by Bill Noel
Al brought my burger, fries, and a glass of white wine. He grimaced with each step.
“Sit your ugly, wrinkled ass down and listen to my friend’s story,” Bob said as Al reached the table. “I think he’s got a good one this time.”
Al looked around as though he didn’t want to neglect any of the culinary or liquid needs of his other customers. Seeing neither needs nor customers, he sat.
I asked him how his children were. He smiled, his coffee-stained teeth visible in the dim light. “Thanks for asking—they’re fine,” he said. He scowled at Bob. “Fat, old Bubba Bob here could learn some manners from his younger friends.”
The two sparred about who was the ugliest, most musically challenged, oldest, and most worthless. As an objective observer, I would have given Bob the edge in most of the categories except oldest, as Al won that birthday candles down.
Bob turned to me. “Well, are you going to tell us what happened, or am I going to have to call that worthless twerp Charles?”
“Whoa, hold it a minute,” said Al. “I think I need a beer.”
He returned with his beer, another one for Bob, a second glass of wine for me, and a huge slice of apple pie for Mr. Howard.
I felt as though I were on the witness stand as both gentlemen pelted me with questions, with no detail being too small. I didn’t see why it was important what kind of pizza we’d been eating, but I wasn’t a culinarian like Al, so I shared that bit of critical information. Bob was more interested in on what side of the road Officer Ash had parked her cruiser while she guarded Larry’s house and if she’d stayed in the car or “guarded Larry more closely” during the night. That question was inspired by Tanya Tucker singing, “Would You Lay with Me” on Al’s color-blind jukebox.
I told them about Ben’s call to Larry.
“That’s shitty,” said the ever-articulate Bob. “But it doesn’t surprise me. I found out more about Ben’s finances. He’s in deep poodle-poop and couldn’t borrow the money to buy the building he’s in. He may want to buy Larry’s place, but if he has to do it with cash, he’s out of luck. I’ll bet seven dollars that he’ll offer Larry a deal where he’ll pay out of his profits with nothing up front.”
Al had listened to everything and finally interrupted, “Fellows, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Bob. “But after you bring me another beer—I’ll need it by the time you get done.”
Al returned with a beer and his theory. “Revenge. It’s all about revenge. Has nothing to do with buying a stupid store, or some smart-alecky delinquent, or some angry girlfriend, or anything that’s happened in the last few years. It’s revenge.” Al paused and took a drink of beer. Bob remained uncharacteristically quiet. “Somebody’s running over with hate—hate running over enough to slaughter two human beings to make a point, or get some blood, or who knows why. Somebody’s taking the time to find magazines with all the right letters, cutting them out with scissors and hate, pasting them together to mean something powerful. It’s revenge: seething, vile, long-simmering revenge. If you want to stop him, you’d better dig deep. Find out what those notes mean.” Al stopped and stared at me. “That’s my opinion.”
“Chris,” said Bob, “Al’s right. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“Me too,” said Al.
I was beginning to see why Al and Bob enjoyed each other so much. The world will be a sadder place when they’re gone. And, a little less profane.
Chapter44
I didn’t know what terrified me more: my first excursion into the world of surfing or spending the morning with Dude without a translator.
The sounds of a custom air horn tooting the first eight notes of “Dixie” jarred me out of pondering what I’d gotten myself into. Strange as it may appear, I’d never considered Dude as having a vehicle other than his Bayliner and a surfboard. The melodious sounds of the national anthem of the South expanded my horizons.
Parked in front of the house was a light green Chevrolet El Camino—light green and rust. Rust had consumed the green paint in giant bites. One fire engine red and one multicolored surfboard stuck out of the small pickup bed of this prehistoric vehicle. The El Camino would now be considered something of a coupe sport utility vehicle, but in its heyday of the late 1960s, it would have simply been strange.
“Ready to shoot a barrel?” yelled Dude over the rumble of his rusted-out exhaust pipe.
