by Bill Noel
***
“I’ve been thinking,” said Charles. It was nearing closing time. “Don’t you think we need to check out the three women Larry’s dated? The killer is harboring a ton of hate. What better suspect than a woman?
“Unless I’ve missed something,” I said, “Isn’t one of them in Knoxville, Tennessee, another over on Isle of Palms with the love of her life attorney, and Marie, he’s still dating? I didn’t hear any clue about hate, did you?”
“I’ve got an idea.” He pointed his cane at the cash register.
An idea from Charles was almost as scary as his saying that he’s been thinking.
“If you bankroll me, I could go over to Tennessee and the Isle of Palms and put on my charm. I could wine, dine, and sweep the two off their feet. And then, using the age-old technique of pillow talk, I could find out what they really think of Larry.” He stopped pointing his cane at the cash register and waved it in the air like he was spreading fairy dust with a wand. “What do you think?”
I looked to see how serious he was—no clue. “No, Charles. Not now, not ever. No.”
“Thought I’d give it a try,” he said as he leaned against the cane.
It was time to close. The heat wave had waned a bit, so it was only in the upper seventies with a light breeze. As I wasn’t ready to go home to an empty house, I decided to walk around town and take a few sunset photos. I got my Nikon and dreaded tripod and headed to the end of the pier. Due west was back over the city toward the marsh, so I couldn’t get any true sunset photos. The sky was filled with light billowy clouds, and the red and orange rays of sun were bounced over and under the white-morphing-to-gray clouds.
I’ve been blessed to escape into the two-dimensional world of the photographic image by concentrating on the viewfinder and camera controls. I could ignore whatever was going on with Larry, what I was feeling about the loss of Tammy and my growing relationship with Amber, and what I believed about myself being on the downward slope of life. Many things I’d dreamed about doing years ago were now only dreams, never to be realized. I uttered a silent prayer of thanks to photography.
After leaving the pier, I headed for the top floor of the Holiday Inn, the highest point on Folly Beach. All rooms opened to an exterior walkway that had a great view up Center Street. At night, the music from the nearby rooftop bars could be heard from the exterior walkway and the live sounds of hard rock, country, and easy jazz competed with each other.
I placed the tripod on the walk and aimed the wide-angle lens toward the colorful lights of the city. The smells from the outdoor commercial grills provided as many competing aromas as the genres of music.
It would have been easy to say Larry’s problem was for the police and that I should simply enjoy what could be the best years of my life. But it wasn’t in me to take the easy way out.
Chapter28
Thursday was one of the Dog’s busiest days of the week. The owners weren’t sure why, so they simply enjoyed the fruits of a busy restaurant.
A breakfast burrito and steaming coffee waited for me at my favorite table. A couple of tables away, the two city council members sat nose to nose, deep in conversation. They must have spent more time in the Dog than they did at city hall (and certainly more than they spent on city business). I could hear enough to know they were talking about the latest barrage of developers who were trying to sneak their development plans through the powers that be. The Civil War (or as it was referred in my adopted part of the country, the War of Northern Aggression) might be over, but the battle between developers and those who wanted Folly to remain unchanged will never end.
Mayor Eric Amato entered, walked over to his two legislators, and whispered something. From the way the three laughed, I doubted it was about the pros and cons of increasing taxes for improved trash pickup.
Dude was often at the Dog by now, so he was running late when he finally stopped by my table. “More blood?” he asked.
“Nope,” I replied.
“Good. How’s Lar?”
“Okay, considering.”
“Still surf holds angry sharks,” he said.
Where was my translator when I needed him? “Means what?” I asked.
“Two slashed bods. Deep hate for the Larster. Didn’t fester overnight,” he said. “Sharks and hate have been around since prehistoric times. Reason ain’t recent.” He shook his head and whispered, “Scary.” He walked away from the table, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed.
What was even scarier was that I understood all that.
Before he got to his table, Dude snapped his fingers and headed back.
