Brynn MacNab

Marva Hicks and the Men in White Hats

by Brynn MacNab

Certain legendary accounts have begun to circulate regarding the encounter between Marva Hicks and myself, Cecil Eitelbach. Legends being notoriously shifty things, unreliable for stability and unaccountable to truth, the time has clearly come for an honest telling to be made--and maybe, when it's done, you'll be prepared in case of finding yourself in a similar fix.

Marva Hicks was wanted by the state for armed robbery, by the DMV for driving without a license, by her mother for skipping out on the annual Hicks' Fourth of July party, and by the Men in White Hats (as they liked to be called) for twenty thousand dollars and no questions asked. I was normally wanted by no one, despite being smart, single, rakishly charming and a bounty hunter (on and off) for thirteen of my thirty-four years. I kept a low profile, professionally, and had thus far avoided crazed revenge- or autograph-seekers. No one but I knew the details of whom I'd taken down, or when or where or how—and no one will. But every shady character from sleepy Union Falls to Jaffrey clear on the other side of the mountain knew I was good. The criminal network in these parts is buried pretty deeply, but my name had inched through it for thirteen years--from dirty pharmacist to illegal Main Street eyesore, from unlicensed homestead kitchen to false ID provider--until the fateful day it reached the ear of the Men in White Hats.

At 10:34am, one slushy Sunday in February, my kitchen telephone began to ring. Normally this does not happen unless I have recently left a message for my mother or one of my many business contacts, and as my phone is near a large window I answered with some trepidation, and not before retrieving my pistol from the silverware drawer. It was already loaded; I very rarely have children in my home.

"Why, how do, Mr. Eitelbach," said an overly friendly male voice--complete with cowboy-western twang. It went on to inform me of Marva Hicks and her various states of wantedness, emphasizing the offer of cash extended by the Men in White Hats. "I don't mind telling you, Mr. Eitelbach, that I wear a white hat on occasion myself. And we are most anxious to get hold of Ms. Hicks before her mother does."

While on the run, the caller explained, Marva Hicks had been generally moving basement-to-basement (although she frequented a few attics as well), conning bystanders into letting her use this undervalued real estate. Eyewitness accounts alleged that she carried two suitcases: one made of gray plastic and one of purple cloth. Whether she carried in them the money from the bank robbery that had the state so upset, or stored the cash at another location, remained unknown. "Not that you need to concern yourself with that," the man assured me. "We're after the fugitive, exclusive of the funds. You'll find we've sent your retainer."  Without opportunity for further discussion, he hung up the phone.

Being hung up on might not have sat too well with me, but after concluding my breakfast I found one thousand dollars and a glossy headshot in my mailbox. (A post-it on the photo said, "Marva Hicks. Please find immediately.") The recognition of my reputation that this implied did much to soothe my ire. I got straight to work.

Although she lived, moved, and had her being right there in Union Falls, Marva Hicks proved a difficult woman to quite pin down. As part of my professional--and, indeed, personal--code, I do not indulge in ugly public scenes. The few occasions when I found her momentarily alone, she disappeared around some corner or through some doorway in a swirl of ruffled skirt before I could get close. (I do have several pleasing and artistic photos from this phase of the investigation.)

It was during the lunch rush at Bob Michael's Hamburger Café that Marva Hicks chose to contact me directly. She sat down at my table and said, "Mr. Eitelbach, it's come to my attention that you've been researching me." She smelled strongly of vanilla, overwhelming the scents from the nearby kitchen and indeed the smell of my own half-finished cheeseburger.

"Has it?" I said.

"It has. I don't take kindly to power relationships, and as we all know knowledge is power. I think it is only fair that I should know as much about you as you know about me. Besides," she said, leaning toward me so that her glossy brown hair fell forward over one shoulder, "I have a feeling you'll be a fascinating subject."

We began at this point to meet, frequently though irregularly, and to exchange some small pieces of information. Although she refused any attempt to schedule these meetings (and understandably so, given my intentions), I had only to attend any large public event or popular restaurant and there she would be. Despite my hopes and my best efforts (and my efforts did not at all abate during this period), I never could get her away from the crowd to take her in. She was a wary, smart, and cautious woman.

Until she fell in love.