No, absolutely not, no way, I thought.
“Sure,” I said.
He waved me around to the passenger door and leaned over to push it open. When I got to the door, I saw why he was being so courteous: rust had eaten the door handle. “Nice wheels,” I said. I slid onto the cloth-covered seat trying to avoid the spring and foam staring up at me from the front edge.
He made a U-turn in front of the house and headed toward the Washout on East Ashley Avenue. “Would’ve unloaded it years ago except two of my customers said there’s a spittin’ image of Moses parting the Red Sea in the rust on your door.”
“Oh,” I said. And I thought Dude was short on words.
“Those guys were members of Surfers for Jesus. I guess they’d know what Moses looked like. But the blob looks like Charlton Heston to me.”
Dude pulled his rolling icon off the pavement onto the gravel parking area beside the Washout. We deferred further religious discussions.
“Too glassy,” he said as we pulled the surfboards from the bed. “Safer for someone your age and surfin’ skills anyway.”
This was the first time I’d touched a surfboard in my landlocked life, so I didn’t know how he knew the level of my surfing skills. But he was the expert after all, and he did have a point about my age. I’d asked Charles how old Dude was, and he hit it on the head when he said, “Not sure—somewhere between forty-one and seventy-three.”
The Washout was known as one of the best surfing areas on the East Coast. Clearly, many surfers and wannabe surfers believed it so. Within a hundred yards of where we parked, there must have been seventy or so people with surfboards. My prayer for a deserted strip of beach where I could make a fool out of myself in private hadn’t been answered. I considered going back to the car to ask Moses—or Charlton Heston—for another chance.
I naïvely thought Dude would give me lessons in the water. But no: he had me prone on the surfboard on land. In my paranoid mind, I could picture each of the seventy or so surfers laughing hysterically at Dude trying to teach an old man how to sand surf.
Dude gave me a brief lesson on the intricacies of surfing. All I wanted was to get in the water and hide from the laughing surfers. Besides, I had no idea what most of what he said meant.
He took a deep breath and asked if I was ready to “hit the waves.”
“Yes!”
We grabbed the long boards and headed toward the most vacant area around. The surf may have been glassy, but it was more than I wanted. He told me stuff that got my attention before we had waded in over our ankles—something about making sure the board didn’t hit me in the head when I fell, how not to panic when sharks began circling the board, and how dangerous the jellyfish were. Then there was something about if stung, to pee on it—the sting, not the jellyfish.
The next thirty minutes were a blur. The saltwater erased the surfing lesson. I floundered, flapped, got hit in the head by my board, laughed at by my stringy-haired partner by my side, and got ignored by the real surfers. For that I was thankful.
“Enough, Christer?”
A mouthful of saltwater kept me from screaming yes, yes, yes!
Dude reached shore before I did. He turned his board parallel to the surf and sat facing the waves. I followed suit.
“Not bad,” he said.
My eyes stung from the saltwater, so I couldn’t tell if his mouth was curled in a sm
ile, smirk, or early stages of a laugh. I suspected the latter. Dude was in his element, albeit not on his native planet. It felt great to know I’d avoided the sharks and the jellyfish.
“Tony with two Baywatch chicks at two o’clock,” said Dude. He looked to the right with his gray dangling hair covering most of his face.
“Yep,” I said. I assumed he was talking about Larry’s nemesis, Tony, and the two nearly over-the-hill female companions stuffed into their bikinis who were frolicking in the surf about fifty yards to our right.
“Seen him smack another guy with his board—blood on the water.”
“What happened?” I asked. Now that we were on dry land, this got my attention more than the lesson about sharks and other sea critters.
“Temper tantrum—not only for kids,” said Dude. “Two chicks not as lucky as they think. Tony be bad news.”
“Think he could hassle Larry?”
“Low chance. Not bright enough; long-range planning for him ends at sunset.” Dude hesitated and looked at me, then down at my surfboard. “Ready to go again?”
