Washout

by Bill Noel

  We walked to the end of the pier, sat on one of the stationary wooden benches, and faced east so the sun would be at our back. A few fishermen were killing time holding poles and praying for some stupid fish to get hungry enough to take the bait. A couple of young fathers were showing their squeamish sons how to bait hooks. Sunbathers were out in large quantities, but the beach was still not as full as at most seaside areas. Moments like this reminded me why I had chosen to leave the comfortable confines of Middle America.

  Larry observed that the average weight of the hundreds of sun worshipers had increased by what he guessed was thirty pounds over the last decade. Charles noted that so had ours—or at least his and mine had. Larry said he’d gained three pounds since leaving the Georgia State Correctional facility. He received no sympathy—and a little envy, perhaps.

  “Okay,” said Charles from under his Tilley protecting his increasingly less-protected scalp, “now can we talk about Larry’s women?”

  Chapter21

  One thing I’d learned about Charles was when he ventured down a street, physically or figuratively, he would crash through any roadblock to reach his destination.

  “Charles,” said Larry, as he continued to look down the beach, “you’re barking up the wrong tree. But don’t guess you’ll stop until I bare my soul, will you?”

  “Not a chance.” Charles was leaning on his cane with both arms crossed and staring at Larry.

  “Okay.” Larry hesitated. “The last seven or eight years, I’ve had three girlfriends. I dated Celeste for two summers. She was from Knoxville and spent five weeks here each year. I suspect you remember her. She was about a foot taller than me, so behind my back, people called us the Odd Couple.”

  “Of course I remember her,” said Charles. “How many vacationers spend more time in a hardware store than at the ocean?”

  “What happened?” I asked, trying not to meddle, but knowing Charles would if I didn’t.

  “Nothing really,” said Larry. “She wrote me once after the second summer to say she’d decided to move to Dallas and wouldn’t be coming back. It wasn’t a mushy letter, but she did say she had loved our time together and would miss me.”

  “Not quite a death threat,” said Charles.

  “You both know Jillian,” continued Larry. He seemed determined to get through his abbreviated descriptions as quickly as possible.

  I hadn’t known her well, but Jillian had been a waitress at the Dog. Amber had good things to say about her. From the best I could remember, she was attractive, short—more Larry-scale than Celeste—and pleasant to talk to.

  Larry stood and walked to the rail, turned his head to the right, and looked out to sea. “We dated hot and heavy for a year,” he said, barely above a whisper. Charles and I had to move closer to hear him over the rhythmic sounds of the surf slapping the shore. “I thought she might be someone I could spend my life with.”

  “And?” said Charles.

  “And, she quit the Dog on a Friday and stopped by the house that night to tell me she was moving to the Isle of Palms with the love of her life, a damned attorney she’d met when he was here visiting Sean Aker, his old college roommate.” Larry paused and continued to gaze at the breaking waves. “To hear her tell it, it was like “Some Enchanted Evening” from South Pacific. She’d been surfing at the Washout when she spotted a stranger across the crowded surf. I never saw her again.”

  “Larry,” said Charles, “I tried to ask you about it when I knew she left. You said it was none of my business.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t let it go, so I made up a story about her having to move to be with her elderly mother in Vermont. I wasn’t in the mood to tell you she’d broken my heart.”

  “I know,” said Charles. “Amber gave me Jillian’s version. I figured if you wanted me to know, you would’ve said something.”

  We remained silent for a couple of minutes. I almost felt like we’d just thrown Jillian’s ashes off the side of the pier.

  Larry broke the silence by telling us about Marie, a lady he was still seeing. She was an administrative assistant with a major real estate and development company in Charleston that had a branch office on Folly Road where Marie worked. He shared that they had good times together, including going to yard sales in Charleston and driving to Edisto Island for kayaking. He ended by saying he didn’t think she was the marrying kind, whatever that meant, but was fun to be with. Charles surprised me when he said he didn’t know her.

