Divine Rebel

by Tom Wallace

  Angel moved next to me, stared down at the wounded tires, and said, “Looks like someone sent you a second message.”

  “And this one can only be interpreted as a threat.”

  Sixteen

  “Is writing a book worth this?” Angel asked.

  “Searching for the truth is always a worthwhile goal,” I answered.

  “What if the truth is staring us in the face? Maybe Todd is guilty.”

  “If he is, why did someone send such a blatant message? What would be the point of doing this? There would no reason to. No, Angel, this proves Jimmy was right. We are beginning to rattle some cages.”

  “Yeah, and sometimes lions and tigers are in those cages.” She kicked one of the tires. “Jimmy Martin came back after we left and did this, didn’t he?”

  I shook my head, said, “No, Jimmy wouldn’t go this route. He’s the face-to-face type.”

  “Then who? Perry Jackson?”

  “I don’t see Perry doing this; it would be too risky, even in this darkness. But he might not be above dispatching someone else to do his dirty work for him.”

  “Someone like McElwain? Mr. Personality?”

  “He’s the most likely candidate.” I walked around the parking area and looked up at the back of the Best Western building. “No cameras. Why am I not surprised?”

  “It’s so dark back here, how can you know for sure?”

  “Good point. I’ll check at the front desk when we go in.”

  “What are you going to do about your car?” she asked.

  “Nothing I can do until morning. Then I’ll have it towed to a place that sells tires and have four new ones put on.”

  “You need to contact the car rental company.”

  “This isn’t a rental. It’s mine.”

  “You drove here from Siesta Key?”

  “Yeah, I did,” I said, using my key card to open the motel’s back door. “Get some rest, Angel. We’ll get my car taken care of first thing tomorrow, then we’ll get some breakfast and decide what to do next.”

  Angel went to her room without argument. I think she was too tired and too worried to offer a challenge. I continued down the hallway and made a right turn into the lobby. No one was behind the desk. I was about to ring the bell to get someone’s attention when a middle-age woman bounded out of the back office, all smiles and fully alert for so late at night.

  “Yes, how may I help you, sir?” she asked, keeping the smile in place.

  “Do you happen to know if there are security cameras in the rear parking area?” I inquired.

  She suddenly turned serious. “Why? Is there a problem, sir?”

  “No, no problem,” I lied. “Just curious, is all.”

  Relieved, she said, “No, sir, there are no cameras back there. Do you think there should be?”

  “Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. Just for security, you know?”

  “I will bring that to the manager’s attention just as soon as he gets to work this morning.” The smile returned in full force. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks for asking.”

  ~ * ~

  Back in my room I sat on the bed and checked my cell phone. In all the confusion I had missed a call from Declan O’Connor. He left a message about an hour ago asking me to call him ASAP. Declan works for the company that is the licensing agent for my play. If someone wants to produce the play, they have to go through Declan’s company to secure the rights.

  A call from him at such a late hour could only mean he had good news to deliver. Although it was past one in the morning in Manhattan, I didn’t hesitate to give him a call. Declan is a notorious night owl—rarely does his head hit a pillow before four a.m…. so I wasn’t concerned about waking him up. And if by chance I did, well, he’d just have to deal with it.

  “Nick, didn’t expect to hear back from you at this hour,” Declan said, sounding chipper and wide awake. “Did you just get back from a late-night stroll along the beach?”

  “I’m in Kentucky, Declan,” I pointed out. “That’s a long way from the beach.”

  “What possessed you to make a journey to Kentucky? Vacation or business?”

  “Doing research for a book.”

  “Good luck with that,” he said, half-heartedly. Then: “I have great news for you concerning Divine Rebel. You’re gonna love it.”

  “I’m all ears, Declan.”

  “In London, the Old Vic has agreed to extend the production for another six months with Jeremy Irons taking over as Blake. On our side of the big pond, the Mark Taper Theatre in Los Angles is planning a production with Brian Cox in the lead. And most exciting of all, Chicago’s Steppenwolf Theatre is set to have a limited run beginning in September. Gary Sinise has agreed to direct and John Malkovich will portray Blake. Only death will keep me from seeing that one.”

  “This is terrific news. But still nothing in New York?”

  Ever since Divine Rebel closed in New York and moved to London, there had been no production on or off Broadway. That was a big disappointment for me.

  “As of now, no, but I’m working on it, so don’t give up hope,” Declan said. “But wait, there’s more good news, Nick. Producers in Canada and Australia have made inquiries, and so have a half-dozen regional theatres in this country. Thanks to you, William Blake has been reborn.”

  “I appreciate the update, Declan,” I said. “Keep me posted. And if you need anything from me, just call. I’m always available for you.”

  “I’ll do what I can to keep the dollars flowing in, Nick. You know that.”

  More money, the play’s additional exposure…that was great and I didn’t downplay it. But not having a production in New York City robbed me of some enthusiasm. Realistic or not, I wasn’t going to be completely satisfied until Divine Rebel was on or near Broadway.

