by Tom Wallace
Two
After paying my bill, I pushed away from the bar, bid Rory a perfunctory “catch you later” farewell, stepped outside into the blistering heat, pressed my phone against my ear, and answered the call.
“This is Nick Gabriel,” I said, already sweating profusely.
“Is this the legendary ‘Slick’ Nick Gabriel I’m speaking with?”
“The one and only,” I said. “And unless I’m badly mistaken, I’m talking to the best third-baseman who ever covered the hot corner.”
The call was from Mike Tucker, a classmate of mine through our twelve years in school. He was also a longtime baseball teammate, and a damn good one. Friend or not, if tradition held true, I suspected he was about to get in some kind of a dig against me. I wasn’t wrong.
“More like I ‘survived’ the hot corner when you were pitching. I always felt my life was in danger during those games when you were on the mound. Did you ever strike out any batters, Nick? If you did, I don’t remember it.”
“That took too much effort, Mike. Think about it for a second. It takes a minimum of three pitches to strike out a hitter, as opposed to one pitch that gets the guy to hit the ball to a vacuum cleaner third baseman like you. I was limiting the wear-and-tear on my arm.”
“Once when we were on the way to a game against a veteran power-hitting team, I asked Coach if you were pitching. He said you were. So I asked him if I could wear the catcher’s shin guards and chest protector. Coach thought I was joking. I wasn’t. I was convinced my body would suffer grave damage that day.”
That’s a true story, and one Mike is never shy about sharing. We were sophomores and we got beat 8-1, which wasn’t bad, considering we were a very young team that year. However, two years later, when we were seniors, we beat that team 2-1. I pitched a three-hitter and Mike provided the offense with a pair of solo home runs. That win qualifies as the pinnacle of our baseball success, which tells you all you need to know about our careers as athletes. Essentially, we were over the hill at eighteen.
I hadn’t seen Mike for eleven years, not since we both attended our coach’s funeral. This call, coming out of the blue, caused me to wonder if a former teacher or one of our classmates had passed away. Would I soon be on my way to another funeral? God, I hoped not. Friends who died, especially those in my age group, were stark reminders that we only have a finite number of days on this earth.
“What prompted this call, Mike, and where are you calling from?” I asked, fully expecting to be hit with grim news. But I was wrong.
“I’m actually in your neck of the woods,” he said. “On Longboat Key, specifically. I was wondering if we could get together tonight for dinner. That’ll give us the chance to reminisce about old times. Are you available?”
“Absolutely, that would be great. What brings you to Longboat Key?”
“My wife’s sister and brother-in-law own a condo here. They are on vacation in Greece, so they asked if we’d like to stay in the condo while they are away. Naturally, we jumped at the chance. We’ll be here for another five days.”
“What kind of food do you and your wife prefer?”
“Anything works for us. We’re not picky. Since you’re familiar with this area, you pick the place. We’ll be there.”
I had only met Mike’s wife once, briefly, and for the life of me I couldn’t remember her name. I felt bad having to ask Mike what her name was, but luckily for me he bailed me out of an embarrassing situation.
“Karen does prefer Italian,” Mike said. “Me, I’m your basic meat-and-potatoes guy. But it’s your call, Nick. You lead, we follow.”
“Karen’s in luck. Caragiulo’s is a great place to eat, certainly my favorite. I’m usually there at least once a week. It’s on Palm Avenue in downtown Sarasota. You won’t have any trouble finding it. What time did you have in mind?”
“What about seven? Will that work for you?”
“See you at seven,” I said.
I was already heading home when we ended the call. The temperature had to be approaching one hundred degrees, if it hadn’t already passed that mark. The heat was like a blanket of fire that smothered you. I was drenched in sweat. Walking home in this heat, even for only a mile or so, wasn’t particularly pleasant. Some would even argue that it was dangerous. But I found it to be beneficial. It kept my weight in check, while the excessive perspiring helped eliminate some of the alcohol I’d consumed at the Old Salty Dog. It was like attending an AA meeting while strolling around in a giant steam room.
