by N. C. Lewis
As I lay on the office floor at Ealing Homestead staring at the ceiling, all thoughts of Garrick Markovich evaporated, and my financial fears melted away. I reminded myself the event center business is seasonal, the lack of bookings a reflection of that. My teaching position at Medlin Creek Community College, although adjunct, was secure as student numbers continued to grow. And the oil well? At worst, I'd find an alternative firm. Yes, oil prices are depressed and that would make the task more difficult, but I could at least search, maybe I'd get lucky.
I got up, patted Bodie and walked onto the porch, watching tiny gray clouds scudding across the evening sky. The air had turned suddenly cooler and I knew that a summer thunderstorm was brewing. "Looks like I'll be driving to the dojo in the rain," I said to Bodie who had followed me outside.
The dojo, on Warren Street, is situated between an abandoned warehouse and Don Andrew's twenty-four-hour pizza parlor which I frequent a little too often. I arrived later than usual, slowed down by a heavy cloudburst. People were already entering the dojo as I parked.
Inside, the dojo was cool and bright, the whoosh of the fans circulating air around a large rectangular room. A black mat covered the gym floor, padded with a thick soft material designed to absorb the impact of judo-style throws. Off to the side were changing rooms and offices.
Kidd Cole, the assistant instructor, swept the mat and greeted the guests as they arrived. "Hey Ollie, nice to see you. The fun starts in five minutes."
I hurried to the women’s changing room to prepare myself for what lay ahead. I'm not very fit, a little overweight, and find the classes a challenge. But I enjoy it. The physical exercise and meditative practices both strengthen the physical body and clarify my mind.
Familiar locals chatted with several unfamiliar faces from Master Toddy Ironsmith's dojo in Austin. I jostled for a space to change into my martial arts uniform. Ethel Green and Marge McCloskey, the club’s oldest members, had a bench to themselves. It'd be another twenty years before I could claim that luxury, I thought to myself ruefully. Suddenly, the metallic boom of a gong echoed throughout the changing room. Class had begun.
After Kidd Cole had warmed up the class, with cardio and stretching, Master Toddy Ironsmith strolled onto the mat with his training partner who he introduced as Uke Linda Diane Overton. A lanky woman, over 6 feet, with hands the size of baby watermelons, a rugged scar down her right cheek, she towered over Master Ironsmith, who was around five feet seven inches in height.
She gave a little bow to Master Ironsmith, then, her face filled with menace, swung a wild punch toward the Master's head. The attack was so swift that in my mind her oversized grapefruit of a fist made full contact with Master Ironsmith's jaw knocking him clean to the floor. But he took a little step to the side, there was a flurry of arms and legs, then Uke Overton flew several feet through the air and clattered to the floor as Master Ironsmith pounced forward to apply a devastating arm lock. The incident took place in a matter of seconds, my mouth hung open as my mind tried to figure out what happened. It failed.
In the next demonstration, Uke Linda Diane Overton held Master Ironsmith from behind, her right arm around his neck and the left hand clamped tight on his left arm. But again, with a sideways shuffle of the feet, a slight twist of the hip as he raised his arms and Uke Overton spun towards the dojo mat. Once again Master Ironsmith sprung forward and applied another devastating arm lock. Eyes and mouth still wide, I marveled at how Master Ironsmith's graceful Aikido movements could deliver such a powerful impact.
Now, two assailants appeared on the mat. Uke Linda Diane Overton alongside a short baldheaded man in his twenties with a wild bush of a beard and a huge crooked nose. The beard told me he was from Austin, the crooked nose a brawler.
The young man rushed toward Master Ironsmith grabbing him by the lapels. Uke Overton approached with a stick. As she swung the weapon, the Master shuffled his body in such a way that the young man was in-between himself and Uke Overton. The stick clattered into the young man, who let out a wild yell which turned to surprise as he found himself flying through the air. Then in a series of moves which were too quick to capture the stick was in the hand of Master Ironsmith and Uke Overton raised her arms and surrender.
