The Marsh

by Bill Noel

  The salads arrived, her glass of wine disappeared, and I saw progress. She had shared a couple of items of gossip from the Dog and actually laughed when I told her about Charles caning me awake at the Tides.

  The waitress slid the boring broiled fish in front of me, and then I told Amber about the meeting with Sean and the will and that I was thinking about keeping the gallery open. She said she was happy about for me, but her eyes told a sadder story. I finally garnered the courage to ask what was wrong. It wasn’t my first mistake of the day, but it surely was my biggest.

  Amber took a bite and then looked out at the river and the sun as it descended behind the trees. Her lack of reaction made me wonder if she had heard me. A minute later, I had my answer.

  “It’s nice that Cindy and Larry are getting married,” she said, and continued to stare out the window. “They’re cute together; made for each other, I think.” She paused, looked back at her wineglass, and took a sip. “Chris, why do you have to get involved in all the dirty, horrible stuff that happens? Why? You could get killed.” She looked me in the eyes; tears formed in hers. “I had a husband run out on me, and it took years to get over it. I can’t put Jason through losing someone like that. I can’t.”

  I followed her segue from Cindy and Larry to Jason. It was a path she had started down before but had never been as blunt about our relationship. She had never said it directly to me, but I knew—from my gut and comments by our friends—that she wanted to get married. In my weaker—or stronger, depending upon your perspective—moments, I wanted that too; but I couldn’t get around doubts about our age difference, the thought of bringing a teenager into my home, and my selfish, stuck-in-my-ways attitude about my style of life.

  “Amber, sometimes it doesn’t make sense, but I get involved when my friends are involved. I know I’ve told you this before, but I’ve never had friends like I have here.”

  She wiped a tear out of her right eye with the back of her hand and then interrupted. “Jason hasn’t slept hardly any since you exposed him to that terrible scene.” Her hand gripped the fork like it was trying to escape. “He wakes up screaming—two, three in the morning. He’s terrified.” She put the fork on the table and stared into my eyes. “My God, Chris. He’s twelve and having nightmares! Your friends are more important than Jason? More important than me?” she said sharply.

  “No, but …”

  “But what?” She banged her palm down on the table. “Butting into a murder of a lawyer you hardly knew … trying to dig up dirt on a biker you barely know … and then exposing my son to a dead drug addict … all those things are more important than our relationship? If you think that, hell with you!”

  I reached across the table for her hand. She pulled it away like she’d grabbed a rattlesnake. “Amber, you know they’re not more important than you.”

  “Then prove it,” she said. The tears continued down her cheeks. She wadded her napkin and threw it on her barely touched entrée. “Leave the filthy, dangerous police work to the cops. Walk away from whatever happened with Long, the waitress, and that damned biker.”

  She abruptly slid her chair back and stood. The couple at the table next to ours were turned to us but pretended to look at the sunset. “I’m ready to go home,” said Amber. There was no doubt that she meant it.

  “Was she serious?” asked Charles.

  We sat under a palmetto tree on the small patio that also served as the entrance to Kirby’s Café on Hudson, which until recently had been Li’l Mama’s, another of Folly’s quaint and rustic restaurants, located in a two-story building off Center Street. They didn’t have celery or chocolate syrup for Charles and were fresh out of anything broiled, or so I assumed, so we shared a cheese pizza for our Saturday lunch and Landrum Gallery staff meeting.

  I had shared bits and pieces from last night’s abbreviated meal with Amber. I was prone to divulge less than Charles hoped for, but gave him a good feel for her mood. “Yeah, she was pretty upset. You know how much her life revolves around Jason. She believes I put him in danger.”

  “It’s not all about Jason; she doesn’t want to get hurt again,” said Charles. “She loves you too much just to say adios. You’ll see.” He stuffed another bite of pizza in his mouth and mumbled, “Maybe.”