  “So that’s it?” said Charles as he pointed his cane at Larry. “That’s your love life? Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  I didn’t say anything. From where I stood, it beat both Charles’s and mine. On that depressing note, we called it a day and went our different directions.

  Had we identified the killer and person determined to make Larry’s life miserable—or worse? If so, how would we know it?

  Chapter22

  The massive Holiday Inn had been the flashpoint for growth versus nongrowth advocates when it snuck under the nongrowth radar and was built in the 1980s. It sat at the end of Center Street blocking the view of the surf. For recent migrants to Folly Beach (myself included), the nine-story hotel, the tallest building on Folly Beach, was a landmark and a nice, predictable Holiday Innish place to stay for short-term visitors to the idyllic island. It also was a place to get a cup of complimentary coffee. The corporate office in England defined who should receive its coffee differently than the friendly local ownership, but corporate was a few thousand miles past the end of the pier and never bothered to check the guest register. I appreciated the opportunity to pick up a cup and sit in one of the comfortable chairs overlooking the pool, the pier, and the Atlantic.

  “Good morning, Diane,” I said to the always-cheerful desk clerk.

  “Morning, Chris. What brings you out so early?”

  Diane, the attractive young bowling pin-proportioned clerk, had worked the night shift for five years. I told her I wanted to get coffee and enjoy a few minutes of silence and meditation before driving up to Murrells Inlet with a car load of jabberers. When I let her know who would be going, she offered me two cups, saying I’d need it.

  Charles and I had planned to drive to Murrells Inlet, pick up Dude—if he didn’t get lost at sea—and have a quick trip home. In his wisdom, Charles had invited Larry to “tag along, get off the island.” One of Charles’s endearing traits (and one of his most irritating) was that he was a mother hen when he felt someone was in danger. Larry was his current chick.

  After finishing my coffee, I got back in my car and drove to Charles’s apartment.

  “Thanks for letting me invite Larry,” said Charles as he climbed in the car. He was wearing a blue and gold Emery & Henry long-sleeved T-shirt with a logo of a wasp on the back. His summer-weight Tilley sat crookedly on his head, and the strap of his Nikon was wrapped over his shoulder. He threw his cane in the backseat.

  I said, “You’re welcome,” although I didn’t remember having a choice. I’d stubbornly avoided asking my strange friend why he wore long-sleeved T-shirts when temperatures exceeded the midnineties. I kept hoping someone else would ask and I’d hear the answer, although I doubted it would be the truth.

  We drove the short distance to Larry’s rental house where he was waiting on the porch. He bounded to the car, entered the rear door, and pushed Charles’s cane to the far side of the seat. Larry was more weather-sensitively attired in a bright yellow golf shirt with Pewter Hardware on the pocket and navy blue shorts.

  “Any bloody messages this morning?” asked Charles, Mr. Sensitive.

  Larry ignored the question, and we spent most of the drive up Folly Road talking about the weather, which was unseasonably warm even for Charleston, and the drought. The summer sun was already far above the horizon and providing a breathtaking view of the marina as we crossed the Ashley River and skir
ted north of the historic section of town. The Cooper River borders the east side of Charleston and features the city’s newest and one of its most striking landmarks, the Cooper River Bridge. Or, as Charles liked to correctly say, the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge.

  Charles, a fount of knowledge mostly leaning toward the irrelevant, occasionally shared bits of useful information. “Did you know that’s the longest cable stay bridge in North America?” he asked as we approached the signature diamond-shaped tower design of the structure.

  I didn’t want to ruin his spiel by telling him that he’d told me that twice when we’d crossed the bridge before. However, when he started describing other marvels of the bridge, Larry broke in that we needed to stop for breakfast soon. Thank you, Larry.

