Washout

by Bill Noel

  Wasn’t that thoughtful? I smiled to myself. Amber looked over at me, but I tried to maintain a neutral facade.

  “Okay,” she said, “but meet us in front of the surf shop the minute they’re over.”

  I think I heard thanks and okay and later from two happy young men as they scampered away.

  “Want to take a walk before the fireworks?” she asked.

  “Sure, but we better not go near the beach. Don’t want sand in our shoes.”

  She laughed, and I had succeeded. My love of crowds was only surpassed by my love of root canals, so I led our walk west on Arctic Avenue, away from the center of the festivities. We followed the sidewalk past the Holiday Inn and the Charleston Oceanfront Villas on the beach side of the road. Across from the Villas was the Roadhouse Café, a cross between a bikers’ bar and small town pool hall. The yellow-painted, elevated building had a nice outdoor seating area overlooking the beach. The Oceanfront Villas prevented the view from being unobstructed, but still it was one of the best bar views of the ocean on the island.

  Someone yelled Amber’s name from under one of the blue and white beer company logo-covered umbrellas on the deck. She looked and smiled, but made no effort to stop or cross the street.

  West Arctic Avenue ended a little past the Villas. Years ago it had continued on, but erosion and a hurricane here and there had swallowed any trace of the road.

  “Back to Larry,” she said. Her eyes darted back toward the blue and white umbrella. We’d arrived at the end of the street and turned left to a public walkway to the beach. I noticed only three other couples nearby.

  We stopped midwalkway. To continue would have put us in the dreaded sand. The nearest couple was a dozen feet away. Not a bad spot to hang out, I thought. I held her hand as she stepped on the first wooden crossbeam and took a seat on the top rail. “Yeah, got any ideas?”

  “The guy who yelled my name back there is Tony, the one Dude mentioned.” She looked at the pier, and then all around us. “He used to work for Larry at the hardware. Rumor has it Larry fired him about seven months ago. I don’t know about that, but I know he’s now working as a mechanic at that gas station by the Pig.”

  “He knew you,” I said. “You mentioned it the other day.”

  “Yeah.” She frowned, and her face suddenly looked pale and drawn. “He comes in occasionally. You couldn’t tell with him sitting down, but he’s a big guy, six two at least.” Amber looked down at the walk. “He’s tried to hit on me a few times. He’s obnoxious, loud, rude, and a little too crude for me. Said he’d like to take me for a ride on his surfboard—I don’t think he meant literally. To be honest, I don’t know how Larry put up with him.”

  “Guess he didn’t.” Then I added. “Know anything else about him?”

  “No, other than he never had much good to say about Larry, even when he worked for him.”

  Interesting.

  Shadows from the trees and houses behind us began to spread over the beach and into the ocean. Amber was still perched on the rail. I stood beside her, and her leg touched my arm. The three other couples obviously hadn’t been warned about the horrible fate that adults could suffer if they got sand in their shoes as they’d ventured across the beach to the edge of the water.

  The distant stars were beginning to appear; the smells of the nearby vegetation were becoming stronger after being heated by the steamy, hot July day; the sounds of distant laughter from downtown could barely be heard. and, thoughts of funerals, bodies, blood, cryptic notes, and Larry were all being washed away by Amber and the best Fourth of July in my memory.

  Amber eased down from the rail and rested her head against my shoulder. “This is nice.”

  She got no argument from me as we looked up as the first burst of fireworks lit up the sky.

  Chapter17

  The sun officially rose at 6:22 a.m. the day after our nation’s birthday. I followed it by ten minutes, awakened by the shrill sounds of my phone.