The demonstration over, Master Ironsmith turned to face us. "Today we are going to practice basic knife defense. Let me share with you one of my favorite techniques, it is called kote geshi."
The baldheaded man with the wild beard walked back onto the mat. A flash of metallic revealed a short-handled knife, clasped tight in his right hand. He lunged, the silver tip aimed at the Master's abdomen. It traveled with such speed I wondered how it was possible to avoid it.
Master Ironsmith made a small pivot sideways and his arms shot upwards. The knife whistled past. Then his right hand grasped the top of the opponent's knife hand, and his left hand the bottom. With a vigorous pivot of his body the assailant's wrist twisted followed by his entire body which swiveled clean through the air clattering down on his back. The master finished up with another armlock.
"Knife defense," he said smiling, "is a difficult business, very risky even in the dojo. Tonight, you will die more times than you survive. Nevertheless, training gives a slight edge. Now, it's your turn."
For the rest of the class we practiced basic knife defense techniques on both our right and left side. I died more times than I lived!
Back in the women's changing room the atmosphere crackled with excitement. As the discussion over the aikido techniques we had learned died down, the conversation turned to the discovery of Garrick's bones at Ealing Homestead.
"And that's all I know," I said as dozens of eager eyes stared in my direction.
"The whole thing is unfathomable," Uke Linda Diane Overton said. "I'm from Austin, but Garrick was a dear friend. Y’all know he was just about the nicest person in Medlin Creek, hell the entire Hill Country." She laughed–a quick high-pitched sound that was more like a heavy sob than a joyous chorus from the heart.
"Sure’nuff," someone said. There was a general murmur of agreement.
"I’m madder than a wet hen about this!" said Marge McCloskey, shaking her head. "The strange thing is there are no clues. I mean, Garrick had no enemies, everyone loved him. Yet, his body was dumped at an abandoned oil well to be dug up years later as a pile of bones… It doesn't make any sense."
Ethel Green spoke up. "What about the fight between Garrick and Bobby Williams?"
Marge half closed her eyes. "Well, as I remember, Bobby attacked him with a garden hoe. Garrick acted in self-defense. If it went to court I'm sure a jury would've seen it that way."
"Yup!" Agreed Ethel. "Bobby got what he deserved. But do you really think he—"
"Chastity is a good friend, she was very upset," interrupted Uke Linda Diane Overton. "She tore a strip out of her brother Bobby over the fight."
"I'd love to have two strong handsome guys fighting over me," reflected Ethel, her voice almost a whisper.
There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but it was getting late, and the gathering started to break up.
Chapter 22
Almost always after a dojo class I visit the pizza parlor next door for a slice of Don Andrew's finest. It was an hour or so after sunset. The usual pinpricks of light from twinkling stars obscured by dense gray clouds gave the street a midnight aura. Only the bright fluorescent light, which streamed through the plate-glass windows of the pizza parlor, showed this part of Warren Street was open for business.
Several tourists sat on plastic chairs devouring their meal, and a group of old-timers played dominoes on a long bench at the far side of the restaurant. Don Andrews stood by the industrial pizza oven, one eye on the cash register, the other the seated area.
"Can I take your order please?" said the teenage assistant.
The menu wasn’t extensive but tonight Don Andrews had prepared his Hill Country special all organic, local produce pizza. "I'll take two slices of—"
"I hears yo
u looking for the killer of Garrick Markovich."
I whirled around and confronted a tall thin man, with a pale puffy face and narrow hazel eyes that protruded from above the upper cheekbones. It was Joseph Shine. He belched. The air filled with the sour malty odor of stale beer.
"Excuse," he said moving a little too close and swaying from side to side, "haven't had any solid food today."
He did indeed look very thin and pale.
"Can I take your order please?" asked the assistant, a blank expression etched on her face.
"Joseph, isn't it?" I asked, ignoring her request.
"Sure is." He nodded and made a stiff little bow. "Joseph Shine, at your service, Ma’am."
Joseph steadied himself, but continued to rock from side to side. His cadaverous appearance, worsened by the stubble on his chin and protruding yellow teeth, tugged a string in my heart. He cleared his throat. "Please take the ladies order and carry the food over to her table," he said to the assistant.
