Washout

by Bill Noel

  “Before I forget,” said Larry, “I was thinking more about my old buddy WW. I told you about the letters he wrote. Last night I remembered he even called from prison to rant. Once he hit the phone on the wall and said something like, ‘You hear those sounds? That’s what my life is like. You ruined it.’” Larry paced the room, shaken by the memories. “I could feel his rage through the phone. It was scary.”

  “Are you sure he’s in jail?” asked Charles.

  “I have no idea. He was in and out, and I know what he was busted for should keep him there for a long time.” He paused, then paced some more. “All I know is that he was in the Georgia correctional system.”

  The first pizza was history, and our beer and wine supply was dwindling. I told my fellow partygoers that in the morning, I would see if I could find a current guest list for Georgia’s prisons. I also promised I’d find out about preacher man Hugh Arch. It sounded good, but I had no idea how I’d do it.

  Larry acted more relaxed as the discussion turned to which of the original Beach Boys were still performing and what each of us was doing in the early 1960s when, as Charles had put it, “Music hit its highest note.”

  “Guys,” said Larry as he rubbed his stomach, “I don’t see how I can eat any more.” He hesitated, then looked at each of us. “Okay, you talked me into it.” He grabbed another slice, belched, and took another bite.

  “‘We never repent of having eaten too little,’ Thomas Jefferson,” said Charles, who then ceremonially out-belched Larry.

  Whatever works, I thought.

  Somewhere near the middle of the second pizza, thoughts of Larry’s troubles were out of sight, and he and Charles were in an in-depth discussion about screwdrivers—hardware store talk at its best.

  The mood turned giddier when Charles confessed that he’d been a closet country music fan in his youth and that his favorite song was Roger Miller’s touching American classic, “You Can’t Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd.” Larry almost choked on a black olive and needed an extra long swig of Bud to recuperate. I smiled—I’d heard enough from Charles to not be surprised by anything.

  Larry reminded us that he had to be at the store early, thanked us for the “enlightening” evening, and headed to his truck parked at the street in front of the house. Charles and I walked with him as far as the porch, but Charles declined Larry’s offer for a ride home. Larry opened the truck door, hesitated, mumbled something, and then started walking back to the house.

  “Forgot my keys,” he said.

  “Don’t leave them here,” said Charles. “Wherever those Pewter Hardware key rings end up, someone finds a body.”

  I cringed, but much to his credit, Larry laughed.

  His laughter and all the good from the evening was erased by a deafening explosion as Larry’s truck vanished before my eyes.

  Chapter38

  I felt stunned at the blast. Its heat seared through me. I couldn’t tell if it was the shock wave that hit me first or the sight of the passenger side door from Larry’s orange pickup blown off its hinges.

  I was standing in the doorway of the screened-in porch facing the truck. Larry had reached the first step and faced me. Charles had turned toward town. Therefore, I was the only with an unobstructed view of the truck. Sharp pains were shooting through my ears into my brain, and I could feel my teeth reverberating from the sound waves.

  The concussion knocked Larry toward me. He hit his head on the door frame and his knee on the second brick step. The truck’s windows had shattered into millions of small pieces that were flying away from the blast like a wave of translucent gnats. Tiny fragments were everywhere, bouncing off Larry’s back and my head. Thank God for safety glass.

  “Holy shit!” said Larry, as he pushed himself up on one elbow and turned to sit on the step.

  I couldn’t disagree.

  Charles was knocked against the house but was now pulling himself up by his cane. “Larry, I see a new truck in your future,” he said before he was erect.

  The sound from the explosion had mercifully ended, but my ears were ringing like church bells. The only noise I could hear was the barking of neighboring dogs. The pungent smell of gunpowder permeated the hot, humid air. Larry finally turned to look at his mangled vehicle. A wrecking ball couldn’t have been more effective. He muttered something under his breath. After the initial shock, we thanked God we weren’t seriously injured—physically anyway.