“Forgot, nearly,” he said, “Your surfin’ lesson’s soon. Be ready.” He turned and was gone—again.
Along with a second cup of coffee, Amber brought me the news that Jason was still away at camp and wouldn’t be home until late Sunday. Without thinking, I asked if she wanted to go to supper off-island. Her smile and nod erased thoughts of sharks or surfing lessons. I think I’d made a date.
Charles was at the gallery when I arrived. I’d nearly been run over by a car when I was crossing Center Street. Between thoughts of a date with Amber and the movie Jaws, my attention was far from the traffic on Folly Beach.
“I don’t suppose you were the cause of that horn blowing?” Charles asked as I entered. Dressed in a blue and khaki College of the Atlantic long-sleeved T-shirt, he was standing by the front window where he had a direct view of the street.
I didn’t want to explain why my mind had been wandering, so I asked him about the college I’d never heard of.
“Chris, your ignorance continues to amaze me. Everyone knows about the ‘cleanest college in the world’ in Bar Harbor, Maine.”
“Everyone?” I rolled my eyes.
“Everyone but you. They only have one major, Human Ecology. Green’s the thing; remember that—green.”
The absurdity of the conversation reminded me I wanted to get with Bob Howard, so I said “whatever” and walked to the office to call him. A free meal got my Realtor friend’s attention.
***
Al’s Bar and Gourmet Grill, located a block off Calhoun Street, the main road from Folly to Charleston, was Bob’s favorite haunt. A one-story concrete block building housed both the restaurant and a Laundromat. When I got out of my car, I couldn’t resist running my hand over the rough, peeling exterior. Flakes of white paint sloughed off the wall like dead skin. Some of the flakes blew onto Bob’s dark plum PT Cruiser parked at the front door.
The sunny day made the bar’s interior cavelike. The primary sources of illumination were Budweiser and Budweiser Light neon signs on the wall. The restaurant had a large plate-glass window with the lower half painted black to provide privacy.
“Bubba Bob said you’d be sauntering in,” said Al. “Welcome.” Al was as worn as the battered, beer-stained, and distressed bar he was standing behind. His skin was a medium brown; his teeth nearly matched the color of his skin.
“Thanks, Al,” I said. “Did Bubba already order for me, or do I get to decide today?”
He grinned, showing more wrinkles than a seventy-year-old should have accumulated.
“Never mind,” I said. I knew the answer.
By now, my eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, and I spotted Bob at his favorite booth. “Bubba Bob?” I asked.
“Say that one more time, and I’ll have Al’s African Assassins feeding your Caucasian ass to a pack of wild hyenas,” said my always politically correct, polite friend. “Now, sit down and enjoy Al’s world famous cheeseburger.”
In the background, I could hear country crooner Doug Stone lamenting that he’d be better off in a pine box. Clearly, Bubba Bob had also made the musical selections. He was a huge fan of country, which on several occasions he’d proclaimed to be the “only kind of music.” Bob a
nd I were the only non-African Americans I’ve ever seen in Al’s, and I’ve often wondered how songs by Doug Stone, George Jones, Patsy Cline, and other traditional country singers made it to Al’s jukebox. I would ask Bob, but wasn’t ready for the answer he’d concoct.
“Thanks for ordering,” I told Bob after I sat and took a bite of the lukewarm cheeseburger. I decided not to press the issue.
“I got the drift—humor, right?” he responded. “Good to see you’re still alive. I hear you’ve had a couple of rough days.”
Al was headed in our direction, holding on to each table on the way to maintain his balance. He caught his breath and asked how the burger was.
I told him it was great and asked how he was doing. He said his arthritis had flared up and the doctors had told him he needed both knees replaced. He said that’d happen “over my dead body,” and then slowly, dreadfully slowly, headed back to the bar.
Bob leaned across the table, his ample stomach pushing the tabletop toward me. “That man’s one of our country’s greatest heroes.” I could barely hear over Johnny Cash singing about life behind bars—prison and not Al’s. “In Korea, he broke into a burning building and single-handedly saved seven soldiers and four civilians trapped there.” Bob’s voice was filled with admiration and respect.