Take note of this, as there seems to be some popular confusion on this point. MARVA HICKS FELL IN LOVE WITH ME. I DID NOT FALL IN LOVE WITH HER. I was, and am, a professional.

She declared her affection over hot dogs and orange soda, one foggy Thursday lunchtime at Bob Michael's. She licked a dab of ketchup off her right middle finger and said, "Mr. Eitelbach, I do believe I may be in love with you. Now have you ever heard anything sillier?"

Neither of us laughed. I believe I adjusted my tie, as it seemed rather constricting.

"I suppose," she said, pausing to slurp through her straw, "it may be related to Stockholm syndrome, in some convoluted and incestuous way. Or it may be that I have developed a false sense of intimacy on account of prying the details of your life from your reluctant though enticing lips. But I suspect it has more to do with your rakish charm and that tweed jacket you wear so often on cold days. I must admit, I have always been a fool for a man in tweed."

"Ms. Hicks," I said, "I am extremely flattered." I touched her soft hand in consolation. "Extremely. But please understand, I must maintain distance from my, uh, subjects."

"Understood," she said. "But Cecil--may I call you Cecil?--your professional code appears to have no restraining effect on my feelings. I can't help hoping--don't you think you might make an exception, just this once?"

"You are a beautiful woman," I assured her. This was especially true now, with her brown eyes staring so beseechingly at me. Many a lesser man would have bent to her will, which accounts for the confusion and rumors regarding whose feelings got entangled with whom. "But," I said, "a professional makes no exceptions."

"Damn your profession!" she snapped, and stomped out of Bob Michael's, gingham-clad hips swinging. I watched her and didn't follow, not wanting to take advantage of her emotional vulnerability. I'd been raised to act gentlemanly, and I didn't consider my personal charms as a fair addition to my repertoire of tricks.

I had plenty of time to regret it. For more than a week I couldn't turn up so much as a gossipy whisper of information about Marva. I spent copious amounts of time in public without even a glimpse of her. One day I sat in Bob Michael's Hamburger Café from lunch clear through supper and straight on to nine o'clock when Bob Michael himself stopped by my table to say they were closing.

On the street, a taxi driver sat smoking on the trunk of his car. He held a photograph and glanced from it to me without much hope, then jumped up and shoved the photo in his pocket. "Cecil Eitelbach?"

"Yes."

"Party calling themselves the Men in White Hats sent me to pick you up." He shrugged and threw his cigarette into the street. "The guy said you'd understand."

I looked up the block to where I'd parked. The space lay empty; I got into the cab.

After a long jolting ride down unfamiliar roads (and unfamiliar is saying something in a town this size), the taxi dropped me off at my own blue Chevy--parked by a white clapboard house in what may well have been the exact center of nowhere.

At my knock the door of the house swung inward on a dusty kitchen with a hallway beyond it and a half-open door at the end of that. "Come in, Mr. Eitelbach," called the western-style voice of my employer.

In the back room I found a man in a white cowboy hat--in all white clothes, in fact, down to the ornamented leather boots propped up on the mahogany desk. "Have a seat, Mr. Eitelbach." Two other men, dressed like the first, stood by the door.

"Well," said I, taking the chair in front of the desk, "it's nice to finally meet you. I didn't realize your organization's title was so literal."

"Yes. I believe very firmly in symbolism."

"It suits you. You are fortunate to be a man who wears hats well."

"Mr. Eitelbach, I'll be brief." He took his feet off the desk. "It's been some time since we contacted you regarding Ms. Hicks."

"Some jobs take longer than others."

"Had it occurred to you that we might take our business elsewhere? We had not thought it necessary to give you a deadline, but--"

"Ms. Hicks is a difficult, sophisticated subject. Every successful man in my line of work learns to have patience--"

"And yet you have been seen frequently in proximity to the subject." He opened a drawer and tossed a pile of photographs on the desk. "April 12, 12:38pm, Bob Michael's Hamburger Café. April 15, 7:29pm, Union Falls High School ice cream social. April 17, 12:11pm, Bob Michael's Hamburger Café. April 18, 4:02pm--"

"I don't work in the public eye." I could feel my jaw muscles, my neck muscles, and even the muscles in my forehead tightening. "And I don't appreciate your prying."

"An understandable sentiment. All the same, Mr. Eitelbach, it may be time for you to change your policy."