  “Hey, Mr. Photo Man,” came the voice of the way-too-cheery Charles. “How about them fireworks? Enough about fireworks—did you spend the night with Amber? Did you find someone to take Jason home for the night? How were your fireworks? Got her a ring? Going to name your first child Charles? How …”

  “Whoa, stop,” I said, then tapped the headset on the table. “Charles, I’m going to hang up, then slowly pour myself a bowl of cornflakes, then take a shower. Then I’m going to slowly get dressed, then read the paper—slowly, then maybe take a short nap, and then slowly walk to the gallery. No, I think I’ll walk around town and take some photos, and then I’ll walk to the gallery. My next words to you will be, ‘Good morning, Charles—how was your Fourth of July?’ You’ll hear those words when you arrive at Landrum Gallery around ten.” I hung up. I couldn’t imagine what life would be without Charles around. I didn’t want to either.

  The gallery had slowly become the Dog without food. No sooner had I unlocked the door than Dude meandered in. He was less-than-nattily attired in raveled cargo shorts and a purple T-shirt telling the world that the Skully surfboard was the greatest thing since God surfed across the Red Sea. I hadn’t been around that long and knew nothing about surfboards, so I had to take his shirt’s word for it.

  “What brings you out on a Sunday morning?” I asked him.

  “Thought the Chuckster’d be here. Question for him? You too, if you’d like?”

  Charles, alias the Chuckster, came bursting through the door while I was still looking at Dude with visions of verbs dancing in my head.

  “Hey, Dude—Chris tell you about last night?” started my single-minded friend.

  I interrupted before Dude could not say some words, “Charles, Dude has a question.”

  “Let’s see,” said Charles, “We can talk about your sex life or listen to a question from Dude.” He pointed his cane at me, then at Dude, and then back at me. “Tough call—sex wins.”

  “Whoa,” said Dude. “Not talk for my ears. Here’s my question.”

  “Dude, can’t it wait?” Charles was still pointing his cane at me.

  “Nope, sold the Bayliner.” Dude walked over to Charles and grabbed the end of the cane pointed at me.

  I started laughing when he pulled the tip toward himself. The Bayliner was a thirty-four-foot fishing boat said to be worth more than $80,000 that Dude had been trying to sell for two years. It was docked at the Folly Bay Marina. He’d never said where he got it, or why. According to keeper-of-all-rumors Charles, Dude had never ventured more than a couple of hundred yards off the coast—and that was on his surfboard.

  “Throw a Wave! be going north Tuesday,” Dude continued. “Gotta drive it up to Murrells Inlet. If I find the way, don’t get lost at sea, will need a ride back. Up to it, Chuck?”

  “Sure,” said Charles. He was still pouting about the turn of the conversation. “I’m up to it, but don’t think my Saab is.” He removed Dude’s hand from the cane and put the tip against his Tilley. “I could take a bus up there, and we could hitchhike back. No, I have a better idea. We could take some of the money you get and buy us a big Harley with a sidecar to ride back on. No, I have a better idea …”

  “Time out,” I said. I had no interest in hearing his next idea. “I’ll drive.”

  “Wow,” said Charles, “you’re psychic. That’s my next idea.”

  We agreed on a time and place to meet, and then Dude merrily left to do whatever the Dude does. Charles went into my office to pretend like he was doing paperwork.

  My first paying customers of the day nearly ran into the departing Dudester. A ringing cash register is sweet to hear in the morning, especially when it holds the money from one of the large framed images. The middle-aged couple had been in a few days earlier, but I didn’t put too much credence when they said they’d be back. Pleasant surprises are nice but rare day st
arters, which is why I suppose they’re called surprises.

  However, the second the next person entered, I knew my pleasant feeling was about to end. Chief Newman was always welcome, but I would have preferred that he leave his most serious look behind. I could tell he had his work face on as he looked around the gallery.

  “Anybody else here?” he asked as he continued to survey the room.

  “Charles is in back, but that’s it,” I said. “Want to go back in the office?”

  He nodded and followed me. He also nodded at Charles, and I was pleased to see that Charles could tell it wasn’t a time for teasing. Charles and I sat; the chief paced.