I was excited about seeing Mike again for the first time in years. He’s a hometown guy, one of those lifelong friends who, even if you haven’t seen them in ages, you wouldn’t hesitate to trust them with your life. I’m sure strong bonds forged among childhood friends exist in every city, but in a small town like the one Mike and I grew up in, it’s just different. Those older bonds are especially strong. Practically unbreakable, I would suggest.
Mike’s father had been a coal miner, a job he wanted his son to have no part of. He didn’t want Mike working a lifetime digging coal only to end up suffering from black lung disease. Or worse, dying in a mining accident. Mike went to college, earned a law degree, then opened a practice in our hometown. I heard from someone back home that Mike had been elected county judge executive. I had no idea what Karen did for a living, or if she even worked at all. I do know they had two kids, a boy and girl, but I didn’t know their names or ages or where they lived. I’d probably learn all those details at dinner tonight.
~ * ~
Four hours later, after cooling down, showering, and getting dressed, I was sitting at a table in Caragiulo’s waiting for Mike and Karen. I knew Mike wasn’t a drinker, and I had no idea whether or not Karen was, so I ordered a soft drink. Better to go the safe route than risk offending someone.
Karen and Mike showed up at exactly seven. Mike scanned the restaurant until he saw me waving. A big smile creased his face. He tapped Karen’s shoulder, pointed me out to her, then the two of them made their way to our table.
The years had treated Mike well. With the exception of a few extra pounds around his waistline and a slight touch of gray hair making an appearance above his sideburns, he looked like the guy I had grown up with. He looked fit enough to handle the hot corner like he had in the old days.
Seeing Karen failed to jog my memory of her, which was surprising, given that she was a real looker. I tend to remember gorgeous women, a category she easily fit into. This caused me to wonder if I had actually met her in the past. But I was certain I had. Most likely at Coach’s funeral.
Karen was maybe five-eight with medium-length dark hair parted in the middle. She had a sleek figure…no excess weight anywhere on her… tan skin, full lips, and what I would call a Roman or Greek nose. She was dressed in white capris, a blue sleeveless top, and flat shoes. If she had on any make-up, it was subtle. In my opinion, she didn’t require any help. Based solely on her physical appearance, I’d say Mike had struck gold when he hooked up with Karen.
I stood and exchanged an old-fashion handshake with Mike. No fist bump, no chest bump, no phony hug…just an old-school greeting. Very unhip in today’s world, but, hey, current trends don’t always translate to superior. I did the same with Karen once Mike introduced us. Formalities taken care of, we all sat down.
“You haven’t changed at all, Nick,” Mike said, settling into his chair. “I mean, not one bit. You look just like you did in high school. Do you work out a lot?”
“Less than three, four times a week, if I get motivated, which isn’t a constant,” I replied. “And I don’t kill myself when I do.”
“Must be the sun, sand and surf that are keeping you fit. Whatever you’re doing, stay with it, because it’s working.”
When the waitress came to leave menus and take our drink orders, Mike asked what I was drinking. I quickly said a soft drink, and he said he’d have one as well. When it came time for Karen to order, she surprised me with her response.
<
br /> “Would you please bring me a glass of your best Merlot?” she said, answering the question I had silently posed to myself. And the way she said it made clear that this wasn’t the first glass of wine she’d ordered. I had a sneaking suspicion Karen was no stranger to the fruit of the vineyard.
One of my goals tonight was to make sure Mike and I didn’t dominate the evening with a trip down memory lane. Given our shared past, such a journey was bound to happen sooner or later. I imagine Karen had already resigned herself to being a silent partner during dinner. But I had other ideas, so I made the decision early on to engage Karen in conversation. She deserved better than sitting silent as a statue while Mike and I rattled on like a pair of auctioneers.
“Where are you originally from, Karen?” I asked, feeling bad that I didn’t know more about her.
Karen seemed startled…and pleased…that I had kicked off the night with a question directed at her.
“Batesville, Indiana,” she said. “It’s a small town located between Cincinnati and Indianapolis.”