  Murrells Inlet was on the shy side of a hundred miles northeast of Folly Beach. Without the advantage of an interstate highway, the drive would have taken a couple of hours. Pooling our culinary interests and taste, we decided to stop at a Quick Mart on Route 17 just north of Mt. Pleasant and get a selection of Hostess Twinkies, Hostess CupCakes, and (to show we were interested in a well-balanced meal), two Hostess Fruit Pies.

  Our anti-American Heart Association breakfast kept Larry and Charles’s mouths busy and relatively quiet, allowing us to savor the beauty of the South Carolina coast. We could see glimpses of the inlets on the right and the pines of the Francis Marion National Forest on the left. Larry told us all about the forest and the way Hurricane Hugo had ravaged much of it in 1989. Mother Nature was now rebuilding it. Charles huffed, clearly miffed that he hadn’t shared that bit of trivia and said of course Larry would know that because he’s the hardware store mogul.

  “Chris, you know it’s going to take Dude longer to get to Murrells than it will us,” Charles noted. We’d passed a sign announcing that we were ten miles from Georgetown. “Could we stop in Georgetown so we could take some photos?”

  I gave him a hard time but was glad he’d suggested the diversion. I’d never been to Georgetown.

  “I don’t have a camera,” said Larry, who’d been awakened from his post-breakfast nap by Charles’s suggestion, “I don’t suppose that we included me.”

  “Sure it does,” said Charles. “You can use my camera if you don’t drop it or throw it in the water.”

  Georgetown had been a seaport village as early as the 1700s. Along with the cargo coming to the new country from the East, pirates and other budding entrepreneurs converged upon the low country. If modern day pirates existed, they would look like Charles, who was now walking down Front Street taking photos of discarded candy wrappers and jumbo drink cups from local convenience stores. I took the more traditional approach and photographed the multicolored two-story buildings lining the sidewalk. Larry had chosen to cross the street and window shop; apparently guilt by association wasn’t something he desired.

  We’d run out of colorful buildings and trash to photograph and wandered a couple of blocks to the wooden boardwalk adjacent to one of the rivers meandering through the historic area. Larry was leaning against the rail watching the sailboats make their way through the narrow, crowded waterway. Today’s activity made retirement seem heavenly.

  “Guys,” said Larry, as he continued to watch at the sailboats, “somebody doesn’t want to kill me, at least not yet. If he did, I’d already be history. I had to cause someone a flock of grief, otherwise why drag this out? I was up most of the night trying to figure it out. Wouldn’t you think I’d know who it was if I’d hurt him so much?”

  “We’ll figure it out,” said Charles.

  I wish he’d stop making that promise, but I nodded agreement.

  Larry shifted his attention from the boats to Charles, and then me. “I’m scared,” he said.

  That was one of the shortest statements I’ve heard from Larry, but the most powerful.

  “We know,” I told him.

  “You know who should be more scared?” Charles asked. “The asshole who’s doing this.”

  Larry and I laughed. Charles the therapist then said we’d better hit the road, as we “can’t keep Dude waiting.”

  Chapter23

  I had a difficult time concentrating on Charles, who’d regressed to tour guide on the twenty-mile drive from Georgetown to Murrells Inlet. He pointed out the road to Pawleys Island, one of the oldest summer resorts on the East Coast, which is often referred to as arrogantly shabby by its residents. My thoughts kept drifting back to Larry’s comment about how he must have caused someone a flock of grief. I knew if I’d harmed someone that deeply, I’d remember who it was. Was there something Larry wasn’t telling us?

  Litchfield Beach was the next point of interest on Charles’s tour. One of the reasons Charles retained so much trivia was that he listened better than I; now was a good example. I didn’t have a clue what he said about Litchfield Beach as my mind wandered. South Carolina may not have any majestic mountain ranges or massive deserts, but what it didn’t lack was churches. On the short drive from Charleston, I must have seen dozens of them: churches of every denomination, size, and shape; churches enveloped by cemeteries; churches in old houses—houses of people and not worship. Charles rambled on about how new developments had pushed out the charm of the older structures. He was either finished or paused to take a breath. I took advantage of the lull, as they were few and miles apart.

