Tales from Stool 17; Dark Days of Judgment: The Nigel Logan Stories (3)

by Kirk Jockell

  Captain Matthews, always sure and confident, wanted to believe what he was seeing, but he wasn’t sure. Then Nigel took off the glasses and hat and said, “Do you have any bourbon, Charlie? I sure could use a drink about now.”

  They both took a couple of steps toward each other and then rushed to a hug. They held their embrace and patted each other hard on the back like guys are supposed to do when hugging. They didn’t stop until Nigel said, “If you don’t, we can always drink that Famous Grouse shit. I know there’s no shortage of that.”

  They both held each other’s shoulders and looked at each other.

  Nigel said, “Sorry to drop in unannounced like this.”

  “Don’t be an idiot.”

  The door slammed and they all three disappeared behind the door.

  It only took Nigel about three minutes to realize that neither Charlie nor Caroline knew anything about what was going on. They were too happy. He wasn’t about to say anything, not yet anyway. Until he knew more himself. It wouldn’t be proper.

  “Booker’s, Blanton’s, Maker’s, Knob Creek,” announced Charlie from the bar, “take your pick.”

  From the living room sofa, Nigel replied, “The Knob Creek sounds fine.”

  He poured a neat, long pour for Nigel and the same of scotch for himself. He joined Nigel by sitting in the big chair. Caroline emerged from the kitchen with a white wine and sat next to Nigel. She put down her wine and hugged him once more and whispered, “It is so good to see you.”

  He hugged back and said, “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long.”

  She released him, wiped a tear from her eye, and said, “You just hush.”

  The next moments became awkward for Charlie; the right words didn’t seem to come. Given past circumstances, starting a dialogue was difficult. None of the usual ice breakers seemed right. For some reason the standards How have you been? What have you been up to? How have you been keeping yourself? all felt disingenuous and fake, especially when his senses told him that something was wrong. With Nigel’s sudden appearance, there seemed to be only one proper question: Why are you here? Charlie didn’t want to start the visit in that manner either.

  Caroline broke the ice.

  “So, are you still in Florida? Port St. Joe, right? I looked it up on the Google map. It looks lovely.”

  Nigel gave her a questioning look. How did you know?

  “The article,” she said. “We read the Sherry Stone article.”

  “Ah...” And the light came on.

  It was Sherry Stone and her newspaper article that had announced to the world Nigel’s whereabouts in Florida. In the article, she questioned the accusation that Nigel had indeed been the murderer of Terrance Lundsford, a local, wannabe rapper and thug. That he had done so to avenge the brutal rape of Charlie and Caroline’s daughter. Stone also revealed that many years earlier, she too had been raped by Lundsford and that his untimely death also avenged her own brutal attack.

  In her own subtle way, Caroline had done them all a favor. By mentioning the article, she had opened the room to the past without directly bringing up the subject. The eight-hundred-pound gorilla was no longer in the room. Everyone felt some relief.

  Nigel asked, “How is Grace?”

  Her mother answered, “She is doing great. She took some time off from school, but she is back in the saddle trying to finish up her last few classes.”

  That confirmed it. They knew nothing.

  “That’s great,” Nigel replied.

  Charlie said, “She’s at the library. She’ll be home before long. She will be so happy to see you.”

  Nigel didn’t want to comment, so he said nothing and smiled.

  The conversation turned light and joyful. They did what folks should do after extended separation; they focused on the good times. The booze was flowing and laughter filled the room as one story led to another.

  They were all slurring their words. Charlie said, “No. No. No. That was nothing. Remember that port visit in Naples? We rented a car and went to Sorrento.”

  “Oh ... you mean when we almost got thrown in jail because you decided to assault those Italians with a lug wrench?” Nigel turned to Caroline, “Has he told you about this?”

  “I’m not so sure I want to know,” she replied.

  “Well,” Nigel started. “We rented this little P.O.S. Fiat for the day and went to Sorrento. We wanted to get away from fleet-landing, the knuckleheaded crew, and the gut. We had a great day...”