  The sun had long since disappeared, and the only illumination was from the front porch light. The twisted steel that moments ago had been the orange door of Larry’s truck was barely visible. We sat on the brick porch step and stared at the mangled vehicle. I asked if we should call the police. Charles said it wasn’t necessary, as someone would take care of that. No sooner had he made that prophetic remark than the air was filled with sirens.

  Officer Ash was the first to arrive. Her Crown Victoria slid to a stop and blocked the street, showing again that she was catching on to her job. She jumped from the car with her hand on the holster on her left hip.

  Charles stood and tipped his cane to her. “Officer Ash,” he said, oozing charm, “what brings you out on this a lovely evening?”

  She ignored him and asked, “Are you all okay?”

  Chief Newman did an equally impressive street-blocking maneuver in his unmarked car from the other direction. The first fire engine drove through the neighbor’s yard to get around Ash’s squad car and pulled to a stop at the curb before the chief could get to us. Along with Officer Ash, Chief Newman, three members of the fire department, and Officer Robins came four concerned neighbors, a passel of nosy vacationers, and six customers from nearby Bert’s Market. We were the entertainment for the entire island, a position I certainly didn’t want.

  Officer Ash asked the chief if she should put crime tape around the truck. He said it wouldn’t be necessary as the patrol cars had the road blocked. He did ask her to call Charleston’s Explosive Devices Unit. I knew enough about that unit to know they investigated arson cases as well as explosive incidents.

  “Guys,” said the chief, “let’s go inside and get comfortable. I suspect you have something to tell me.”

  Larry had obviously hurt his knee when he fell against the step, but he didn’t seem about to admit it. We slowly left the outdoor spectacle and moved to the air-conditioned living room. Officer Robins worked with two of the firefighters to set artificial lights to illuminate the wreckage.

  “Okay,” said the chief after we were all seated, “take it from the beginning. What happened?”

  I gave the chief an abbreviated version of our evening, leaving out one bottle of wine and a six-pack of Charles and Larry’s favorite adult beverage.

  “Did you lock the truck, Larry?” asked the chief. He was taking notes and was already on the third or fourth page in his pocket-sized notebook.

  “No, I seldom do,” he said. “I never leave anything in it, so it’s easier to leave it unlocked.”

  The chief had to lean forward to hear Larry.

  “So, correct me if I’m wrong,” said the chief as flipped back through the book. “You left the party, walked to your truck, opened the door, and then realized you’d left your keys in the house. Is that accurate?”

  “Yeah,” said Larry.

  “You got it,” interrupted Charles, who until this point had been sitting staring out the front window at the flashing lights from the fire engine—or perhaps just into space. “If Larry had remembered to pick up his keys before leaving, you, and your folks would be scraping up parts of him from here to Savannah.”

  That was a crowd silencer. The ringing in my ears had subsided slightly, and I was able to hear the voices of the firefighters and police officers by Larry’s truck and the neighborhood dogs still barking their displeasure. No one inside the house spoke.

  T
he chief had us retell the story one more time. With nothing new to learn and our reiterating that we hadn’t seen or heard anyone outside the entire time, he said he would leave us alone. He offered Larry a ride home, but Charles spoke up and said we needed the fresh air so he and I would walk with Larry.

  “The boys from EDU should be here soon,” said the chief. “I know it’s late, and I’ll make sure they don’t bother you tonight. They’ll have to get a flatbed to load your pickup on to take it to the lab.” He hesitated, “But, to be honest, I doubt they’ll find anything useful. It looks like a circuit break was attached to the door so when you opened it, a timer began; someone wanted you to be all the way in before it blew. He was serious about wanting you dead. Definitely, there won’t be any prints, and from the smell, I’d say it was good old-fashioned dynamite. Unless the person is a total idiot, we won’t be able to trace its purchase. Sorry, Larry.”

  I thanked the chief and told him we knew he’d do everything possible. None of us believed that would be much, but it wouldn’t be his fault, as he had so little to work with.