“Where did you meet this bum?” I said, nodding at Mike.
Karen waited until their drinks arrived before answering. After taking a sip of her Merlot, she said, “I was an undergrad at the University of Louisville when Mike was in law school there. A mutual friend introduced us at a party. I supposed you could say events proceeded from that point.”
“What she neglected to say is that she was a freshman and I was in my last year of law school,” Mike explained. “Meaning I’m several years her senior.”
“Her senior, maybe, but I’m guessing you’re not her superior,” I said, casually getting in my dig at Mike.
“Oh, man, you got that right,” Mike agreed.
“Do you work, Karen?” I asked.
She nodded, replied, “I teach high school English, and I also teach a literature class at the local community college. So I’m a busy lady.”
“And what about your kids? You have a boy and girl, if I remember correctly.”
“We do. Darren recently graduated from the University of Kentucky with an accounting degree. He has accepted a job with a firm in Lexington. Shelly, our daughter, is now a sophomore at Western Kentucky University. She’s studying to be a teacher.”
“Sounds like you guys did okay as parents,” I said.
“It hasn’t always been easy,” Karen admitted. “Kids today don’t comply with authority like we did. They challenge you on anything you say. Ask a kid to do this or that and they’ll want to know why. And good luck getting a kid to put down or turn off the cell phone. That’s like asking them to put out their eyes. Technology has its good points, but it should not become addictive. And for most people today, young and old, it most certainly has.”
The waitress returned to take our orders. Mike and I had chicken parmigiana, Karen went with eggplant parmigiana. As the waitress started to walk away, Karen asked us if we’d like calamari as an appetizer. When Mike and I quickly responded with indifference, Karen told the waitress we would pass on the squid.
In my experience, the passage of time impacts memory in one of three ways: The memory being recounted is close to the truth, the memory is greatly exaggerated, normally to the benefit of those within the tale being articulated, or the memory is totally forgotten. Of course, there is a fourth category—the tale being told is absolutely false, which if that’s the case, it’s not really a memory, it’s a piece of fiction.
After the food arrived, and as we ate, Mike took over and did most of the talking. He brought me up to date on former classmates…two of whom had passed away, and another, an ex-athlete who recently had serious back surgery and was confined to a wheelchair. Several of our old teachers had died, while another was a prisoner to Alzheimer’s. Despite how I’m making it sound, not all news was grim or depressing. There was some upbeat news along the way, if beating cancer can be termed upbeat. According to Mike, three of our classmates had done just that. Their cancer was in remission. Personally, I find nothing relating to cancer, even if it is in remission, qualifies as good news. Remission generally means the cancer is just biding time until it shows up in another part of the body. Good news is when you don’t have cancer.
My contribution to the conversation was generally limited to answering questions posed by Mike. And as I expected, most of those questions zeroed in on my decade working in the film industry. How did I get into the business, which of the movies I worked on was my favorite, and did I know certain actors? Things along those lines. My answers, though honest, probably disappointed Mike. People seemed hell-bent on hearing me say I am close pals with Jennifer Lawrence or Ryan Gosling. That’s simply not the case.
One subject Mike didn’t touch on was my failed marriage or my daughter. I kept waiting for him to bring it up, but he never did. Initially, I figured he was being respectful and didn’t want to scrape the scab off of an old wound. But the more I thought about it, I began to wonder if Mike was even aware that I had been married and had a daughter. That all happened when I was in Los Angeles…the marriage, divorce, the birth of my daughter. The marriage ended twelve years ago, and while we were still together, my wife and I had never once visited my hometown. So, there was a good chance Mike had no clue about any of that.
As the evening wore on, I kept waiting for Karen to join the conversation but she never did. As a literature teacher, it would have only been natural for her to bring up William Blake at some point, maybe to discuss his poetry or some of his allied writings. Her failure to do so got me thinking that perhaps I was giving myself too much credit, that maybe she wasn’t aware that I had written Divine Rebel. I mean, let’s be real here. Broadway plays aren’t a standard topic of conversation in Kentucky. But at no point during the night was Blake’s name mentioned once.