He raised his eyes to the men at the door, no more than that. Thinking of it now, I have to admire the efficiency. Those two were on me in seconds, never uttering a sound. They dragged me outside so fast I scarcely had a chance to struggle, and when they'd finished convincing me of their seriousness they left me on the hood of my car. I was grateful I could still get in and drive away.

Their precision demands acknowledgement. I am no pugilist, but I imagine it takes a certain level of expertise to beat a man like that and leave him able to drive--one eye not quite swollen shut, just barely able to sit upright and competently operate the vehicle--and make sure he doesn't require outside medical aid. As the passing days turned up no unexpectedly fatal internal bleeding, no late-surfacing concussion, no tiny fractures that would snap into seriousness with use, my respect for the Men in White Hats only grew. When you make your living outside the system of ordinary laws, you have to learn not to take these things personally. I understood their point.

Once I'd recovered enough, I found a renewed dedication to my work--I would bring that woman in, pretty smile or no and emotional vulnerability be damned. I followed every unlikely lead. I tailed suspicious cars. I frequented ladies' clothing stores. One day I got up at sunrise on a tip from a teenager whose parents, the kid said, were sheltering Marva Hicks. The woman who answered the door at the address claimed to have no children and threatened to call the police. When a long day's surveillance couldn't prove her a liar, I wandered home late, too discouraged to peer into every unusual shadow or even to sneak up to the windows of any lit basements I passed. I stumbled into my living room, found my recliner in the dark, and collapsed exhausted.

"Cecil," said Marva, from somewhere near the couch.

I groaned. I'll admit, it had been easier to plan on betraying her when I couldn't find her. "What in hell are you doing here?"

She didn't speak for a long time, and then I heard her fumble her way across the room. Her hands found my knee. She knelt beside my chair. "I can't keep running from you, when all the time I want to run toward you," she said. "It keeps me awfully confused. And speaking of running, I'm well-nigh out of basements. Cecil, I've come to throw myself on your mercy."

"I don't have any."

"That's too bad. I've moved in downstairs."

"Move back out."

"Come on, honey. No one knows I'm here."

"I know you're here. And it's unlikely I'm the only one, as I'm finding lately that I seem to know the least of anyone around."

She let me stew in my annoyance for a minute or two. When at last she spoke, her voice was low, and whether sad or sensuous I couldn't say. "All right, Mr. Eitelbach. I'll tell you everything."

Her story went something like this.

Once upon a time, Marva Hicks met a man who dressed like John Wayne, called her ma'am, and taught her about the carefree life of a career criminal. He failed to mention the discomfort of continual basement dwelling—mostly he talked of guns and diamonds. Being young, innocent and foolish, Marva took to him right away, following him everywhere. She found out he was part of a club called the Men in White Hats. She'd wanted to fit the pioneer theme, so she began to wear long skirts and to tuck her shirts in. She became the only woman in their club, and proud of it. She was the best gun hand they had. Her daddy had taught her how to shoot, although I bet he never figured she'd be using his lessons on bankers and cops.

There were only three Men in White Hats, but they got a lot done. By the time she learned how they did it, Marva Hicks was four years in, law-abiding reputation far behind her. Nobody had been able to pin anything definite on her, though; the Men in White Hats took care of their own.

There were only three Men in White Hats. But there were also a lot more. And there was really only one.

She saw it during a bank heist. She'd been in the back with the manager, scooping money from the safe. A commotion started in the front room, and she ran out to find the place in pandemonium. A bunch of hostages had gotten their courage together and tried to spring something; now several people were shooting, moving, and shouting, and there were a lot more Men in White Hats than there should've been. As Marva looked on, the nearest man split in two, identical, dressed exactly the same. She stood in the doorway, watching people panic and watching the Men in White Hats divide and subdivide. One of them never did: he stood in the center of the crowd, yelling orders, appearing more solid than anyone else.

He looked at her, in the midst of it all—looked, swore, and raised his pistol to point straight at her face. She ran.

No longer under their protection, she'd been seen and identified. Now she was officially wanted for questioning--and, as I knew, also unofficially wanted by the Men in White Hats.

"Now you know the reason," she said. "They're going to--he's going to kill me, Cecil. He ain't human."

Well. What would you have done?

