by Bill Noel
“Hey, Chris,” Jay said when he saw me standing behind the women, “let me introduce you to two guests.”
He proceeded to tell me who the ladies were, that they were on Folly to attend a high-school reunion, and introduced me to the women. I detected a slight who cares look in their eyes. It didn’t stop Jay. They said they had to get to Charleston for the reunion and said it was nice meeting me and excused themselves.
Jay shook my hand and said he had heard about Heather and asked how she was doing. I wasn’t surprised he knew since there wasn’t much that happened on Folly that he didn’t know. I told him she was doing the best that could be expected. He asked how Charles was taking it. I said he could be doing better and he asked me to give him his best then asked what brought me to the hotel. I told him he was the person I wanted to see, and I knew it was his day off, so I was looking for anyone who could answer a question. He was there because two employees called in sick, and asked what I needed.
“It has to do with Heather.”
“I hope I can help.”
I told him a little about Kevin Starr and how Starr said he was staying at the Tides the night he first met Heather.
Jay tilted his head and asked when that was. I gave him the date and he shook his head.
“I’m not great on dates,” he said, “but I do remember that one because I had to take my car to the shop to have some work redone. To be honest, I was perturbed with the mechanic. Anyway, I don’t recall anyone named Kevin staying here that night. Did he say how long he had been here?”
I told Jay I wasn’t sure. From what he’d said, it could have been several nights.
“No, don’t believe he was here.”
“How about people from New York? I heard they were in the music industry and on a retreat that Starr was here for.”
“New York,” said Jay as he rubbed his chin. “The Lawrences, John and Louise, and a couple Carl and Missy, the Mosers, stayed three nights and were from somewhere near New York City. They’re in their eighties and said they were on vacation. Doubt they’re who you’re looking for.”
I agreed and seeing how much he had remembered about them, I was more sure that Kevin Starr wasn’t a guest, or if he was, he didn’t go by Kevin. I thanked Jay and he said if there was anything he could do to help Heather or Charles to let him know.
22
Cal’s was packed. I was glad I wasn’t there to sit and drink since all the tables were occupied. There was a smattering of guitar cases beside several of the tables. I noticed a few familiar faces, a couple of regular open-mic performers, and several customers I didn’t recognize. Burl was behind the bar. His rotund body squeezed in a space made for someone several belt sizes smaller, as he tried to gather drinks for six men who were waiting. Charles was at the far end of the bar restocking the beer cooler. Kristin, a part-time waitress who had worked at Cal’s since her junior year at the College of Charleston five years ago, was making her way among the tables trying to keep up with the demands of thirsty customers. She was falling behind because of the bottleneck caused by two amateur bartenders.
It was a half hour past the time open-mic was scheduled to start and two musicians were getting antsy and glaring at Burl. Kristin saw me, smiled, and shrugged her shoulders. I motioned to the bar so she’d know I wasn’t looking for a table.
“Brother Chris,” Burl said, “my prayers are answered. Please lend a hand. I have to get the show on the road.”
I knew as much about bartending as I knew about skinning a porcupine, but figured I could move beer from the cooler to the bar or help Kristin clear empties off the tables. I waited for Burl to squeeze out from behind the bar before I took his place. Charles nodded and said he would tend bar if I could keep him supplied.
Other than grumbling voices coming from the guys standing in line to get drinks, the next sound I heard was Burl tapping on the antique mic on the stage sandwiched between the restrooms at the far end of the room.
“Hello, hello! Howdee.” He sounded more like Minnie Pearl than a host. “Welcome to open-mic night at Cal’s. I’m Preacher Burl…umm, just Burl, filling in for Cal. Some of you know he’s over in the hospital in Charleston recovering from a blow to the head. Let’s have a moment of silence for our dear friend Brother, umm, Country Cal.
The moment of silence was interrupted by clanking beer bottles and one patron yelling “What’d he say?” Silence wasn’t silent, nor was it golden.
“Now,” Burl said, “please silence thy communication devices.”
I put my hand over my eyes. That was Cal’s weekly opening to get his congregation to turn off cell phones during his Sunday services. I prayed he didn’t expect the first musician to open with “Amazing Grace.”
I was relieved when the next thing he said was: “Now we’ve got a bunch of singers tonight, so let’s hold it to two songs each. Okay, let’s make welcome our first entertainer, the young lady standing over there.” Burl pointed to a mid-twenties woman dressed in a striped shirt and torn jeans. “Kera,” she stage-whispered. “Kera,” Burl said to the microphone.
Kera was well into Kacey Musgraves’s hit “Follow Your Arrow” when Burl made his way back to the bar.
Charles patted him on the back. “Fine job.”
Charles has a knack for saying what needed to be said, and Burl needed positive reinforcement for his MC duties. Despite his shortcomings, Charles had been better, or quicker, at selling beer and the line was down to two people. I offered to help Kristin clear tables.
She smiled. “You aren’t going to hog into my tips, are you?”
I shook my head.
“Clear away.”
And I did. Two more entertainers were standing beside the stage. Burl wasn’t a great moderator, though he had learned to ask the singer’s name before going to the microphone, and refrained from reading Bible verses between songs.