  “I just got back from Charleston,” he said in his chief’s voice. “When I was picking up files from the Sheriff’s Office, I ran into Detective Lawson. I hadn’t talked to her since they found the body. She said the homeless guy looked like he’d fallen into a vat of razor blades. Detective Braden kept saying he’d been sliced and diced.”

  “Do they know what happened?” I asked.

  “Sorry, no. Whoever did it must have worn gloves. There were no prints on the plastic tarp or the Pewter Hardware cap, and no murder weapon was found. All they know is the weapon was extremely sharp—a razor blade, box cutter, scalpel—who knows?”

  “Chief,” I said. “We talked to Larry about enemies but didn’t get far. He mentioned a couple of guys he shared time with in prison, but circumstances eliminated them.”

  “I wouldn’t eliminate anyone,” said the chief. “I told you before—I’m worried about him.” He had taken a seat and was more relaxed than when he entered. “You know we can’t protect him here, and he’s too stubborn to leave until we get it figured out.”

  Charles spoke up: “Chief, if Larry knows anything, we’ll get it out of him. Count on it.”

  I wish I had Charles’s confidence. We talked some about the previous day’s festivities and the problems the police always had. I brought the conversation to an end when Charles asked the chief if they’d found any eleven-year-olds walking the streets after having been kicked out of the house. The chief looked confused. I glared at Charles and told Brian to consider the source.

  ***

  Charles had been quiet after Newman thanked us for letting him share his concerns and left to solve some crimes. “I don’t suppose you’re going to be telling me about last night?” he said.

  “Charles, if there was something to tell, I wouldn’t.”

  “I know. Thought I’d give it a try, catch you in a moment of weakness.”

  “Yeah, six thirty this morning.”

  “Okay,” he said, “now let’s talk about Larry. Why don’t you call your current, past, or whatever-she-is girlfriend at the paper and see what she knows about the murder? Brian Newman doesn’t always tell us everything.”

  The last person I wanted to talk to today was Tammy. I didn’t know where our relationship stood, or where I wanted it to stand if I had a choice. But, Charles had a point. I made the dreaded call.

  She surprised me with a more pleasant greeting than I’d heard in months. Unfortunately, she hadn’t heard any more than what the chief had told us; in fact, she didn’t even know how mutilated the body had been.

  She ended the conversation with another surprise: “Chris, could we meet somewhere this evening? I want to clear up a few things.”

  I agreed, and we ended the call. I didn’t have time to figure out this turn of events. A young couple wandered in to take advantage of the air-conditioning on their first visit to Folly Beach. Another potential customer had come over for the day from one of the expensive hotels in Charleston. He said he’d visited the galleries there and been told that if he wanted quirky, he should visit Folly. I laughed and told him my photos were anything but quirky, but if it was quirky he was looking for, he had come to the right island. Charles was in the office humming “The Stars and Stripes Forever” loud enough for my potential customer to hear. I nodded toward the office, and said, “See?” My customer’s exit was much more rapid than his entrance.

  “Unpatriotic fellow,” said Charles. He had just finished another verse of the official march of the United States and come back into the gallery when the door opened again.

  My trusty Realtor, Bob Howard, burst in and asked, “When are you going to close this damn place so I can rent it to another sucker?”

  Chapter18

  “Good morning, Mr. Best Realtor in the second largest of Folly’s three small realty firms,” I said, hoping I’d kept all the facts straight. “What brings you and your aura of charm to visit? I know you’re not here to buy anything.”

  He looked like he hadn’t shaved in the month of July, and he was as disheveled as one could be and still be seen in public. He was another of the left-of-strange friends I’d accumulated.

  “You got that right,” he said. He looked around the room and spied Charles standing quietly in the corner, a unique sight in itself. “Hi, worthless twerp.”

  “I’m getting a listing on a home out by the Washout,” continued my burly buddy as he turned his attention back to me. “The couple bought the house on East Ashley five years ago. They loved the view of the ocean across the street, but bought it in March, the slow season. The wise former owner forgot to tell them that come spring, the Washout was a gathering place for all the damn burnt-out, aging hippies who surfed, and every other dumbass who thinks he can surf. The guy’s some financial guru in Charleston, but a total idiot at the beach.”