So when they--he--whoever called a few days later, I said, "I've looked everywhere. I have worked myself to the raggedy bones on this case, and I don't appreciate the high-handed approach your office has taken with me."

"You just sit tight," the man said. "We'll send a cab for you."

Marva kissed me goodbye in the safety of my basement--I allowed it; I'm always sympathetic to a hopeless love. Then I went out to meet my fate.

Another taxi delivered me to the same obscure house. I found the same white-clad man in the back room--alone, this time. I would have enjoyed feeling hopeful at this development, but it seemed likely I'd be simply shot. I kept a hand on my own gun, which I'd stowed in my pants pocket. "Have a seat, sir," said the man. "You appear to be on edge."

"I'll allow I am that. If you'll recall our last interview perhaps you'll understand."

The man made a rumbling sound in his throat, which I slowly understood to be laughter. "An unfortunate necessity," he said. "You would have done the same. Mr. Eitelbach, I tire of this inconsequential banter. We know you can find Ms. Hicks, yet you don't find her for us. Why?"

I kept my mouth shut. I tried not to move, and to breathe quietly. In retrospect I'm unsure what I hoped to achieve; I expect some primal instinct convinced me he might forget my presence if I became inconspicuous enough.

This tactic availed nothing. He said, "We know it's because you don't trust us. Requiring us to defend ourselves to you strikes me as singularly unfair, Mr. Eitelbach. We offered a reward for Ms. Hicks's safe return to us on the condition that no questions would be asked. Do you recall that stipulation?"

"I do. My research since then--"

"You spoke to Ms. Hicks. She told you some ridiculous lie about our organization, engineered for the sole purpose of diverting you from your work. Knowing no better, you believed her. Never mind, Mr. Eitelbach, don't explain. After due consideration, we are ready to remedy your ignorant condition. Mr. Eitelbach, we respect your profession and yourself, and we are prepared to tell you everything."

His story went like this:

The Men in White Hats were six brothers, all told. They grew up in a very sheltered home-schooling family, raised on adventure stories, cowboy movies, and the pledge of allegiance. When the boys were just old enough to fend for themselves, their parents died in a car accident. Since then the little clan spent their time spreading goodwill and combating terrorism. Marva Hicks had joined them for a time. In the end she'd proven too fickle for the cause: she'd started making fun of their accents, their bad cooking, and the way they dressed, and finally she'd run off and robbed a bank. The loss devastated them.

"And the end of it is," the man said, pushing his hat back from his forehead and leaning toward me over the desk, "We miss our Marva. We want her at home to make us macaroni and cheese and sing the soprano part when we do the National Anthem together. A couple of the boys can kind of hit alto, but that's as high as we go anymore, Mr. Eitelbach. We don't want to hurt her. And we don't want to have to hurt you, either. Please bring her back to us. We fear she may be a danger to herself, possibly even to you. She did rob a bank. She did shoot a teller."

Then the man and the desk blurred sideways and disappeared, and I fell as the chair beneath me evaporated. I landed on my green kitchen linoleum and blacked out.

Or: the man called a taxi, we sat in awkward silence for half an hour waiting for it and when I got home I ignored Marva's greeting from downstairs, crawled into bed and blacked out.

I woke in my bed at 7pm with my shoes on and competing memories. I could recall no similar experience, nor one more befuddling.

I yelled down the basement stairs that I was going out--and there's proof, if you need it, that I never did love her: surely a man in love would have run right down and poured out his tortured heart then and there. I only said, "I'm going for a drive."

"Can you pick up some peanut butter?" Marva called back. "I was thinking of making cookies." So I guess maybe I should have seen she didn't love me either.

I drove pretty far outside my usual bailiwick. I don't remember the name of the bar I finally reached, but the evening got pretty unpleasant.

I woke, in my car, to a hellishly bright morning, stopped for peanut butter on the way home, and found Marva in the kitchen humming and baking. I had envisioned myself in a righteous rage, demanding to know the truth, the truth, damn it. In fact I believe I promised this scene to more than one barroom confidant. But now, hung-over and exhausted, instead of bellowing I whined, "Marva, I don't appreciate being lied to."

She laughed. "I don't know what he may have told you, but I never lie to men I'm in love with. It's possible they're jealous." She kissed me--I didn't have the heart to stop her. Then she gave me a glass of milk and a brownie hot from the oven.