  I undressed, and after making a stop in the bathroom I set the alarm on my phone for six-thirty, pulled back the sheets, and got into bed. Too wired to get any sleep, I resigned myself to another restless thought-filled night. My head was buzzing. I was dead to the world two minutes later.

  ~ * ~

  The tow truck was at the motel at nine the next morning. After the Lexus was hooked up and ready to go, the driver recommended taking it to Pace Tire Company on West Broad Street. I had no problem with that, and told him Angel and I would follow in her rental.

  Pace Tire has been around since I was a kid, but I didn’t know who owned the place or any of the current employees. Back in the old days, a guy named Tom owned it. When the tow truck pulled in and lowered the Lexus, a man dressed in coveralls and hard-toe boots came out to greet us. He identified himself as Rick Morgan. I had no way of knowing if he was the owner or just one of the employees.

  “Four slashed tires,” he said. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say this wasn’t the result of an accident.”

  “That’s a keen observation, Rick,” I replied.

  Rick knelt, jammed his forefinger into one of the puncture holes, looked up at me, and said, “You chasing another man’s hide?”

  I could’ve sworn I heard Angel snicker in the background. Or maybe it was a groan. I couldn’t tell for sure.

  “No, not recently,” I said, attempting to blend honesty with humor.

  “Just asking, because this is the kind of thing a pissed-off husband or boyfriend might do.”

  “Do you have four good tires to replace these?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “What’s your price range?” Rick wanted to know.

  “Cost is not an issue. Just give me the best tires you have.”

  Rick motioned toward a door, said, “Let’s step into the office. I need to get some information from you.”

  After I had filled out the paperwork and paid in advance, I said, “Any idea how soon can you have this done?”

  “We’re slammed this morning, but I should have it ready by two, two-thirty at the latest. Will that work for you?”
>
  “What time do you close?”

  “Around six.”

  “I’ll be here before then,” I said, handing the car keys to Rick.

  “Anything else you want us to do while it’s here? Tune-up, maybe?”

  “Just the tires, Rick.”

  Angel was already behind the wheel when I got in her car. “Do you think McDonald’s is still serving breakfast?” she said.

  “It’s past ten-thirty, so I doubt it. But if it’s breakfast you want, we can always go to Huddle House.”

  “You know what, Dad? I’m in the mood for a big delicious nasty burger and some fries. Sinful, I know, but you only live once, right? Besides, who’s keeping score?”

  “Mickey D’s, it is.”

  ~ * ~

  Angel drove in silence but I sensed something was on her mind. She had a troubled look on her beautiful face. I worried that she was fretting too much about me, which I didn’t want her to do. My problems were my concern, not hers.

  Once we were inside McDonald’s, placed our orders and taken a seat, she finally said what she was thinking. “Dad, don’t you think it would be wise to move to another motel?”

  Not a question I expected. “No way,” I said. “Nobody is scaring me off.”

  “Relocating doesn’t necessarily mean you’re scared, only that you are being cautious.”

  “Where do you suggest we go, Angel? It’s not like there’s an endless number of motels around here.”

  “I don’t know. Just some place other than Best Western. A location where no one knows we’re there.”

  “We can always ask Mike and Karen Tucker if we could stay with them. I’m sure they would be more than happy to have us.”

  “She would, that’s for damn sure.”

  “We stay where we are, Angel. I’m not running from anyone.”

  “That sounds like tough-guy talk.”

  “I don’t have to be tough when I have Miss Krav Maga and her brown belt on my side.”

  “Don’t be facetious, Dad. You just might need me before this is all done.”

  I started to reply with my acid wit, but stopped when I saw a familiar face walk in. Heather Anderson came into McDonald’s accompanied by a woman of similar age and build. She marched straight to our table, leading me to conclude that she noticed us as she was preparing to place an order at the drive-thru window, parked instead, and came in to speak with me, her head filled with questions I had no answers for. I stood seconds before she arrived at our table.

  “Mr. Gabriel, have you had a chance to look into my sister’s murder?” Before I could respond, she said, “Oh, sorry, this is my friend Janice.”

  I acknowledged Janice with a nod and then motioned for them to join us. Heather slid in next to me, Janice next to Angel. “I did speak briefly with Greg Harkins,” I said. “Unfortunately, he didn’t have anything new to offer.”

  “Is he even working the case?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Well, that’s good to know,” Heather said, not sounding placated by my response.

  “He has a lot on his plate right now.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “Sharon was divorced, right?” I asked.

  “For a long time now.”

  “What can you tell me about her ex?”

  “Donnie? He’s a selfish jerk. That’s why Sharon split from him.”

  “Agent Harkins said he ruled out Donnie from the start. Do you agree with that?”

  “Yeah, sadly, I do. See, Donnie knocked up a chick about four years ago and had to get hitched. Since then, he’s fathered two more rug rats. He doesn’t have time to murder anyone.”

  “Agent Harkins also told me Sharon was dating a few guys but none that was special or serious. Is that accurate?”