The next vocalist, a man in his forties, opened with a poor imitation of Darius Rucker’s “Wagon Wheel,” followed by an even poorer imitation of the classic “Kiss an Angel Good Morning.”
I was facing the exit when Burl introduced the next singer, Edwina, who said she’d like to go back a few years for her song, Tammy Wynette’s “Stand by Your Man.”
I remembered her from her appearance during the earlier open-mic night I’d attended with Barb. The name also sounded familiar from something else but I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it. I took a handful of empty bottles to the trash behind Charles and asked, “She a regular?”
Charles looked up from the cash register, and squinted toward the stage. “Looks familiar. Could be, not every week.” He was distracted and grumbled about losing track of the money, so I didn’t pursue it. If Cal had been here, he would have been quick with an answer.
Kristin leaned over the bar, and tapped me on the arm. At five-foot-one she struggled to reach me. “Chris, could I borrow you. Bottles are piling up.”
By the time I had cleared two tables, Edwina had begun covering Dolly Parton’s “Coat of Many Colors,” and the crowed began tapping their feet to the classic. Edwina, in ample proportions or melodious voice, was no Dolly, although she performed an admirable rendition, and was better than most of Cal’s regulars.
“I think I might remember where I saw her,” Charles said as I dumped the empties in the trash behind him.
I wiped my hands on a bar towel and held them out for him to continue.
“Remember when we were standing in line at the Bluebird and Heather sneaked off to the bathroom at McDonalds?”
“Yes.”
“I thought I saw Heather coming back.” Charles looked at Edwina on stage. “The gal had on a yellow blouse like Heather’s and her hair looked the same, but when she turned around it wasn’t Heather.” He paused and pointed to the stage. “I think it was her.”
“Bro…. umm, Charles,” interrupted Burl, “More Buds.”
I turned toward the stage but couldn’t picture her from Nashville, but remembered why her n
ame sounded familiar. The woman Caldwell was working with to change SHADES from rock to country had mentioned that one of the regulars was pushing her to offer open-mic nights. Wasn’t her name Edwina? Olivia had said Edwina had performed at several other open-mic nights. It seemed likely it was the same Edwina, after all, how many Edwina’s could there be who were performing at open-mic nights? Was Charles right about her being in Nashville?
How do I find out without arousing suspicion? I gave it some thought as Edwina was leaving the stage and Burl was preparing to introduce the next singer. Instead of introducing the singer, Burl was doing a thirty-second commercial for First Light Church, giving his confused beer-drinking audience the when and where of his Sunday service. If Cal had known what Burl was doing, he would have disconnected himself from the medical paraphernalia, hijacked a car, and charged in here to give Burl the boot, figuratively and literally. Cal had no idea and Burl had now slipped out of preacher, pitch-man mode and introduced the next singer.
Edwina was by herself. She latched her guitar case, waved at a couple of women who had applauded the loudest at the end of her set, and headed to the exit. I opened the door for her and followed her to the sidewalk. She thanked me, and I said, “Edwina, that’s a nice name.”
She glanced at me. It wasn’t a hostile look but more a who’s hitting on me now gaze. I didn’t blame her. I held out my hand. “I’m Chris Landrum, a good friend of Cal.”
I thought she was going to ignore me, when she reached for my hand. Hers was damp and warm. “Hi. Nice to meet you.” She smiled and started to walk away.
The smell of cigarette smoke mixed with the hot, humid air in front of the bar. A trickle of perspiration ran down my cheek yet Edwina looked as fresh as she had when she had taken the stage.
“A few days ago, I was with Cal and another friend, Caldwell Ramsey, at SHADES, and we were talking with the owner. She mentioned one of her regular performers was named Edwina. I was wondering if it was you.”
She looked at her guitar case and at me. “Yes. Olivia’s been good to me over the years. She lets me fill in when some of her scheduled performers cancel.”
I didn’t know where to go with the conversation, so I said, “Small world, isn’t it?”
She stared at me like it was a trick question. “Sure is.”
That didn’t help.
“You play here often?”
“A few times. I try to go to as many open-mic nights as I can.” She grinned. “Getting discovered is hard work.”
“You must know Heather Lee. She played here most every week until she moved to Nashville.”
“I see a lot of folks at these things. I might if I saw her.”
How do I keep her talking without becoming suspicious?
“I think Olivia said you play out of state occasionally.”
“Some.”
“Ever played Nashville?”
“Been there a time or two.”
“Heather plays the Bluebird.”
“Good venue. Gotta be going, nice to meet you.”
I ignored her dismissal. “You ever play there?”
“Tell Cal I hope he gets feeling better. That preacher guy’s okay,” She shook her head. “He’s no Country Cal.” She waved bye over her shoulder as she climbed in a black Mercedes SLK 350 hardtop convertible that looked more like it should be in a sci-fi movie rather than on the streets of Folly. It didn’t look like Edwina needed to be discovered to get by.