  I felt hope until Charles got to the pizza-infused “maybe.” Our uplifting discussion was interrupted by Country Cal, who ambled around the corner of Center Street and pointed at us. “There you are,” he said as he reached the low, red, wooden railing that separated the outdoor dining from the parking spaces. He gasped for breath and was more stooped than usual. Charles waved him to our table. Cal caught his breath and pulled out the empty plastic chair and picked up a slice of pizza. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said after taking the first bite. “Did you know you aren’t at the gallery, or at the Dog, or Rita’s, or home, or …”

  Charles raised both hands above his head. “Whoa,” he said, “before you name seventy-nine more places where we aren’t, you found the one where we are—adjust. What’s so important to search the universe for us?”

  Cal grinned at Charles and then aimed his patented stage smile at the lady who was cleaning a recently vacated table. “Could I get what he has to drink?” he asked and pointed to Charles’s beer.

  The woman gave an equally oversized smile to Cal and pointed at the door. “Sure, hon, hop right up and go in there and order yourself one.”

  She looked like she could bench press Cal, so he lowered the wattage of his smile, but still headed inside. “Well worth the price of admission,” said Charles as Cal opened the door. It was cloudy, so we weren’t in direct sunlight. There was no reason to be in a hurry. I got more curious as to why Cal actually had tried to find us at a few of our regular hangouts, if not quite the rest of the universe, as Charles said.

  Cal’s beer was half gone by the time he folded his tall frame back into the chair. “You two are sharper than the average prairie dog,” he said. “I need your advice.”

  I felt certain that that must have been a compliment in Cal’s native Texas, so I nodded. Charles moved closer to the table, placed his elbows on the surface, and looked at Cal. He wasn’t used to being asked for advice and wanted to be ready.

  “Greg Brile asked me to be a partner in GB’s. What do you think?”

  “I think we need more information,” said Charles.

  I gave a bigger nod.

  Cal looked around to the other tables. Only two were occupied, and they were on the opposite side of the patio. “Okay,” he said, “here goes.” He reached in the back pocket of his cutoff jeans and pulled out a piece of blue-lined notebook paper. It looked like the tablet paper I used to practice the alphabet on in the first grade. “Knew you’d want it all; my memory’s not quite as good as it was. I took notes.” He looked down at the paper and turned it upside-down and began reading as if he hadn’t seen the words before. “I was over at GB’s the other night, and Greg asked if he could talk to me—outside. I figured he was either going to say he couldn’t pay me any more to play on the weekends, or maybe to give me a big raise, or …”

  “What did he want?” asked my impatient tablemate.

  “Let me grab another beer,” said Cal. He didn’t wait for an answer and was headed for the door. He was back before I could figure out whom he’d pointed to when he told the lady inside to put the beer on someone’s tab. I suspected that I knew.

  Cal returned to his chair and continued, “Okay, here goes—again. Greg said that he was getting too old to spend all his time in GB’s and had had his eye on me for a year or so. He called me reliable, sort-of-talented, and said I got along with most everyone. I bristled a bit at the ‘sort-of-talented’ remark, but figured he wasn’t a big fan of country music and had a tin ear when it came to quality country crooning. Well, anyway, he said he’d give me a percentage of the business and i
t wouldn’t cost me a red cent.” Cal stared into his near-empty second beer bottle. “He knew I didn’t have any cash, red or otherwise, to buy my way into GB’s.”

  “What’s the catch?” asked Charles.

  “Don’t think there’s one. I’d have to sing on weekends for what he’s paying me now and be there two other nights a week so he’d have more time off.”

  “That’s all?” I asked.

  “Well, sort of. On those nights when I’m not singing, I’d be bartender, and bouncer, and in charge of the staff; and, oh yeah, take the money and balance the books.”

  “Do you know how to do that?” I asked. I’d put money on already knowing the answer.

  “Nary a lick,” he said.

  “That’s not much,” said Charles.

  “What do you think about the offer?” I asked.