The next day I got another phone call. "Have you decided to bring her in? We don't want to hurt you, Mr. Eitelbach. Consider it."

I told Marva. She said, "That is troublesome. You do what you think best, darling, I'll accept your judgment."

What a thing to say to a person.

"No," I told the Men in White Hats, the next time they called. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of her."

I went out daily, as if looking for her. One Monady night, over grilled cheese sandwiches and homemade tomato soup, I told her, "I don't know how long we can keep this up. I need paying work, unless you want to start using that bank money. I can't search for you forever."

"Saturday." She smiled. "It'll all be over Saturday." She didn't give reasons, but the Men in White Hats seemed to confirm it the following afternoon.

"If you don't bring her in by Saturday," they said, "the terrorists will win."

Wednesday brought threats, Friday the full sob story again. I didn't listen too closely; I'd made up my mind. You don't turn over a woman who cooks like that.

Even so, I didn't sleep too well. I let myself get up at seven Saturday morning, and found Marva just getting out the bacon and eggs. "There you are," she said. "Any chance you could go buy me some yarn today? I was thinking a nice true red—nothing orangey, but not too dark."

"Of course," I said. So after breakfast I drove around to the other side of the block, snuck through the neighbor's yard and in through my back door. My bedroom faces the street, so I hid in there, eased the window up a couple of inches and waited.

"Cecil Eitelbach!" I jumped, my feet slid out from under me and my rear landed hard. Marva stood in the doorway, hands on hips. "What do you think you're doing? Never mind; don't say it; I don't want to know. You can come downstairs, but you'll hold your tongue. You hear?"

I nodded and followed, rubbing my misused tailbone.

Her suitcases sat on the steps. She took the spot beside them and I settled as gently as I could on the other side of her. I wanted to ask if she had bank money in one of those pieces of luggage. The cash in my sock drawer had grown sparse (and I don't keep it there anymore, so don't get any ideas.) But every time I opened my mouth she held up a forbidding palm, and I knew I'd get neither sense nor sympathy.

We hadn't spent more than five minutes this way when a shining white convertible with three Men in White Hats pulled up to the curb. The two in the back jumped out, grabbed Marva's suitcases, and swung them into the trunk. The third came and stood halfway up the lawn, smiling with teeth as straight as Scout's Honor and as white as new. Marva held up her hand to keep me quiet. A dreamy smile had taken over her face.

The two others, task complete, drifted in to stand exactly beside the one on the lawn. The three looked similar, but not identical, I noted. But once they stood in line, I couldn't see so much as the edge of a hat brim behind the first man. "Marva, honey, I reckon you won."

She launched herself off the step to run and kiss him. When he swung her around in his arms the other men were nowhere to be seen.

"You've been a darling, Cecil," said Marva. She stood on the ground again, her arm around the cowboy. "I'd leave you the money, but there isn't any. Bank heist!" She giggled. "The very thought! I did make you a sandwich; it's in the fridge. And here, here's a memento." She pulled the white hat right off the man's head and spun it toward me like a Frisbee. I caught it. The cowboy frowned, then laughed. "I guess she owes you. Can't say I'm too grateful myself. Never thought she'd lick me."

They went toward the car together, and I heard Marva say, "I hope you'll allow yourself fairly beaten now."

"Well, we'll see," the man said. "Still haven't established repeatability. Could be a fluke."

Marva glared at him, but she got in the car anyway. She waved to me and blew a kiss while the man went around to the driver's side. "Goodbye," she called. "You've been wonderful!" Then she turned back to her companion. "You wouldn't know a fluke if it bit your nose off," she said. "I can charm anyone anywhere better than you can, darling, you'd better just believe it. Or next time maybe I really will run off on you."

The man was laughing as he drove away, with the wind tousling his loose brown cowboy hair as if he were some kind of damn movie star.

I stared after that white convertible long after it was gone, and then I went inside and washed the breakfast dishes and checked the classified ads for honest work. For lunch I had the best ham and cheese sandwich of my life.

That's how it really was. And if Bob Michaels or anybody else tells you otherwise, gives it some kind of tabloid embroidery--some nonsense about flowers, about me saying the kinds of things I'd never say, about some hangdog look they've imagined those days I couldn't find her--you can tell them for me they're fools and liars, and I hope somebody does them the same way sometime.

The End

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