Pool Man: A Nightmare in Riverton Novel

CHAPTER ONE

FLOATER

1991

A body floats atop the water, its color eradicated, its character erased. I can’t do

anything about it, though. He’s not the first man to be left for dead in a swimming

pool, and certainly not the last.

No. I don’t have some quandary running through my head about the right

and wrong, no more than the average man, anyway. Only an unrefined peace of

mind that good things happen to good people, sometimes. And bad things happen

to good people, sometimes. What do I know? Perhaps the guy was no good at all,

and his death’s completely justified.

There’s no indicator of his origin, how he ended up in the pool, or why he’s

dead, and maybe it’s not my concern. He lays there motionless, only the water to

buoy him around as he faces the sky and day breaks upon us. His freshly pressed

jacket, ruined by chlorine, his button-down shirt and tie, soaked and soon sun

bleached. Truth is, the unsightly corpse’s indicators of success are all gone. An

unsubtle reminder that pursuits for wealth in the deep end don’t always end well.

One can only wonder so much about this sort of situation. Of course, I want to

know what happened. If life’s but a vapor, we have two options: own every day

like it’s our last, or run in fear, knowing we’ll one day meet our end, sometimes

interesting, and sometimes not. And that’s it.

I can hope an unspoken eulogy from a stranger gives the man closure, but I

can’t say for certain. He’s still there, still dead.

I do a lot of this sort of musing to get by, making my lonely days and nights

more bearable. I feel smarter, too, although I’m a few brain cells shorter than I was

yesterday. It’s that imperfect blend of the cynical, the rhetorical, the philosophical,

and the comical, whiplashing each other in a barroom brawl— a hackneyed

accountant and cruise ship comedian perfecting their offbeat tango across piles of

broken glass.

That’s as fluffy as my mental prose gets, I swear. I guess I’m admitting I

ponder about like anybody else does to keep their sanity. I’m just trying to scrape

by. So, when I’m not cracking jokes to bust stress, working to solve the world’s

problems, or pontificating to my one-armed audience of one, I’m cleaning pools.

It’s not a great living, but it’s enough.

Yes, the man’s still floating. He’s just a hollow, soggy shell at this point. As the

sky reflects on his lifeless eyes, I can say with absolute certainty, he didn’t die by

drowning, nor an accident. This is murder.

***

I move toward the business responsible, The Oak Hollow Hotel. I’ve got to report

this... development to Jerry Greenwich. This may be our last visit—or, at least, the

final one with me an employee. I don’t know. I wouldn’t call it my fault, but the

pool’s on my watch. I’ve handled it for years. In the 70s, it was the city pool—kept

up well, and with plenty of patterned bikinis and swim trunks, summer eats and

drinks gracing the poolside, and me keeping watch of the chemicals and the area’s

cleanliness. In the early 80s, it was a failing apartment complex pool where the

yuppies, druggies, and cronies all united under the sun in its rolling waves. Not

long after it went under, a peculiar entrepreneur took over the place, employing a

bunch of degenerates to tell horror stories over the phone. It was odd, but caught

on well. And he let them live here, too. Sometimes, these people would come

down for a dip, their venereal diseases crossing streams, and me hoping and

praying the chemicals I treated it with would be enough. Most of the time, not.

Thankfully it was short-lived. The city took it back over again after that. A few

weeks ago, a deal was inked, and the pool once again belongs to the hotel. I’m told

this swimming hole’s been around since the 40s, sometime after World War II. As

for the property, it’s had a bloody past, but that’s another story for another day.

My heart’s racing, my mind wandering in every direction but the one it needs

to. I can’t let anyone see the body. It wouldn’t be fair. You can’t unsee the dead. I

consider my forthcoming fate, all but sealed. And it is indeed sealed. Despite the

talks of checks and balances, processes and procedures, and all the many ways we

can prevent this sort of thing from happening, human error is to blame sometimes.

And, of course, the one night I forget to padlock the gate, this happens.

I walk through the lobby and down into the basement, tapping on Jerry’s

door.

His gruff voice sounds uncaffeinated and worn. “Yeah? Who is it?”

“Mr. Greenwich, it’s Greg Preakle. I need to talk to you, sir.”

“Preakle? Come on in.”

I pop the door open, an immediate musty smell hitting me as Jerry puffs a

cigar. His ugly face is tattered, probably too much smoking. I don’t fancy spending

time in here, certainly not with him. The aquamarine curtains in the office are

dreadful— his disheveled desk, as low a priority as the dirt beneath his fingernails.

And there’s a lot of that.

I search for the right words.

“Sir, there’s a... a problem with the pool.”

He scowls at me, shaking his head as he adjusts a large stack of paperwork and

checks his watch.

“And what’s that? I’ve got things to get to.”

I check over my shoulder and take a deep breath.

“Just come out and say it already,” he interrupts.

I sigh. “There’s a dead man out there.”

“A what?”

“A man is dead in the pool, sir.”

Greenwich’s face turns pasty. The timbre of his voice becomes subdued.

“That’s what I thought you said. Well, let’s deal with it, then, and try not to turn

this into a big scene.”