  “Mixed feelings, my friends, mixed feelings.” Cal leaned back in the plastic chair and rubbed his hands through his long, gray hair. “First, it made me feel good that someone thought I could do more than just sing; gave me a moment of pride, to be sure. Second, it would give me a way to earn some money and put down solid roots here; I don’t want to leave. And whatever the percent is, it’d be the first thing I’d own that won’t fit in my car.”

  “Negatives?” asked Charles.

  “Shoot,” he said with a grin, “I’ve never managed anything in my life; have trouble managing myself. My freedom will go out the window. I’ve spent my whole life bopping up on stage, sharing a few tunes, and then hightailing it out of town. Didn’t have to worry about cleaning up, paying the help, counting the dough, throwing out the drunks, anything except finding the road out of town. Can’t screw up too much that way.”

  “When does he want to know?” I asked.

  “‘Soon,’ he said. Not sure what that means, but I need to know. It’s driving me crazy.” Cal reached for his bottle of beer and noticed it was empty; he set it aside and grabbed Charles’s bottle and took a drink.

  Charles started to grab the bottle but pulled his hand back. “How well do you know him?

  Excellent question, I thought.

  The sound of a large diesel food-delivery truck stepped on Cal’s answer, so I asked him to repeat it. The strong smell of burnt diesel fuel filled the air.

  “How well does anyone know anyone?” said Cal, for a second time.

  Charles waved his hand in front of his face like he could fan away the diesel aroma and then shook his head. “I didn’t ask for a philosophy lesson,” said Charles. “Do you trust Greg?”

  “Sure,” he replied. He looked at Charles and then to me. “He’s let me sing whenever I wanted to, paid me for my weekend gigs in cash—makes life simpler that way, you know. Nope, no reason not to trust him.”

  “How’s the bar doing?” I asked. “I’d heard it was on the verge of bankruptcy last year before he changed the format to country.”

  Cal smiled. “Asked Greg that exact question yesterday. Wanted him to think I knew what I was talking about.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms in front of him.

  “Well,” said Charles, “what’d he say?”

  “Said I could come in and check the books and stuff before I decided.”

  “Would you know what you were looking for?” I asked.

  “Not a clue,” said Cal. “I figured that if he made the offer, he must not have anything to hide.”

  I didn’t want to clutter Cal’s decision-making process, so I didn’t tell him that was one of the effective techniques of a con artist. I suspected that Greg knew that Cal would be clueless about the high finances of a bar, especially since much of the business is in cash—hard to trace, hard to account for.

  “So what should I do?” asked Cal. He looked at Charles and then turned to me.

  I took that as my turn to answer. “Cal,” I said, “it’s your call. I don’t know enough about GB’s to have an opinion. Greg seems like a nice guy, but I only see him dealing with customers, where he has to be nice. I don’t know anything about the finances, although the bar seems to do a brisk business. Bottom line, I guess, is that since it won’t cost you anything to get in, I don’t see where you have much to lose.”

  Cal nodded but didn’t respond. He cocked his head toward Charles.

  “Sounds like a job for CDA, the Charles’s Detective Agency,” said Charles. “I could do a forensic analysis of GB’s books …”

  “Uh,” Cal tried to interrupt.

  Charles gave him a sideways glance. “Could interview his employees, check all his legal-like filings …”

  Cal raised his right hand to stop Charles; he then leaned forward in his chair. “Mr. Detective,” he said, “I don’t know a lot about anything but singing, but it seems to me that a new business—the CDA, for example—should start out with something a bit smaller.” He paused and held his palm over his forehead. “I’ve got it: how about investigating the theft of some kid’s tricycle? Or how about finding out who’s been taking two newspapers from that box over at the hotel and only paying for one?”