  “Too great, if memory serves,” Charlie interrupted.

  “Yeah,” Nigel continued. “I can’t remember who was driving, but we were headed back to the ship. Neither one of us was in any condition to drive.”

  “It was you. You were driving and I remember the hangover,” Charlie added. “Son of a bitch!”

  “Oh ... don’t remind me. I think I puked for three days.”

  Concerned, Caroline said, “Stay on track. Y’all beat someone with a lug wrench?”

  “No! No! Let me finish,” replied Nigel.

  Nigel stopped to put together the details best he could. Then he started to laugh and said, “Now I got it. We were headed back to the ship. We were still in town on those skinny-ass streets when we came across a disabled car in the middle of the road. They were blocking traffic.”

  Charlie made a peace sign and said, “Two American nuns had a flat tire. They were from Kansas, if memory serves.”

  “Hell, I can’t remember. Anyway, they were having a time with changing the tire, so we got out to help. Despite being hammered, everything was going just fine until a bunch of impatient Italians started laying on their horns and yelling whatever Italians yell. Well, with all the commotion, the nuns were getting nervous, I was having a hard time concentrating on lining up the spare tire, and Charlie was losing his temper. Next thing I know, Charlie heads over to the Italians with the lug wrench in his hand and goes into an F-Bomb dropping rage.”

  “In front of the nuns?” asked his wife.

  “It was a moment of passion,” Charlie added.

  “Well,” Nigel continued, “It got worse when the Italians wouldn’t shut up. So, he decides to start popping the hood of the car with the lug wrench, calling them assholes, and telling them to shut the F up.”

  “Charlie!” said Caroline.

  Charlie shrugged his shoulders.

  Nigel said laughing, “Anyway, I grab and pull Charlie and the lug wrench away from the Italians. He’s mad as a hornet and keeps trying to go over there, which makes changing a tire and managing his temper a real chore. As I’m finishing the tire change, he’s begging for forgiveness from the nuns, slurring and dropping additional, unintended F-Bombs along the way. ‘I’m, so F-ing sorry, sister. I feel like an F-ing boob.’ That’s when we heard the sirens...”

  Caroline was giving her husband a stern look of disapproval when the story was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing. All three stopped and turned their attention toward the hallway. They were quiet for a few beats then Caroline said, “Come here, honey. In the living room; someone is here.”

  As Grace Matthews entered the room, Nigel stood up. She stopped and stood still in quiet disbelief as a smile developed, then tears. Nigel stepped around the couch to meet her. She remained anchored to the floor as he approached. He reached for her and took her in his arms. “Now ... now ... now, pumpkin. You just stop that.”

  They held each other in a long hug. Grace couldn’t stop the tears and Caroline was now crying, too. Charlie didn’t watch in fear of crying himself. There was so much emotion in the room you could cut it with a knife.

  Grace said, “I can’t believe you are here.”

  “Believe it, pumpkin,” said Nigel. Then he whispered in her ear, “You haven’t said anything to them?”

  He felt a subtle shake of her head. No. Then she whispered back, “We need to talk.”

  The phone rang and rang. No answer. Before it went to voicemail, Nigel ended the call and tosse
d the phone in front of him on the bar. “How are we doing?” asked the bartender. “Another round?”

  “Why not?”

  As his shot glass was being filled, Nigel’s phone rang. He looked at the name on the screen, then answered. “Did I wake you up?”

  Trying not to sound groggy, Candice lied and said, “No.”

  Nigel laughed and slurred, “Bullshit!” They both got quiet on the phone and Nigel did his best to sound at least half-sober. He wasn’t very good at it. “I just wanted to talk to you. I miss you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Stool 17.”

  “That much I can tell. Where?”

  “One of my old hangouts. It really doesn’t matter. I just called to say goodnight and that I love you.”

  “What’s wrong, Nigel?”

  “Just remember that, okay?”

  “Sure,” replied Candice. “I love you too. But...”