  Heather looked at Janice before answering. “No, that’s not accurate,” she said, shaking her head. “Sharon had gotten serious about someone a short time before she was murdered. I think she was really ditzy about the guy.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  “I don’t. She never mentioned his name, and I never saw them together. Which was really strange, because Sharon and I didn’t keep secrets from each other. We shared everything.”

  “Why do you think she kept his identity secret?” I asked, knowing what her answer would be.

  “Probably because he was married.”

  “How long had the relationship been going on?”

  “Can’t say for sure, but my guess would be at least three months.”

  “Did you share this information with Agent Harkins?”

  “I didn’t, no.” Heather looked stricken by this admission. “I should have, but I—”

  Tears filled her eyes and her nose began to leak. Janice came to the rescue, handing her a tissue and offering a gentle pat on her arm.

  “I understand Sharon liked to drink beer,” I said, hoping to brighten the mood.

  This time it was Janice who answered. “Drink it?” she said. “It would be more accurate to say she guzzled it. Right, Heather?”

  Heather blew her nose, wadded the tissue into a ball, and nodded her agreement.

  “Where did Sharon do most of her drinking?” I asked, unsure which lady would answer.

  “At home, my house, Janice’s place, just about anywhere, really,” Heather said.

  “What about the American Legion? Did she ever drink there?”

  “Yes. Sharon started going there when she and Donnie were married, and she still goes there quite often.” Heather realized what she had just said. “I meant she used to go there quite often.”

  “Do you know Rabbit?”

  “Everybody knows him.”

  “Could he have been Sharon’s serious friend?”

  “Heavens, no,” Heather said, suppressing a giggle. “They were just drinking buddies, nothing more.”

  I had officially run out of things to say to Heather. No more suggestions, no more questions, nothing. Staying any longer would be a waste of time.

  “I hate to break this off, Heather, but Samantha and I need to get moving,” I said, standing. “I have an important interview scheduled in a few minutes and I can’t afford to be late. So, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll leave you guys in charge of the place.”

  “I had no idea that I was taking up so much of your time,” Heather said. “Yes, by all means, go. But I do appreciate all you’re doing for me regarding my sister’s murder. Maybe with a little luck, you or Agent Harkins will find out who killed Sharon.”

  Don’t hold your breath, I wanted to say but didn’t.

  As we stepped out into the sunlight, Angel said, “Why did you lie to Heather? You don’t have an important interview in a few minutes.”

  “That was no lie. I was being truthful with her.”

  “Who is this big interview with?”

  “The bartender at the American Legion.”

  Seventeen

  The Legion hall was extremely busy when Angel and I walked in. This came as a surprise to me. It was not yet one o’clock, yet vast quantities of alcohol were already being consumed. And make no mistake, no one was playing checkers, gin rummy, or throwing darts. They were here to drink.

  The crowd consisted mainly of men, although four or five ladies were included among the early drinkers. Based on the ages of those on hand, it could safely be concluded that every American conflict from World War II through Iraq and Afghanistan was represented. Many of the men wore baseball caps that connected them to the war they fought in.

  The same burly man who had been here on our previous visit was once again tending bar, although he had a different look about him—the Fu Manchu was missing. He had on a blue baseball cap with Navy Vietnam Veteran in yellow letters on the front. I doubted that I could ever be friends with the guy, but as a fellow vet, I should be able to summon a certain degree of respect for him.

  He slapped a dishrag over his left shoulder when he saw us coming in his direction, turned his palms up, and sh
rugged, a shit-eating grin spreading across his recently shaved face.

  “Thought we had reached an understanding that only active members drink here,” he said. The name on his shirt identified him as Chet. “And the last time I checked the roster, you ain’t on it.”

  “Same answer as before—we’re not here to drink,” I replied.

  “My point being, you have no reason to be here at all. So, why don’t you and Miss America do an about-face and march on out of here. If you leave voluntarily, it will save me the time and energy required to toss your ass out.”

  “Here’s my counter offer. One vet to another vet, how about you sell us a soft drink? That’s only fair, isn’t it?”

  “You served in the military? What…college ROTC for a semester?”

  “Army, Twenty-fourth Infantry Division, first Gulf War, Operation Desert Storm. And I have the medals to prove it.”

  “Well, I don’t hardly see how I can deny a war veteran a soft drink,” he said, his shit-eating grin back in place. He opened a cooler under the bar, came out with two cans of Coke, laid two coasters on the bar, and placed the soft drinks on the coasters. “Did you see actual combat, or were you one of those back-of-the-pack support guys?”

  “Ask the Iraqi Republican Guard, if any of them are still around.” I took a drink of Coke. “So, does my military resume meet with your approval?”

  An Army guy asking someone from the Navy for approval? How absurd is that?

  “If it’s true, sure, I have no issues with it.” Chet grinned and shook his head. “You know, you’re even more unlucky than you are persistent.”

  “You’re speaking in riddles, Chet. I don’t have a clue what that’s supposed to mean.”

  “Rabbit practically lives in this place—hell, he could almost have his mail delivered here… yet you’ve showed up twice looking for him and he’s not been here either time. That’s like a guy in a whore house who can’t find the pussy. You know what that says to me?”