  Charles had been well-accustomed to rejection throughout his life of leisure and handled Cal’s rebuff without violence. He snarled. “Okay,” he said, “don’t come crawling to me when old Greg does you wrong.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” said Cal. “I will ask to see all paperwork; I can be pretty good at pretending. Remember, I’ve sung my hit song just over three zillion times and can still act like I’m enjoying it every time.” He strummed an air guitar and hummed a few bars. “Know how sick of that song I get?”

  I could guess, but chose not to. Charles was still irritated that Cal had rejected his services. He frowned.

  Cal took the last bite of his adopted pizza and said he needed to run. “Got to head to the library and find a book on bookkeeping. Thanks for all your helpful advice.”

  I suspected he leaned toward sarcasm with that last remark.

  Charles watched Cal go around the corner. “Bookkeeping for Dummies will be a graduate course for our crooner.”

  And that was spoken by someone who actually thought he could do a forensic analysis of GB’s books. I spent another hour and listened to Charles talk about his newfound wealth, or as he put it, “loads of lucre.” He first said he would be able to retire, but after three seconds of thought, ruled that option out, since he hadn’t been on anyone’s payroll since he moved to Folly Beach. Then he said he would rent a big office, hire a sexy, long-legged secretary, open the Charles’s Detective Agency, put his feet up on a big mahogany desk, and bank wadded-up copy paper off the wood-paneled wall into a trash can. Then he conceded that Cal’s recent rebuke might make him reevaluate his business plan. And then he said that if I would use some of my “load of lucre” to keep Landrum Gallery open, he might consider staying on as sales manager.

  I told him I would think about it but wasn’t ready to decide. It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but he seemed to accept it for now; at least I didn’t say the gallery was history.

  Charles had agreed to man the gallery while I ran a few errands; a trip to the grocery was first on my list. Saturday afternoon in-season was a busy time for the Piggly Wiggly, a large chain grocery on Folly Road a couple of miles off-island. Most vacationers spent an hour or so their first day at the beach in the store stocking for their time on Folly Beach, and it was the grocery of choice for most locals. Today was no exception, and I had to park closer to the road than to the building. I would normally do most of my grocery shopping at Bert’s, less than a hundred feet from my house, but decided a ride would do me good.

  “Hey Chris, did they let you off the island?”

  I turned and was pleased to see Brian Newman push a cart up behind me. He stood more erect that I had seen in a long time; color was back in his face, and unless you knew about his health problems, you woul
d think that he was in perfect shape.

  I stopped, angled my cart off to the side of the aisle, and shook his hand. His grip was as strong as he appeared to be.

  “I heard something about you yesterday,” he said. His face didn’t give anything away. Many years in law enforcement had paid off. “Rumor has it that you and you-know-who are nosing into the Long killing.” He continued to stare at me.

  Before I could confirm or deny the rumor, I was saved by the smiling, attractive face of Brian’s daughter, who had walked up behind him and put her arms around his waist. “Are you keeping Dad from grocery shopping?” she said.

  “Yep,” I said and returned her smile. “He was struggling with deciding on which of the seventy-three choices of Oreos to get. Men shouldn’t be subjected to those kind of decisions.”

  Karen balled her hand into a fist and playfully hit my arm. “Don’t give him an out; I just was getting him trained to do grocery shopping,” she said and hit me again. “Men!”

  Brian clearly had heard enough about grocery shopping. “I was telling Chris about the rumor that he was butting in the Long case.” Brian gave me a more hardened police stare. “And I was telling him that if the rumor was true, he should butt out and leave the policing to the police. Isn’t that right, Chris?”

  “That’s what he said.” I suspect that both highly trained, experienced law-enforcement officials noticed that I hadn’t said yea or nay to the rumor. And after all, wasn’t it Brian who shared all his investigative secrets with Charles?

  We visited a couple more minutes and talked about the weather and how crowded the store was before Karen pointed into their cart and said they needed to get to Brian’s condo before his ice cream melted. They headed toward the check-out line, and I walked toward the wine and beer department. I was surprised a moment later when Karen tapped me on the shoulder.