Instead, as Mike droned on, or when I responded to one of his questions, Karen remained silent, content to finish off her meal and a third glass of Merlot without uttering a word. As we talked, the expression on her face ranged from mildly interested to no interest at all. But all things considered, she was certainly a good sport.
I chalked up her indifference more to being respectful and less to boredom, although that may have been a misguided judgment on my part. I certainly could have been misreading her. Maybe she was thinking, “Okay, guys, how about we bring this trip down memory lane to a halt? I’m tired of sitting here like a mannequin, a captive audience to your blast from the past.” But like a dutiful, loving wife, and the obvious grownup at the table, she kindly allowed the two kids to ramble on for nearly three hours.
Then, just as the waitress cleared away our plates, and I handed her my credit card, Karen broke her silence with a statement that changed everything.
“Tell Nick about the murder,” she said to Mike.
Three
“Murder? What murder?” I asked.
Mike looked around sheepishly, like he was fearful of getting into trouble. Like a kid who was someplace he shouldn’t be and was worried about being caught. “Maybe we should continue this talk somewhere else,” he said. “We’ve been here almost three hours already. I feel guilty sitting here, taking up space, while we’re no longer eating.”
I caught our waitress’ attention and signaled for her to come over. When she did, I ordered two Diet Cokes and another glass of Merlot. The waitress nodded, smiled, and left to get our drinks.
“There, you happy now, Mike?” I said. “We are once again on the side of the angels. We’re paying customers, which means we can stay here until they run us out.”
“Yes, I do feel better,” Mike said seriously.
“So do I,” Karen chimed in, “although after four glasses of wine I may have to be carried to the car.”
After the waitress delivered our drinks, I handed her a twenty-dollar bill and told her to keep the change. I’d already settled up for our dinner, which included a generous tip. She smiled, thanked me, and hustled away.
“Okay, Mike, back to the murder,” I prompte
d. “Tell me all about it.”
“Well, it happened about two months ago,” Mike said, after taking a drink of Diet Coke. “Do you remember Steve Brown?”
“Sure I do. He works for the gas company. Or at least, he used to. He’s a good guy. Are you telling me he was murdered?”
“No, no, it wasn’t Steve. His eighteen-year-old grandson, Todd, committed the murder. He beat up the victim pretty bad, then stabbed him multiple times with a knife. From all accounts, it was a gruesome and horrific scene. The police zeroed in on Todd from the very start—I don’t know how or why—but when he was arrested, he was wearing the victim’s ring. To get that ring, Todd had to sever the guy’s finger. Like I said…gruesome.”
“Who was the victim?”
“Luke Felton.”
“I know Luke. He’s a cop in town, isn’t he?”
“Not for years now. He left the police force, gosh, maybe fifteen years ago. Or it could be he didn’t leave, he retired. I don’t know. Recently, he’d been working as a free-lance photographer. He would shoot ballgames, band contests, school events, beauty pageants, automobile accidents, fires…things like that. I think he had a deal with the local newspaper. He’d photograph various things and they would pay him for his work.”
“Where did the murder take place?” I asked.
“In an abandoned stripper pit out in the county. Luke’s body was on the ground next to his car. A couple of teens out parking discovered the body.”
“Luke is several years older than we are. He has to be in his sixties.”
“Sixty-eight at the time of his death,” Mike stated.
“Which begs the question: Why would an eighteen-year-old kid be hanging out with a sixty-eight-year-old guy? Or vice versa, for that matter.”
“Can’t say for sure, but my guess is drugs were involved.”
“Drugs? Really?”
Karen said, “Drugs have become a huge problem in our town, Nick. In the entire county, if you want the truth. Pot used to be the hot-ticket item, but not so much now that you can buy it legally. Now we’re dealing with truly nasty stuff… meth, cocaine, oxycodone… very addictive drugs that can kill you if you aren’t careful. Drugs have become a serious epidemic in our part of the world.”