“Nope—think I’ve had enough for today.” For today, for tomorrow, for forever.
Parker, Tommy, and Louis were peddling up as we put the boards in the El Camino.
“Been surfing?” asked Tommy. He carefully dismounted from his bike without disturbing the surfboard strapped to the side.
“Yeah, right,” said Parker looking at Louis. “Can you see the old farts shooting the barrel?” He slowed but didn’t get off his bike. He continued along the road.
“Sorry about that,” said Tommy. “He’s sore. Got dumped by another hottie last night. I need to catch up with him, keep him from drowning someone.”
“Parker’s an aspiring Tony,” said Dude as he got in and opened my door. “Still don’t see what Tommy sees in him. Opposites attract when they should retract.”
I debated whether to ask what he meant by retract but I was preoccupied with studying Moses. I now knew why he had parted the Red Sea instead of trying to surf across it.
Chapter45
When I arrived at the gallery after my early morning, death-defying surfing experience, I was surprised to find Larry at the table with Charles. Charles and I were to head to Mt. Pleasant, or Mt. Pheasant as it’s known in West Texas.
Charles was nattily attired in a Duke Lacrosse long-sleeved T-shirt, shorts that looked old enough to have survived Woodstock, and his logo-free Tilley hat. “Like the shirt?” he asked, pivoting so I could get the full effect. “It’s in honor of your friend Bob.”
“Hope you don’t mind if I go with you today,” said Larry, dressed in a more understated gray polo shirt with the Pewter Hardware logo on the breast. “Charles said you wouldn’t.”
I assured him we’d love to have him along. I’d planned to ask him, but didn’t know how often he felt comfortable being away from the store. They said they’d run to the Dog and get us some coffee to go while I finished some pesky paperwork and put it in the mail.
I finished up and was putting the “Open When I’m Here; Closed When I’m Not” sign in the window when they returned. As my surfing lesson had already given me enough exercise for a year, I’d driven to the gallery.
“Amber said for you to be careful,” said Charles. “She didn’t seem to care about Larry and me. Oh yeah, Mayor Amato said he was sorry about Larry’s truck—more likely about the bad PR for his city.”
“Dude said to tell you yo,” added Larry. “Said, he be ready whenever you are—waves a waitin’.”
We Three Musketeers piled into the Lexus and headed to church—on a Tuesday. The phone book listed two Assembly of God churches in little Mt. Pleasant. We figured we could find the right one. After all, according to Charles, we were detectives.
We took the same roads we’d traversed days earlier when we met Dude in Murrells Inlet. I avoided answering their questions about my surfing experience the first three times they asked. The hint was taken; the topic changed. Reluctantly, I was sure.
Mt. Pleasant didn’t receive as much attention as its neighbor, Charleston, but had a similar distinct character. It’s home to many wealthy industrialists and successful retailers. Several homes overlook the picturesque Charleston Harbor. According to Charles, it was a highly educated community with more than half the adult population holding college degrees. Larry said he was glad they’d brought me along so I could “say something smart” if we got in a pinch.
Our Hope Assembly Church was located, appropriately enough, on Church Street, which paralleled Coleman Blvd., the road on which we’d come in. The church was one of the newer houses of worship. We parked in the spacious lot behind the sanctuary. The only other vehicle in the lot was a white lawn service truck pulling a trailer holding two riding mowers and a push mower.
“You know what’s the most wasted space in this great country?” asked Charles as he got out of the car.
I figured we were standing on a huge clue and guessed church parking lots.
“Yep,” said Charles.
“No, football stadiums,” said Larry as he exited from the rear door. “Church parking lots are vacant six days a week—football stadiums are used only about seven days a year.”
He had a point. We followed the sidewalk to the front of the property. We’d hoped the bulletin board in the front lawn would reveal whether Hugh Arch was the minister of Our Hope Assembly Church, but that would have been too easy. Instead, the less-than-informative board listed the name of the church, hours of worship, and the revelation that God Loves You.