  After he left, Larry asked if we could sit for a little longer before we headed to his house. He felt comfortable enough with Charles and me not to hide his fear, and I could tell there was no shortage of it as he sat trembling, slumped in the chair. I offered him another beer.

  “No, thanks,” he said, “I’ve had enough. Besides, if I thought too much about what was happening, I wouldn’t stop drinking.

  The sounds from the front of the street told us most of the onlookers knew the show was over and had drifted back to wherever they came from. Some, I knew, had headed to the outdoor bars on Center Street. Life went on.

  “Why, Chris? Why, Charles?” asked Larry. He looked more and more dejected by each breath. “Why?”

  An excellent question to which we had no response.

  “Okay,” said Charles, “this is your lucky night. I’ve two vehicles I can offer you. Your choice—Saab or Schwinn.”

  Charles’s attempt to break Larry out of his funk had begun to work. Instead of making that tough transportation decision, he said he was ready to head home. As we left the yard, Officer Ash said she would keep an eye on Larry’s house the rest of the evening. It may have been my imagination, but she seemed pleased by the prospect.

  Chapter39

  None of us said it, but we were more than a little nervous. Instead of taking the most direct route to Larry’s, we walked the extra block up the more heavily trafficked Center Street. Midnight was near and there were several people on the sidewalks going to and from the various local outdoor patio bars. The smell of frying hamburgers combined with the smell of saltwater in the humid summer air. I could have been smelling Larry’s burned body if pure good luck hadn’t intervened.

  The trip to Larry’s would normally take no more than ten minutes, but tonight was far from normal. Realizations of what happened—and what could have happened—began to sneak into our conversation. We walked like we had the weight of the world on our shoulders. Charles took advantage of his cane, something I’d never seen him do. If Larry had been in a race, the turtle would have passed him. He limped but said his knee was fine, although I began to think we’d have to carry him the rest of the way.

  Foot traffic thinned as we turned off Center Street onto Larry’s road. The solo parking lot light in front of the hardware store cast ominous shadows on the front wall. Larry looked at the store and hesitated. I asked if he wanted to check the door. He said no.

  Charles was the first to notice something unusual as we approached Larry’s porch. “Guys,” said Charles, “wait here.”

  We obeyed. Charles walked up the steps slightly faster than a snail’s pace, looking left and right as he went, stopped in front of the door, then retreated to where were we stood. “Chris, call the chief and tell him he might want to join us.” Charles held his cane across the sidewalk and herded us to the street. “While you have him, see if he can bring the guys from the EDU.”

  His body language screamed don’t question me. I used the speed dial on my phone, and Brian answered on the first ring. I gave him Charles’s message. He told us to get away from the house and that he’d be right over. Larry didn’t say a word, just walked across the street and leaned against the side of an old cargo van parked at the curb.

  Charles and I stood on each side of Larry as the three of us leaned on the van. I seldom had headaches, but now I had a whopper. What must Larry be feeling?

  Charles spoke first: “Don’t know what it means, Larry, but there’s a black wreath on your door. It’s dark up there, and I couldn’t see it well. But after what happened earlier, I didn’t want to mess with it. Chris keeps telling me that’s what the police are for.”

  And I thought he never listened.

  After only about five minutes, the chief’s car pulled in front of us. Behind the chief was the van with the two officers with the Explosive Device Unit. They didn’t have their sirens or emergency lights on, so the neighbors could continue to peacefully sleep through our nightmare.

  Larry handed the chief the ring of keys that had saved his life hours earlier, and the three public servants approached Larry’s porch armed with high-powered Maglites. No one had to tell us to stay put.

  It was still in the low eighties, but Larry had his arms crossed, and I saw him shivering. “What … what did I do to deserve this?” he said to no one in particular. His head was bowed and shaking from side to side. I’m not a touchy-feely guy, but I couldn’t help but put my arm on his shoulder to reassure him. I hoped I was more convincing than I felt. I had no idea what he had done.