“Another round?” yelled Al from the bar.
“Hell, yes,” responded Bob, then turned back to me, “Know what else? His wife’s dead now, bless her soul, but before she died, she and that old war hero adopted nine kids. Can you believe it? Nine!”
“That’s incredible.”
“They couldn’t have any of their own. He told me he kept telling the people at social services that he didn’t believe in abortion and would take any ‘youngins’ they came across. I suppose that added up to nine.”
“Has he always had the restaurant?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine what it would cost to raise nine children.
“Yep, got it in the fifties when he got home from Korea,” said Bob. He hesitated as he looked around the room. “Al put every dime he had into raising the kids. That’s why we’re sitting on these old hand-me-down seats. Not a penny has been put into the damn décor in years. I figure eating here’s my contribution to supporting a true hero.”
Willie Nelson was singing “My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys” in the background. If Willie had known Al, he would have added an old broken-down soldier to his list.
Al hobbled back to the table carrying another beer for Bob and a Chardonnay for me.
“Bob tells me you have a large family,” I said.
Al beamed, and his brown teeth looked shinier. “Sure do.”
“Do they all live here?” I asked.
“Most do. One’s an emergency room doctor and works over at the hospital. A couple are teachers. Three are still in college and work here weekends.” He hesitated and looked at the ceiling. “Sonya’s in Chicago. Bo’s somewhere in California; I think he’s in jail. Before passing my wife said that he’s out there trying to find himself. Anthony, the youngest, graduated high school, then headed to no one knows where.”
“Damn good average, if you ask me,” said Bob.
“We did our best, but couldn’t tell what was in their genes when we got them. I still love them all,” Al concluded. He turned, grimacing from the strain on the knees, and headed to the bar.
“A hero,” Bob whispered. He then looked at me, “Not many of them left—a damn shame.”
I agreed, which was always a safe thing to do with Bob, then got to the main reason for this meal: a favor.
Bob laughed when I told him what I wanted. “I knew there wasn’t any such thing as a free lunch,” he said. “I thought you asked me to celebrate this significant anniversary in the history of your new home.”
“And, what would that be?” I asked, even though I knew it was a mistake.
“On this day in 1960, the Miss Universe Pageant was held on the Folly Pier.”
I made the mistake of accusing him of making that up.
“Chris, that’s a day I’ll never forget.” Bob hesitated, then looked at the Budweiser Light sign. “I was just turning twenty, and like all red-blooded twenty-year-olds, I was an expert on the Miss Universe Pageant. It was the first time I’d ever heard of a place called Folly Beach, South Carolina. Yes, it was. I swore to myself that day that I’d not only find out where such a fantastic island was, but some way to get there, come hell or high hurricane. Unfortunately, hurricanes washed most of Folly away and the historic pier burned. A sad day that was.”
His gaze moved back to me, and advanced about fifty years. “Ah, memories. So now you and that damn worthless twerp, Charles, are bound and determined to get yourself killed. And, you want me to help you on your way.”
“So will you?” I asked.
“Of course—said I would. The way I figure it, I’m your only hope of not getting killed. I’ll have to save your asses again.”
I didn’t ask when the first time was as the truth seldom stood in Bob’s way to a good story. Once he’d learned I wanted a favor, he yelled at Al and asked about dessert. So, over coconut cream pie, we discussed how Bob was going to find out how Ben Malloy was going to purchase the building he’d been sharing with the now-defunct auto parts store and if he had any plans to develop his small marine repair shop into a full-fledged hardware. I couldn’t figure why Ben would resent Larry so much, but trying to run him out of business so he could have a monopoly on the hardware business would be a motive—shaky, but still a motive.
“Don’t worry about it, my daredevil, idiotic friend. I’ll get you whatever you need to know about Ben.” Bob then yelled for another piece of pie. “I might even take up private detecting in my spare time.”