  “Larry,” I said, “you mentioned that one of your cell mates had become a preacher.”

  “Yeah.”

  It may have been my imagination, but he seemed to welcome the change of subject, even it was back to his past. “Hugh Arch,” he continued. “He got himself a church somewhere in Texas. Why?”

  “Had churches on my mind,” I said. “Didn’t you say he was a con artist? What if he’s reverted to his old ways? You said the two of you fought, right?”

  “Chris,” said Larry, “that was a long time ago. I don’t even remember why we fought other than about God. He was moody, almost paranoid at times.”

  “Where in Texas?” asked Charles. “In case you don’t know it, Texas is larger than a bread box—about the size of Jupiter, according to Texans.” His attention was back in the car rather than on the historic and not-so-historic sites along Route 17.

  “I think it was El Paso. Is that near the border?”

  “Yep, right on it,” said Charles.

  I needed to jump in before Charles broke into a history of El Paso and what U.S. president might have been born there.

  “Any way to find out where he is?” I asked.

  “Internet,” Charles answered for Larry. “But it won’t be easy. Finding a preacher in a parsonage will be like finding a needle in a haystack.”

  The discussion on locating the Reverend Mr. Arch was interrupted when I realized I’d just passed where Route 17 split into Business Route 17, the main road in Murrells Inlet. I made a U-turn and went back toward the small community. According to our resident guide, Murrells Inlet had about the same population as Folly Beach but was physically smaller. The Inlet had been settled by Native Americans, but like most of our great country, had been appropriated by visitors from afar and turned into a fishing village. Now, as a result of the free enterprise system, it had become a tourist attraction and retirement community.

  We were supposed to meet Dude at Capt. Dave’s Restaurant. Dude had told us it was along “Restaurant Row,” and we couldn’t miss it. Restaurant Row was appropriately named. It appeared that all the old seafaring ship captains had given up fishing and opened restaurants. If the restaurant names were to be believed, some had been admirals while others had been drunkards. For once, Dude was correct: Capt. Dave’s was easy to find. It was in an attractive two-story structure that overlooked one of the creeks, the marsh, and the boardwalk. We looked around for Dude, but knew he wouldn’t have found it yet, if ever.

  The man—sucker, according to Charles—D
ude was selling his Bayliner to was most likely one of the diners. We walked through the restaurant, out the rear door, and then along the marsh walk. We didn’t have a name and didn’t want to muddle through a conversation with a stranger until Dude arrived.

  Several of the renovated docks were occupied by pontoon boats and small fishing vessels. Three of the boats were covered with red, white, and blue streamers with American flags on every vertical structure. Murrells Inlet had a large Fourth of July parade of boats on the stream along the marsh walk.

  Charles had already walked ahead and cornered an elderly gentleman who was hosing off a boat. In fewer than five minutes, Charles returned with a scouting report. According to our collector of all things irrelevant, “The nice Mr. Codger told me folks came from as far away as Columbia and North Carolina to the festive floating parade. We need to come next year.”

  “That’s something to think about,” I said noncommittally.

  “He also said Murrells Inlet was the Seafood Capital of South Carolina,” added Charles.

  Why learn useless trivia if you weren’t going to share it?

  We were saved from learning additional valuable information about Murrells Inlet when Larry spotted Throw a Wave! heading toward the dock. Miracles did happen: Dude wasn’t lost at sea.

  Dude greeted each of us with a hug and said he thought he’d never find Murrells. Actually, he said he thought he’d never find the United States—“water, water, water, everywhere”—and then he spotted land, and then thought he’d never find Murrells Inlet. “I know how Chris—not you, that Columbus guy—felt.”

  I knew he was shook as he’d strung so many words together in one statement (and they almost made sense). The buyer had told him he would be in the main restaurant, so we waited in Capt. Dave’s dockside bar while Dude took care of the big transaction.