  “So what happened?” asked Charles. He was used to Bob’s insults, and had learned last year that most of the cutting remarks were in jest.

  “The straw that broke the damn jack’s ass was when Mr. Financial Genius came home and found four surfers standing bare-ass naked in his outdoor shower behind the house.” Bob giggled. A frightening sight, I thought. “Actually, he said two of them were showering and the other two were not showering, if you get my drift—his words, not mine.” Bob smiled and took a deep breath, more like a sigh, then walked back to the office and plopped his ample posterior in one of the chairs. Charles and I followed.

  “So,” he continued, “This guy called me, Bob Howard, to the rescue, thus proving there’s hope for even the most ignorant financial genius. Have a seat—I don’t have to meet him for another hour, so I’ll let you hang with me until then. Even you, Charles.” Bob waved his arms toward the other two chairs and then pointed to the refrigerator. “Got any pie?”

  “Sorry, Bob, the Dog’s across the street,” I said, “This isn’t a restaurant.”

  “So what’s this I hear about the two of you playing detective?” Bob’s transitions are as smooth as Charles’s; they simply involve more words. “The last two times you came up with that brilliant idea, you almost got yourselves killed. Now I remember: I had to save your damn asses.”

  That was revisionist history, but I let it go. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but Charles and I are helping the police keep an eye on a friend.”

  “Right,” said Bob, but he was shaking his head. “If you need any help keeping an eye on miniature hardware man, let me know.”

  Deep, way deep, under his exterior gruffness was an exceedingly kind person.

  “And,” Bob continued, “if you screw it up and miniature man gets killed, make sure I get the listing on his store.”

  Our typical banter continued, interrupted once by another customer who actually bought some note cards. Bob headed to meet his latest mark. Before the best Realtor with the second largest of the three small realty firms on Folly gets through with him, the financial guru will be begging him to sell the house before the Washout crowds move into the spare room and steal his flat screen television.

  Chapter19

  I agreed to meet Tammy at The Athenian, a small, authentic Greek restaurant between the College of Charleston and King Street, the upsca
le shopping address in Charleston. It was within walking distance of her loft apartment in a converted warehouse.

  I’d arrived thirty minutes early, as parking was always difficult in Charleston, and I wanted to get there ahead of time. Luck was with me: a spot was being vacated two blocks from the restaurant on a street that wasn’t permit only. The restaurant’s facade was about twenty feet wide but deceptively deep. Sunday evening was not a big eating out night, and I selected a booth near the rear with hopes of privacy.

  The restaurant had a long, straight central corridor, so I was able to see Tammy enter. She was as radiant and lovely as ever. Thought scarcely five foot four, she carried herself like a model. The first time I’d seen her, I thought she looked like a younger version of Diane Sawyer, but now I decided she looked even better. When she saw me, she broke into a high-wattage smile. I’d already ordered a bottle of Boutaris.

  “Thanks for meeting me, Chris.” I stood to greet her, and she gave me a light kiss on the lips. “I know this isn’t convenient for you, but I’m always pressed for time—murder doesn’t take time off.”

  That I had known and was used to it being the reason we couldn’t see each other more. The efficient waitress was already at the table asking if we wanted appetizers. We declined the opening round and ordered a large Greek salad to split.

  “Chris,” she said, “I know you think I’ve been distant the last few months.” She hesitated and kept gazing at the menu on the table. “I guess I have.”

  “Yes,” I said. She reached out and put her hand on mine before I could continue.

  “Please,” she said, finally making eye contact, “let me finish. This is hard.” She looked down at the menu. “I love you, and have ever since we had our first supper together over at Condon’s. I know you feel the same way. But, you’re enjoying your retirement, and I … I’m still enjoying my career. Sometimes I feel obsessed by it.”