  “Get some rest,” said Nigel. “I’ll be alright. Don’t worry.”

  He ended the call. She heard the line go dead. Asking her not to worry was like telling her not to breathe. It was impossible. She scrunched down into her pillow and held tight to her sheets as she pulled them close to her chin.

  Nigel dialed another number. It rang twice and an alert voice answered. “Where are you?”

  “The Fifth National Bank. Do you know it?”

  The Fifth National Bank was a honky-tonk that was just outside the gate of the Little Creek Amphibious Naval Base. It was as he remembered: a smoke-filled joint, with cheap drinks and plenty of drunk sailors. He was one of them.

  “Do you want me to come get you?”

  “Does your offer still stand?”

  “Stay put,” she said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Nigel took his knuckles and rapped on the bar to get the bartender’s attention. “Let’s settle up.”

  When they got to Stone’s house, she showed him to the shower. “Clean up and scrub that cigarette smoke off your ass.”

  He did and he came out of the bathroom wearing a towel. He saw Stone working on her laptop. He looked at his watch. It was 0155. She looked up to see him. “You feel better?”

  “Where are my clothes?”

  “In the laundry. They smelled worse than you.”

  “What are you doing up so late?” he asked, as he stumbled to the couch.

  “Writing,” she replied. “That’s what reporters do. What’s on your agenda tomorrow?”

  “I’m meeting Grace for breakfast.”

  “How did things go at the house with the Matthews?”

  Nigel didn’t answer.

  She went back to work. As she typed she explained how she was working on a new piece about the case. She wanted the public to re-familiarize themselves with the details. Plus, there had been several other developments to materialize since her last article. The she stopped and said, “You know. I called that Detective Anderson and asked if he was reopening the case? He refused to comment.”

  Nigel said nothing.

  “Logan. Did you hear me?”

  She got up and walked around to check on him. He was out cold. She smiled and got him a blanket. She tucked him in and stole a kiss off his lips before heading back to her laptop to work.

  Five days earlier, Grace was exiting a lecture hall on campus when she was ambushed by Detective Anderson. He had been leaning up against a wall, waiting just outside the auditorium doors. “Miss Matthews.” He flashed his badge. “Could I have a word?”

  Grace clutched at her books, said nothing, but stood still. Anderson approached. “Do you remember me?”

  “Can I see those credentials again?”

  He showed his badge and she read the name off the identification. “Detective Anderson. Yes, I do remember you. Is this going to take long? I have somewhere to be,” she lied.

  Sounding conciliatory, Anderson said, “By all means, head that way. I’ll walk with. I just have a few questions.”

  She said nothing and decided on a direction to walk.

  “So, if you recall,” said the detective, “during the Terrance Lundsford murder investigation, I interviewed you. Do you remember?”

  “It was a long time ago, but how would someone forget such a thing?”

  “Of course, excuse me,” he said. “Anyway ... I was going through the transcript of our interview the other day and I just can’t help but think…”

  Grace interrupted him, “What is this all about? Why are you here? I thought this matter was over with.” Grace continued to walk and picked up her pace, a subliminal effort to get away from the detective. She was practically running.

  “Yes. You see, that’s just it,” said the detective. “The matter is not done. I still have a victim and an unsolved murdered.”

  Grace stopped dead in her tracks and turned toward the detective. “Don’t you ever refer to that piece of…” She refrained from the profanity that was resting on the tip of her tongue and rephrased her demand. “Don’t ever refer to him as a victim again, not in my presence. Do you understand me?”

  The detective stopped, too, and his tone changed. It was no longer friendly and casual. He told her straight up. “These things don’t just go away. I’m just trying to see if I’ve missed something. That’s all. Maybe you missed something too.”

  “What do you want?” asked Grace.

  “Just the truth. That’s all. What happened that night?”

  “Why are you asking me? I’ve already told you. I was home in bed.”

  The detective smiled and said, “Yes. You were in bed at the time of the murder. I found that in our interview. But…” The detective shook his head in disappointment and continued, “stupid me, it seems I failed to ask where you had been earlier in the evening.”