  The police had entered the house and turned on the front porch light and every other light they could find. Brian waved to us to come to the porch. The officials with EDU said the house was secure, and they hadn’t found any evidence of explosives. I assumed they would also have mentioned it if they’d found a body, a puddle of blood, or note written on Larry’s wall. They said they were going back to the remains of Larry’s truck and supervise its removal to Charleston.

  Under the light, I could see the black wreath hooked over the brass door knocker. It looked like a plastic wreath I’d seen on tombstones. The leaves and berries, usually green and red, had been sprayed black. Draped from the bottom of the wreath was a black ribbon about three inches wide and a couple of feet long. The chief asked us not to touch the wreath while he went to his car to get a large evidence container. He put on clear rubber gloves, gingerly removed the wreath and placed it in the bag, and carried it to the living room floor so we could get a better view. We gathered around the bag. With the added illumination of Brian’s flashlight we could see a chilling FOR yoU—DeAD, DEAD, DEAD!

  Again the letters were individually cut from magazines and glued to the ribbon. However, the background paper was different in texture and the letters were different sizes, as if they’d been snipped from different periodicals.

  “We’ll take it to the lab,” said Brian. His tone softened. “Don’t worry—we’ll find out who’s behind this. I’ll have Officer Ash stay the night, okay?”

  “Sure,” said Larry. I’d seen more conviction from a mushroom.

  The chief left, and Charles and I settled in two of the chairs. Every noise startled us. Larry had hardly moved since he sank into his Morris chair. He almost fell out of it when someone knocked on the front door. We all breathed a sign of relief when we saw it was Officer Ash.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. The chief told me what happened. I’ll be outside if you need me.” She looked at Larry the whole time.

  “He thinks that’d be a great idea,” said Charles, Larry’s official spokesperson.

  Silently, I agreed.

  Chapter40

  More days like yesterday would have me thinking about moving back to good ole boring Louisville. How had I lived my m
any years in the River City without experiencing murders firsthand, attempts on my life, and one of my friends almost becoming the victim of a giant firecracker? Rather than pondering the imponderable, I chose to make the short walk to the Dog for, as they said on their logo, Coffee and a Bite. If I were lucky, Amber would share one of her heartwarming smiles and a kind word. Both would be welcome.

  The restaurant had opened minutes earlier, but it was full of construction workers fueling their stomachs before taking on lumber, nails, concrete, and sweat. Amber approached, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, exerted her uncanny rumor radar, and asked, “What happened to Larry last night?”

  “How do you know something did?”

  “Let’s see,” she said as she poured coffee in the ceramic cup in front of me, “Carleta was the first customer in the door this morning. She told me that Roger told her that he was on your street last night, and Junius told him about the explosion. How’s that?”

  I knew I’d regret it before I asked, but couldn’t help myself. “And, Ms. Amber, who are they?”

  With her left hand on her hip and right one holding the pot, she began, “Carleta works for old Mrs. Stanton over on West Beach Court. She’s her cleaning lady and dog walker; two big greyhounds; they’re over on the front porch drinking water. Roger is her off-and-on-again boyfriend, Carleta’s—not Mrs. Stanton’s. He works as a day porter at the Holiday Inn. And, oh yeah, Junius … I have no clue who he is. Carleta said his name, and I thought it was strange and remembered it.”

  Why didn’t I listen to my instincts? Amber was busy, so I gave her an abbreviated version. I tried to make it sound like a routine Sunday evening. From her stare, I knew I hadn’t pulled it off. If truth be known, I suspected I wouldn’t have convinced old Mrs. Stanton’s dogs.

  “I look forward to hearing the truth,” she said as she glided to the next table to ply her wait staff charms.

  “Join you?” asked Dude as he bounded onto the patio. He was in his usual tie-dyed, rainbow-colored T-shirt and faded blue cargo shorts. His shoes may not have been the first Nike’s made, but they’d lived and walked many a mile. The swoosh sagged.