He motions me out of the room, staring at the nub hovering above what’s left

of my right arm, just above my would-be elbow. No prosthetic, just a fashion

statement. I look at the door handle opposite me, reaching across awkwardly to

push it open.

Greenwich picks up the phone and whispers, “I’m calling 911.”

I move through the basement, an uninteresting space with dusty church pews,

a large wood paneled television with feet, and a barber shop pole that no longer

spins. There are a couple of apartments down here, too, but I’m not one of the

lucky few to stay onsite. And lucky is a word I use cautiously. I suppose my role as

Pool Man isn’t essential enough to the operation to score a benefit like that,

anyway.

As I’ve mentioned, I’ve watched this place wax and wane through the years,

changing hands over and over, and arrived at the conclusion that spending too

much time in the building seems more harmful than good. Weird things happen.

People end up dead. And, inevitably, the place beckons more.

I work my way up the steps, slowed down by my disability but never set back.

Naturally, the railing up the stairs is opposite my working arm. I’m used to it by

now.

Greenwich catches up with me, making our ascent resemble a herd of

elephants. “They’re sending an ambulance and the cops,” he says, huffing and

puffing. “Did you recognize this guy?”

“I don’t know, sir. It seems like the body was dumped. Never drowned, just

left for dead.”

Greenwich clicks his teeth as we go across the lobby, its ornate décor slowly

coming back together after years of decline. “It’s never that simple, Greg. Never.”

“I know,” I say, pulling the front door of the hotel open and moving toward

the pool, “but you know how the police can be about Precinct Three. They always

want everything as open and shut as possible.”

He nods. “I have my hunches about that, but there’s a time and place for those

discussions. It’s not here. And it’s not with you...”

My stomach churns as we get closer, knowing the ugly stiff’s still out there

waiting for us. As we near the pool, Jerry’s face sours. He pulls the gate open in a

rush. “Just peachy!”

The look on his face tells me I’m screwed, and he is, too.

“I don’t answer to the most likeable group of investors, Greg. We’ve got the

ribbon cutting next week, and I’m here shit out of luck with a dead man to answer

for.”

A few minutes later, an ambulance arrives, and the paramedics hop out the

back. I loiter around, hoping to stay out of it. From a distance, I assume Greenwich

is giving a statement of our withering discovery.

I guess he’s done. He walks toward me, dragging his feet. There’s nothing new

about that.

“Take the day off, Greg,” he says. “I’ll handle the rest. The less we make of

this, the fewer questions we’ll get. Good, bad, or ugly... this hotel’s got to keep her

best foot forward for opening day.”

My dislike for Jerry drops a little. It’s apparent he’s said nothing to implicate

me in the man’s death— just what most of us would hope a boss would do in this

unfortunate situation. Whether that’s actually for my sake or to keep the hotel out

of the news, who knows? As of this moment, I’m another day gainfully employed,

and that’s what matters. I don’t mean to be callous, but when you have a pool in

an urban area, this kind of thing happens sometimes. And unless it’s someone

important, it’s a footnote in the newspaper, quickly forgotten and glossed over.

At this point, I can only hope everything blows over and that justice is one day

served.

CHAPTER TWO

LIFE AT COVE RIDGE

I pull my Ranger pickup into the Cove Ridge Trailer Park. There’s no masking

the exploits here. Whether it’s shrieking, moaning, killing, singing, or screaming,

we’ve got it all.

Beat-up cars going in and out, equipped with their latest fix.

Kids on bicycles, inches away from being mowed down by the same vehicles.

Infidelities conveniently accomplished in a waterbed on the same singlewide

floor plan two lots over, either direction.

Pot-bellied men carrying glass bottles in paper sacks at dusk.

I’m not complaining, merely observing. To ask for anything more would take

a move across town and double the salary. I’ve gotten used to this with time, but

if I ever find my way out of here, I won’t hesitate. Trailer after trailer, side by side,

packed tightly on lots so close I can stick my hand out the window, nudge the

house next to me, and hope to God I don’t knock it from its crumbling cinder

blocks.

Arriving home, I turn the engine off. The narrow drive-through lane has

enough room for a single car and nothing more. I keep lot one-forty-three

relatively tidy for a bachelor, but I can’t say the same for my neighbors. Joan on

one-forty-two is a forty-something chain-smoking cat lover with an affinity for

cheesy snacks from mail-order catalogs. She’s low maintenance, unmarried, and

okay with that. Why she keeps rollers in her hair all day long, I’m unclear, but

somehow it matches well with her bathrobe stained in cat piss.

Who am I to judge? I’m single, forty-something, and okay with it, too. I’ve

never hated the idea of companionship. It’s just never been a thing for me. Times

change, though. And, with that in mind, I guess I just have to ride the wave.

Dave on one-forty-four is an entry-level taxidermist with more dead animals

mounted to his walls than he knows what to do with and a beer drinking habit

that leaves his six-by-six garden more full of crushed cans, beer branded collages,

and bottle clinking windchimes than should be legal this side of the Mississippi.