  Grace said nothing.

  “Do you remember?”

  Grace said, “We are done here!”

  The detective watched as Grace’s breathing increased. Her body started to tremble and she no longer maintained eye contact. She clutched her books even tighter and walked away saying, “Goodbye, detective.”

  “Goodbye, Ms. Matthews. Don’t leave town. I’m sure we’ll be talking again real soon.”

  “Yes, please.” Nigel moved the cup closer to the edge of the table and the waitress topped off his coffee. He thanked her with a smile and watched her walk away. He added some cream from the tin cow and asked, “What else did he say? Anything else?”

  “No, sir,” replied Grace. “That’s everything that happened. What’s going on? Why did he just show up like that after all this time?”

  “I’m not sure, sweetheart. But one thing is for sure, he hasn’t given up. Good for him. I admire persistence.”

  Grace looked at her plate of half-eaten omelet and said, “I’m scared. What do I do?”

  “The first thing you have got to do is tell your parents. They need to know before Anderson drops in to ask questions. Tell them everything. They don’t need to be blindsided.”

  “What else?” she asked.

  He took a sip of coffee and said, “Cooperate. And above everything else, you tell the truth.”

  “But...”

  “But nothing. The truth is on your side. Use it. Just remember to never give them more than what they ask. That’s what I expect, nothing less.”

  “And what about you?” she asked as she gathered her bookbag and things.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Nigel assured. “You just worry about finishing your classes and the semester. I’ll be just fine.”

  He came to his feet as she stood and met her for a hug. “Love you, pumpkin,” he said as he gave her one more tight squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Love you, too.”

  He remained standing until she walked out the door. He sat back down and took a pull off his coffee. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a page of newspaper, the one he collected the day he got into town, a page of classifieds. He spread it out on the table and put on a cheap
pair of Dollar Store reading glasses, the left lens poked out because he doesn’t need it.

  He borrowed a ballpoint pen from the waitress and ran his fingers down each column. He circled a few possibilities, and then he came across an ad that momentarily removed his current worries. It brought about a child-like excitement. Instead of circling the ad, he carefully outlined the block that surrounded the text. He went over it several times until the ad was blocked off with a bold perimeter. He grabbed his phone and called the number.

  “Hello. I’m calling about your classified ad. Is it still available?”

  He listened to the reply and said, “Perfect. When can I see it?”

  The guy told Nigel he had received several calls and three other people were already scheduled to see it. He thought about that for a second and asked, “How are you on the asking price?”

  “The price is negotiable,” said the seller.

  “Don’t negotiate,” said Nigel. “If it shows as advertised and I like it, I will give you what you are asking.”

  This made the seller think. He had priced it high since he knew any asking price, regardless of how reasonable, was going to be countered. He wanted some wiggle room to haggle down.

  Over the phone, Nigel could almost hear the mental wheels turning in the guy’s head. He let it cook for a bit before adding, “And, if you will move me to the head of the line, I will give you a one-hundred-dollar bill whether I buy it or not.”

  “How soon can you be here?”

  Nigel ended the call with a smile. Feeling like a goofy kid, he laughed at himself. Then he looked out the window and saw something that reminded him that this was no pleasure trip. He knew it would happen eventually, but he had hoped to have some more time. He dialed for a cab and, as he listened to the phone ring, he said, “Oh, well. It is what it is.”

  The cabbie stopped in front of the house and asked, “Do I need to wait?”

  Nigel was satisfied with what he saw in the front yard, so he paid the fare and tipped the guy with a ten-spot. “No thanks. You’ve been great.”

  Nigel stood on the sidewalk looking at the vehicle. Then he walked up on the grass and took the liberty of looking it over before heading up to ring the doorbell. He walked around it. The body was very straight. He kicked a tire, because it was customary, then he peeked inside. It was very clean. So far, he was happy with what he saw, and again, for just a little while, his troubles were distant. The feeling wouldn’t last.