The additional pie extended the lunch hour longer than I had anticipated, so I told Bob about some of the other suspects. He said we didn’t have much, and I agreed. We finally finished, but before I left, he said that just because someone is a preacher doesn’t mean he should be trusted. “The Devil works in strange and mysterious ways,” Bob shared.
I left a generous tip, the least I could do for a hero, and went out of Al’s to the sounds of Ray Charles’s classic version of “I Can’t Stop Loving You.”
Chapter29
The pie was more than my belt and I had bargained for, so I drove to the Battery overlooking the Charleston Harbor and Fort Sumter and walked along some of the most beautiful and historic home-lined streets to be found anywhere. A cadre of gardeners, painters, and carpenters are as much a part of the landscape in the summer as the flowers, neatly trimmed shrubs, wrought iron fences, gorgeous mansions, and tourists. To a photographer, this approaches Mecca.
However, midafternoon in July wasn’t the wisest time to take a walk in Charleston. Most of the time I was under the shaded canopy of massive oaks, but the heat and humidity took its toll. I was glad I’d left my camera in the car, so I could just soak in the beauty of the city. But I couldn’t give full attention to it with my mind wandering between Larry’s plight and Amber. The perfect photo would have to wait.
I’d known Amber for more than two years, and had seen and talked with her almost daily during many of those months. I considered her a friend, but most of the conversations had taken place in the Dog with her waiting on my table—hardly an equal or romantic setting. I knew little about her past. Also, I had to consider that I’d celebrated many more New Year’s Eves than she. And, at my age in life, could I adjust to sharing a bathroom with an eleven-year-old? Also, was Amber just a rebound from Tammy? Shouldn’t I know the difference after nearly six decades on this earth?
There were several things I didn’t know, but I was certain Amber was beautiful, funny, and much smarter than many gave her credit for. She could charm in a disarming way. She liked me for what I was—and she was increasingly on my mind.
Th
e drive home was dotted with some of the most nonphotogenic scenes along the East Coast. Deserted car lots and boarded-up retail establishments alternated with chain pharmacies, the occasional fast-food restaurant, and single-family residents who’ve been there for many years—a textbook example of lax, or nonexistent, zoning regulations. I drove by the concrete block building Ben was looking to buy and the Piggly Wiggly.
Before leaving the mainland onto Folly, I pulled the car off to the right berm beside another Folly landmark, The Boat. Hurricane Hugo had wreaked devastation along the South Carolina coast in 1989 as the most damaging hurricane to hit the United States up until then. Not only had Hugo destroyed countless homes, especially on Folly Beach, but it had also uprooted countless watercraft, one of which had plunked down beside Folly Road. No one had claimed the relocated thirty-five foot fishing boat, so, in the tradition of the bohemian lifestyle, the residents of Folly embraced the icon and adapted it as their constantly changing billboard. A can of white spray paint created a blank palate for the colored paint used to scribe messages on the side of the landmark.
The Boat had been one of the symbols that had attracted me to Folly Beach, and I was still drawn to it each time I passed. I pulled in behind a Honda SUV and remained in the car while three young women spray painted Girls’ Trip to the Beach—No Men Allowed! in red paint on the side facing Folly Road. Apparently, they didn’t perceive me to be the boat paint police. When one of them waved for me to get out of the car, I joined them and was told they were temporarily suspending their No Men Allowed pronouncement as they wanted me to take their photo while they posed beside their message. Each gave me a crash course on how to use her point-and-shoot digital camera so I could squeeze off two images with each. They thanked me, piled back into their SUV, reinstated their No Men Allowed dictum, and then drove toward my island.
I walked down a slight incline and touched the side of the boat where the most recent message had been written. I suspect the boat meant different things to each passing motorist, and even different things to the same person with each passing. The message that struck me this time was how tentative everything was. Friends can come and go, love was elusive, most feelings were deceptive, and life was short. Within twenty-four hours, the Girls’ Trip message would be covered by someone’s birthday greeting or welcome home, or who knows what.