“If he loved me that much, he’d tell me the name of the preacher,” said Charles.
A young African American was cutting the lawn. He saw us staring at the board, put his industrial mower in neutral, wiped his hands on his work pants, and walked over. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
Perhaps God did love Charles.
“We were looking for the minister,” said Larry. “Would it be Reverend Arch?”
“Not anymore,” he said. “I’m Daniel—I’m a member here. I maintain the grounds as my tithe.”
“So he was at one time?” I asked.
The young man cocked his head. “Is there a problem?”
Charles piped up: “No, no. We’re on a pastoral search committee from Our Holy Mother Church, and we wanted to interview Reverend Arch, that’s all.”
I looked askance at Charles. I had no idea he could lie like that.
“Well then,” said Daniel. “He came here a few years ago from somewhere out west. I really liked him. He wasn’t so great at preaching but was always there for us. He was always going to the hospital when someone was sick, visiting homes all the time. He even visited the jail to minister to the less fortunate.”
“What happened? When did he leave?” asked Charles.
“A sad day,” said Daniel, who leaned against the bulletin board and shook his head. Sweat rolled down his neck into his soaking-wet T-shirt. “Last November, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, he announced from the pulpit that he’d been called by God to move to San Francisco and join a group of ministers who conducted prison ministries throughout California. My dad and I helped him load his U-Haul.”
“It sounds like you were close to Reverend Arch,” I said, touched by how hurt Daniel appeared.
“Don’t know about close, but I truly respect him. He cared about the younger members and paid attention to us. He’s even sent a few of us postcards from California.
“That’s great that he wrote,” said Larry. “When was the last time you heard from him?”
Excellent question, I thought. Larry was getting into this detecting stuff.
“A couple of weeks ago, in fact,” said Daniel. “He sent me the one with the trees in it—somewhere called Redwood National and State Parks.”
I told Daniel w
e didn’t want to keep him from his tithing and thanked him.
“Scratch another suspect,” said Charles as we piled back into the car.
“I wonder if Daniel checked where the postcards were postmarked from?” asked Larry as he slid into the back seat.
Another excellent question. CC&L Detective Agency was beginning to have a good ring to it.
Chapter46
“I don’t know what happened in Texas,” said Larry, “but it sounds like Hugh’s on the right track—if he’s really in California.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that now,” said Charles. “But, speaking of the right track, where’re we going to eat? Detecting makes me hungry.”
Larry suggested we go to one of the restaurants along Shem Creek; it was close and provided nice views of the wide stream that meandered through Mt. Pleasant before it emptied into the Charleston Harbor.
RB’s Seafood Restaurant was at the end of Church Street overlooking the creek. The restaurant was large, colorful, and relatively new. We chose to sit on the Thirsty Fish Deck and Bar on the upper level where we had a perfect view of several fishing boats resting after a busy morning removing meals from the deep and the awkward-shaped pelicans patiently waiting for castoffs from the boats. Across the creek, we could see other diners watch us from restaurants on Shrimp Boat Lane.
Two beers and a glass of Chardonnay were ordered along with an appetizer of RB’s World Famous Crab Dip. After all, how could we not order something that famous?
Larry’s mood was improving the longer we were away from Folly Beach. “You think I could get a job on one of those boats?” he asked as he pointed to the tall masts of the fishing fleet. “I could move over here and hang out with people who don’t know me. No one would know.”
Charles wasn’t about to let him go there. “Yeah,” he said, “you could be a shrimping shrimp. Sorry, Larry, we’re at lunch, not a pity party.”
To his credit, Larry laughed.
I shared some about my lunch conversation yesterday with Bob and Al. Larry and Charles paid particular attention when I told them Al’s theory about revenge and that we should look deeper than former girlfriends, Parker, Ben, or even Tony. I told them what Dude had said about Tony this morning.