Touched by his polite drunkenness, my mouth spoke before my brain engaged.
"Joseph, let me buy you dinner, and you can tell me what you know about Garrick Markovich."
"That's mighty fine of you," he said grinning. "I'm fixin’ to try me a couple of slices of Don Andrew's Hill Country special, with a Coke."
"What type of Coke?" asked the assistant.
"7-Up," he replied.
The assistant looked at me. "And for you Ma’am?"
I gave her my order.
"Y’all take a seat and I'll bring it right over," she said, handing over my change.
Joseph chose a table by the window. I watched him struggle to sit down. He was too drunk to be a threat other than to himself.
"You knew Garrick," I said, taking a bite of pizza.
He took a long slow sip from his 7-Up, then crunched ice between his teeth. "One of the finest men who ever lived, if that ain’t a fact, God’s a possum."
"Do you know what happened to him?"
Joseph stared out the window, and for a moment I thought he wouldn't answer. Suddenly, his hazel eyes swiveled in my direction, the whites tinged with red streaks.
"Yep," he said in a distant voice, "I know what happened to Garrick."
"What?"
Joseph eyed me with a trace of suspicion. "Why are you so interested in a dead man?"
"You must've heard, his body was found on my property."
Joseph laughed almost silently. "I hear they found a pile of Buzzard bait, guess Garrick gave up his guitar for a harp."
The ping of the doorbell interrupted our conversation. A group of business people, men and women, strolled into the restaurant. At the front, a short little man, almost a dwarf, wearing tan boots with four-inch heels, boomed, "Don Andrew special today is a Hill Country pizza. Y’all have to try it." The man's voice, was light and high pitched without being unpleasant. I looked up to see the elfin face of Bryant Reynolds staring at the menu board.
As his colleagues placed their orders Bryant's eyes swiveled across the restaurant. They passed quickly over the tourists, lingered on the dominoes players, then settled on Joseph Shine. For several moments Bryant stood staring, a most peculiar expression on his face.
Joseph became extraordinarily tense and moved as close as possible, his pungent sour malty odor filling my nostrils. "Bryant Reynolds is as yellow as mustard but without the bite," he whispered looking out of the corner of his eye toward Bryant. There was a startling gleam in Joseph's eyes which can only be described as vengeful. A feeling of vague apprehensiveness crept over me, but remained too formless to be identified by my conscious mind.
As Bryant extolled the virtues of Don Andrews pizza parlor, the assistant swiftly served the executives, packing their food in neat little boxes. When the last person was served, the group left.
Joseph glanced anxiously at the restaurant door. "Don't want ya to dig up more snakes than you can kill," he mumbled in a tense voice. We fell into silence. It wasn't until he had finished chewing his last bite of pizza that he finally said, "All right, I'll tell you what I know, but it will cost."
"How much?"
Joseph laughed, a drunken little giggle which faded into his answer. "One thousand dollars."
"Are you crazy?"
Silence.
"How about five hundred?"
He shook his head, leaned forward, and in a rapid urgent whisper explained, "The going rate is one thousand dollars, take it or leave it." There was a certain steel in his voice, the price was not up for negotiation.
Once again, my mouth spoke before my brain engaged. "Okay," I said breathlessly, "it's a deal. Now, spill the beans."
"This ain't my first rodeo honey, money first, then you get what I know. Meet me here tomorrow same time with the cash, it'll be worth every penny."
Joseph rose unsteadily to his feet. "Church is out." He threw the words over his shoulder, and with a little wave, he was gone.
I let out a deep sigh, took a sip of soda, and turned to peer out of the restaurant window. A pair of colorless eyes stared back.
Blinking several times, I rubbed my eyes then looked out again through the plate-glass. There was nothing except the shadows dancing under the flickering light of a streetlamp.
Chapter 23
The next morning, after the third snooze alarm, I crawled out of bed and told myself that today was going to be a wonderful day. Cell phone in hand, I searched for some motivational audio, Tony Robbins or Zig Ziglar?