As for the taxidermy, we’re not just talking about a couple of deer, racoons, or

field mice. The guy does possums, dogs, and cats, too. Some commissioned pieces

having been from the likes of Joan but remain unaccepted and unpaid. They just

aren’t that great. Don’t get me started. People do weird things to get by when

they’re in a pinch. Dave’s been pinching it a while.

I grab a stubby Flitz beer from the fridge, plop down in my recliner, and turn

on the TV. I’ve grown accustomed to the occasional roach that runs down my east

wall, but I don’t care anymore. They never loiter, and it’s rare I’m fast enough

before it slips out of sight somewhere behind the wood paneling and the outer

wall. There is one tonight, but I’m not getting up again. Tonight’s feature, a seedy

game show called Twisted Hacks on Channel 33. Most of the time, I change the

station, but after seeing a dead man in the pool this morning, I’m a little jaded,

maybe even numb, making trash TV a welcome distraction. The show’s

distasteful, but I can’t help but watch. It’s locally produced, and there’s just

something about the host’s pompous, devil may care attitude. Nearly every

element of the unlikable guy is a faux exaggeration, and I’m sure the actor playing

the character is bound to be tired of the ugly blonde wig and sunglasses by the end

of each episode.

As for the setup on the program, it’s a simple two-camera game show with a

lot of whimsical music, bright pastels, and spinning floors with three contestants

rushing to answer a list of macabre questions, a timer counting them down to an

unfortunate fate. There’s anonymity to the program, though. Each player wears a

different colored motorcycle helmet with the visor down, and they’re only called

by their first name.

At the episode’s conclusion, scores are tallied, and each contestant receives

their “Final Verdict” after a trip to the “Wheel of Doomsday”.

Castle Productions, the studio responsible for Twisted Hacks, is known

around town as the alternative to homelessness. It’s something the producers

regularly flaunt as if they’re doing something meaningful to pour into the lesser

people of the community. Maybe they are. As for their other programs, there’s

only two, a slasher of the week show called Freaky Fred, and a situational sketch

comedy called Squirrels Chasing Rabbits. Even Dave has resorted to going on

Twisted Hacks when he’s fallen on hard times. What he blew the money on, I

couldn’t really say. Garbage in, garbage out.

As for me, I’m an ordinary guy with better things to do than sulk and feel

sorry for myself. To do otherwise is unhealthy. I drift away for the night in my

living room recliner. My bedroom’s only a place for momentary escape, never

extended sleep.

1969

The front door squeaks open, and dad’s work boots clomp across the floor.

Rounding the corner, he carries an eight-millimeter reel lifted from base beneath

his left arm. He skips past mom, grabbing a cold beer from the refrigerator, and

giving my brother, Denny, and I a nod to come into the garage with him.

A feeling overtakes me. I’m confident this is one of those father-son moments

that I will never forget. Dad pulls out our projector from a dusty box in the corner

and props it up on a pea-green table picked up from a yard sale. I haven’t

confirmed this, but I don’t think he’s allowed to have it inside, or so my parents’

most recent argument leads me to believe.

There’s a glimmer in his eyes today. It’s rare to see him this way. Anything

beyond work or politics just doesn’t keep his attention. He rests his beer on the

table, the bottle quickly sweating, an unsightly ring forming beneath.

Looking us both in the eyes, dad smiles as he clears his throat. “Guys, there

comes a time in a man’s life when he has to decide what kind of man he’s going to

be. A man that lives for his nation... or a man that lives for himself. There’s not a

right or a wrong answer, but there is a better one.”

I look at Denny. We both study the blank sheetrock the projector shines upon

as the old man threads the 8-millimeter reel. There’s a PROPERTY OF US

GOV’T tag on the side of it as it spins, making it even more official as it cues to a

voiceless barrage of video clips. The soldiers in uniform, running, jumping, rolling

in the dirt, lining up outside barracks, firing guns, their drill sergeants yelling. The

reel flashes and flickers to the mess hall, the commissary, and the officer’s club.

The men on the video running through a complete gambit of emotions.

Dad narrates, “Men, there’s no shame in staying home and keeping your

house clean. But I’d wager that’s something to do in retirement. These men, they

made the right choice. The better choice. I know none of us are pleased with the

Viet-Cong right now, but you know, it’s... uh... an important time we’re in. Think

about the impact you could make.”

The reel ends. Awed with excitement, I look over at Denny. His eyes are

glossed over and he’s uninterested.

Dad continues his speech. “I’ve got a variety of tires, ropes, and materials that

will make our backyard a fine training ground for two able-bodied young men.

I’m not going to vet this past your mother, because I feel in my heart... this is what

you were made to do, sons. Now, make me proud!”

My vigor makes me want to spring to my feet. “Yes, sir,” I yell.

We make eye contact. “There are lessons to learn in life, guys! Your mom and

pop won’t always be around to clean up your messes. Will they?”

My old man looks at Denny, who remains lost in thought. “Always the

momma’s boy, aren’t you, Denny?” his voice, curt and strong as he gulps down

his beer. “Unless she ain’t looking...” He gives Denny a playful slap on the cheek.

“Now, prove me wrong. Let’s set up the backyard and make men out of you!”