The crowd was thinning as I returned to clear tables. There were only two other singers who had attempted to wow the audience. Both had failed. The good news was that the master of ceremonies had survived open-mic night. He had performed better than most of the aspiring singers. Charles, as he does with most things he attempts, had muddled through tending bar. And I was exhausted. Only Kristin appeared in good spirits and full of energy at closing and asked if we wanted to hit some of Folly’s other bars before they closed. Charles, Burl, and I responded in three-part harmony: “No ma’am.”
23
I didn’t wake up until eight-thirty the next morning, late for me. I would have slept longer if the phone hadn’t jarred me awake.
“Hey, pard,” Cal said in his strong Texas accent. “You awake?”
I said I was now and asked how he was feeling. I wanted to ask why he was waking me up.
“The cute nurse who was holding my hand and taking my blood pressure a few minutes ago said my hard head was healing good.”
“Great. How’s your memory?”
“Ain’t made it back yet. Still don’t remember what happened that night and my last couple of weeks seem to be all twisted around. I do remember why I’m calling. Peppi, that’s the cute nurse’s name, she said it’s French, anyway, she told me today’s Wednesday and even as confused as I am, I know it meant yesterday was Tuesday, a big night at the bar. Was Burl there and did he handle the singers okay? They’re a fickle lot, you know.”
I told him everything was fine and Burl, with a little help from Charles, was great and to not worry about anything other than getting well and getting out of the hospital.
“Be sure and thank the preacher man for me.”
I told him I would.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Nearly forgot. When I was drifting off last night, my buddy Johnny R called. The old, cranky nurse that ain’t French heard the phone on the table over there ring and gave me a scolding look. Anyway, we went to see Johnny R when we were in Nashville, didn’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Good, I’m glad that part ain’t gone from my head. Last night he called and said he had a little something to tell me about the scoundrel Starr. I told him I was in the hospital and my memory was going through a fuzzy spell and I’d have you give him a call to see what he knew.”
“Did he give a hint?”
“Don’t think so. Nurse Ratched made me hang up, turn the ringer off, and go to sleep. Didn’t get Johnny R’s number, but he’s in that home. I said you’d call him. Did I already tell you that?”
I said I'd give his friend a call.
“Well I’ll be branded. Guess who just came a callin’?”
From the way he’d said it, I assumed it wasn’t Nurse Rached. “Who?”
“My favorite bartending preacher. Better go and be nice to him. God may’ve followed him in the door. You’ll call Johnny R?”
I said I would and to say hi to Burl. I’m not sure he heard all of that since he’d already hung up.
I waited another hour to call since Nashville was an hour behind us, and spent most of the time wondering what Cal’s friend could have learned about the agent who was fifty years his junior. I also wondered when, or if, Cal would remember what he thought he had learned about Starr being in South Carolina.
After several rings, I was about to hang up when a pleasant, Hispanic sounding, female said, “Oak View, this is Sena, may I help you?”
I told her she may if she could connect me to Johnny R’s room. She asked my name. I told her, and shared I had visited a few days ago and was calling for my friend Cal Ballew. Sena giggled. “Give me a minute. I will check and see if he is receiving calls, and if he is in the kind of mood in which you would want to talk to him.”
I heard muted voices in the background and a mattress store commercial on a nearby television. It was closer to ten minutes before Sena returned and told me Johnny R told her any friend of Cal’s was a sorry so-and-so. He didn’t say so-and-so. He said that he could find a few minutes in his busy schedule to talk to you.” She chuckled. “That means that his favorite soap-opera is not on yet. I will connect you.”
Good to her word, the next voice I heard said, “You the boring looking one or the ragged dude in the long-sleeve T-shirt in two-hundred-degree weather?”
“Boring one.”
Johnny coughed and said, “Like to picture who I’m talking to. Now, what in hell happened to my bud Cal. He said something about getting run over by a concrete mixin’ truck before he got rolled ov
er by a freight train.” He coughed and caught his breath. “The old boy tends to push the truth, so I figured if all that happened to him, I wouldn’t be sharing a conversation with him until after I bite the dust.”
I gave him a shortened version of what had happened and didn’t stray from the mugging theory.
“Good—glad he’s going to make it. Not good he got smacked upside his thick skull.” He coughed up a chuckle. “Bet his head busted whatever hit it.”
I needed to move him along before he choked to death. “Cal told me you had information on Kevin Starr.”
“Yep,” he said, and gave another wheezing cough. “This old bird’s still got a few connections in the business. Only a few. Most of my best friends, and even most of my enemies are already sitting around the campfire and trading tunes with Jimmy Rogers and Hank Sr.” He paused again. “I got ahold of an old flame. Can’t be much more than a flicker left now. I’m sure you’re not interested in my prehistoric sex life.”
I’m not, and imagined how many questions Charles would have had. “Starr?” I said, to get him back on track.
“Damn, you’re impatient.” He wheezed.
I couldn’t think of an appropriate response.
“Okay. According to my gal friend you don’t want to hear about, Kevin Starr is new on the block. He’s big on ideas and piss-poor short on the bucks needed to make his ideas come to life. He thinks if he played the odds and signed every Tom, Dick, and Harriet one of them would strike it big and bring him enough money to sign folks with more than a dream of talent. Crappy singing by a bunch of suckers is still crappy singing. The boy’s master plan’s doomed from freakin’ day one.”
