money and was making plans to pack up shop and move to Florida. It was lucky he’d stopped by today because they might never see each other again.

Love, filed Walt.

It was well past lunchtime, therefore, when he was driving through Karlstad on the way back to Anneville, and, as he passed The Acropolis Diner, he thought fondly of the BLT sandwich they’d made him on his last visit. And maybe a piece of coconut cream pie.

Survival. And maybe Self-Awareness.

Walt had been a ‘newspaper man’, as he called himself, from the very beginning. His first job had been a paper delivery route his father got for him when he turned twelve. That was when he’d started to read the paper too. He considered it professional research.

One morning, out on his route, he’d witnessed a car accident - just a fender bender - but the two drivers had shouted at each other and then started throwing punches and someone called the police. When he finished his route, Walt tore home and wrote an article about the incident. He worked hard to make his printing neat and his paragraphs coherent. Then, he’d taken the article in to the office of the Anneville Transcript and asked to speak to the editor.

At that time, it was Ed Crane, a big bear of a man who carried the weight of the local paper as a cloak of authority in a way Walt would never master when he became editor himself. Ed had read the article, crumpled it up, tossed it in his waste basket, and look at the scrawny kid across the desk.

“Next time get a picture,” he said. He pointed at Walter with his chin, “You want a job?”

“I got a job. I got a paper route,” said Walt, a bit defensively.

Ed smiled. “You wanna be a newspaper man, kid?”

Walter nodded vigorously.

“Good. Now you got two jobs. Show up here 9 AM sharp on Saturday mornings and I’ll show you how to make a newspaper. But you gotta work hard. A newspaper man is always working. You’ll see.”

And Walt did see. Over the years that he’d worked his way through the newspaper’s few positions - ad sales, photographer, obituaries and birth announcements - he’d developed a newspaper man’s instincts, the way old Ed had told him he would.

It was these instincts that were instantly alerted as he pushed open the door to the diner and took in the scattering of people inside. There was Chris Christopoulos at the usual family table towards the back, reading today’s edition of the larger daily paper that came out of the city and indulging in an indoor cigarette as he only did when the restaurant was almost empty.

Walt ambled back and slid into the booth across from Chris, who looked up in mild annoyance and then continued to peruse the paper. After a minute, Walter slid out again and helped himself to a coffee from the pot on the burner behind the counter. He used this as an opportunity to check out the other patrons and almost choked on the first sip of his coffee.

Was that David Larsson with Jenny Kobayashi? Were they holding hands?

Walter averted his eyes and returned to Chris’s booth. His first thought was Love. He snuck another glance at the couple, who were leaning in towards each other and speaking in hushed voices over their clasped hands. Nah, he decided. Power. For both of them.

He often encountered secret news. This was the name he gave to the stories he knew but couldn’t print in the paper. Whether or not the voters of Anneville had a right to know that the mayor was cozying up with a town councillor was moot. He could never print this story in the paper. There had to be some decency, he thought, some privacy or else people would run him out of town.

Walter turned in the other direction to see who else was witnessing this. Jim Belson sat alone at the other table, alternating between watching David and Jenny furtively from beneath the brim of his cap and staring down at his phone, which was buzzing with a message every five minutes or so.

Something was up.

“Be right back,” he said to the taciturn Chris, who did not look up once from his paper as Walter left the restaurant, went to his car, and returned with the small bag of camera equipment he carried always. He unzipped the lid and checked his lenses, leaving a camera out on the table. Then he waited for something to happen.

He thought Larsson or Kobayashi might recognize him. After all, they went to the same events and had been introduced several times. Walt pretty much was the local media. But they hadn’t even looked up and Walt wondered at their lack of concern about being seen. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this, he thought.

The diner was still except for the whirring ceiling fans so it seemed like a sudden flurry of activity when the couple rose to leave. Everyone jumped into motion at once. Chris leaped to his feet to meet them at the cash register. And Jim, Walt noticed with interest, started texting frantically, cursing softly as his calloused fingers struggled with the tiny buttons.

Walt watched with interest as Chris handed David a key with an enormous gold tassel attached to it. David took the key and held the door for Jenny. Through the windows, Walt saw them head around the side of the building to a staircase that led to the second floor. He looked at the ceiling as footsteps became audible over the country and western music that was playing.

Chris returned to the table and picked up his paper.

“What was that?” asked Walter.

“What?” asked Chris, not looking up.

“The key? That you just gave to David Larsson.”

Now Chris did look up and met Walt’s eye directly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said and, folding his newspaper, moved through the swinging door to the kitchen of the restaurant, shouting at the prep cook in rapid fire Greek.

Walt turned around just in time to catch Jim Belson also staring at the ceiling above his head, before he turned back to his cell. Why would Jim Belson be watching the mayor, he wondered.

Walt watched as a black pick up truck pulled into the parking lot outside, parking close to a silver cadillac that could only belong to Larsson. When Jim saw the truck, he stood up, dropped change on the table, and left, going out to greet Ron Andersson as he got out of the black pick up.

Ron Andersson, Walt pondered. Didn’t his wife used to work for Larsson...and then Walt knew what kind of story this was.

Revenge.

(A treat for careful readers: If anyone noticed that I switched Larsson's car from a BMW to a Cadillac, congratulations! Five gold stars for you!)