I went with Zig.
In front of the bathroom mirror, bleary-eyed, I repeated one of his mantras, "you are what you are and where you are because of what has gone into your mind. But you can change what you are, and you can change where you are, by changing what goes into your mind."
I ran the tap splashing cold water onto my face. I hoped whatever Joseph Shine's new knowledge contained, it'd be worth a thousand dollars to my mind.
"One thousand dollars," I said aloud.
Ealing Homestead isn't exactly a cash cow. With no event center bookings and a growing list of property repairs, I didn't have the cash. Joseph might as well have asked for a million dollars.
The sensible thing to do would be to report the incident to the Sheriff's department, and let them take it from here. I was sensible when John died, giving information when requested and waiting for an official report that never came.
My heart beat quickened as I thought of John and his colleagues captured by a ragtag group of bandits. He knew working overseas might be dangerous, but the hired security guards had failed in their basic duty to defend and protect. And the local police? They had botched the rescue attempt. John, his coworkers, and the bandits all killed!
I felt the early stirrings of a migraine, tingling on one side of my face. Maybe the Sheriff's department would interview Joseph in a week or two, maybe never.
I took a pill.
"I wonder if Joseph will take a credit card?" I asked my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The day after dojo practice my whole body ached, this morning was no different. Chilly water wasn't cutting it, nor was the pill. I took a hot shower, toweled down and pulled on some clothes. I'd walk Bodie then spend the morning at Moozoos reviewing lecture notes. What is it they say? A change of scene is as good as a rest. The café would be quiet if I arrived after the morning office worker rush.
It was just after sunrise, the air was cool and still, as Bodie and I crunched along the trail. The dog trotted off the leash by my side as I took in deep breaths, enjoying the scent of summer in the Hill Country. A pair of scissor-tailed flycatchers swirled and swooped above my head coming to rest in the branches of a tall live oak tree. Together they sang their heart lifting song.
I stopped, looking up shading my eyes from the rising sun, trying to spot the birds, but they took flight, spiraling high in the air and out over the horizon. Today, I told myself as I put the leash on Bodie, is going to be a wonderful day.
Bodie and I followed the trail for anothe
r two miles until it curved back around on itself. The slope was downhill now, and the going was easy. As the sun rose further above the treetops we entered the lane that led back towards Ealing Homestead.
"Ollie, over here."
Emma Garcia, my neighbor, waved as she bounded off a narrow trail that led onto the lane. At her side Benji, a sandy-colored purebred pug who was always ready to play. We let the dogs off the leash and strolled together for several moments in silence.
"Ollie, I'll walk with you as far as Ealing Homestead, then I'm going to cut across the trail into town," Emma said.
Emma worked at the Medlin Creek Community College as an administrator for Professor Bingham, the Dean of the business school.
We had reached the part of the lane where another narrow trail provided a shortcut into town. The dogs back on the leash, Emma waved.
"Oh, I almost forgot," she said, turning around. "Professor Bingham would like you to stop by his office around two p.m. today. Can I schedule you in?"
"Sure," I said without giving it much thought.
"I'll text over the details as a reminder," said Emma as she turned onto the trail.
Chapter 24
The moment I walked into Moozoos I knew something was wrong. I overheard a conversation between two office workers leaving the café. It was disturbing. When another individual, a man in a peach silk shirt and brown sandals, followed with worse news, I realized I'd made one of the biggest mistakes of my life.
It was after nine a.m. and there were dozens of people waiting in line, each talking over the other in excited voices. The barista, so busy he barely looked up from his work, hurried to prepare drinks. As he moved between the preparation stations, his head tilted slightly to one side with the ears pointed in the direction of the line.
A stooped old man with a grisly white beard and wild blue eyes waved a finger at no one in particular. "This town used to be a quiet place. But since all y’all tourists and newcomers it's been nothing but murder and mayhem." He waved his finger like an ancient prophet. "The good times are over; this place is becoming like Chicago. A drought usually ends with a flood!"
