by Bill Noel
Cal was on his knees, fiddling with something behind the ancient Wurlitzer jukebox parked on the edge of the wooden, elevated bandstand sandwiched between the restrooms in back of the room. He heard the door slam behind me and twisted around to see who’d entered.
“Good afternoon, Cal. Need help?”
Cal groaned as he maneuvered his seventy-four-year-old body from kneeling to standing. He reached his six-foot-three-inch, slim frame’s full height, and wiped his hands together like he was knocking the dust off. “Not unless you’re an electrician. This dang music machine keeps shorting itself out. Know how hard it is to get someone to fix this antique?”
“Not easy?”
“About as rare as plutonium in the parking lot.”
I was impressed that the country crooner knew what plutonium was and agreed that there wasn’t much of it in the lot.
“I doubt I can help.” Far from profound, but true.
“One thing this old bartender can do is get you a drink. What’s your pleasure?”
It was still early, so I said Diet Pepsi.
Cal said he thought he could rustle one up, as I followed him to the beat-up, dark, wooden bar along the side of the room. He massaged his lower back as he bent his curved-from-age spine over the cooler. His long, gray hair covered one of his eyes. His signature sweat-stained Stetson, which normally held his hair in place and had traversed most of the South with him for forty plus years, was parked at the other end of the bar.
Cal grabbed a beer then I followed him to one of the dozen tables where he flopped down in a chair. He pointed to the side door. “Since you came in that way instead of the front, I’m guessing you ain’t here for alcohol, music, or chillin’.”
“Can’t slip anything by you, can I?” I didn’t remind him another reason for my side door entrance was that the front one was locked.
He smiled. “Truth be told, I reckon you could slip something by me if you were hankerin’ to.” He pointed his index finger at his head. “Think after four decades on the road sleeping in my car, now seven years trying to keep this place off life support, my brain’s as shorted out as that old jukebox.”
I had never seen my friend this down, and I’d seen him in a few bad situations, including nearly getting killed. I was also struck by how different the bar and its owner were when illuminated by unforgiving fluorescent lights. When Cal’s was lit with a couple of dim lights over the bar, plus neon beer promotional signs, with traditional country music blaring from a healthy jukebox, Cal’s came alive and was a popular hangout for locals and vacationers who were fortunate enough to stumble in.
The man who could pass for one of the area’s homeless and, who happened to be sitting across from me, would walk on the stage wearing his Stetson, a white rhinestone coat that had travelled as many miles with him as had his hat, and an endearing smile. He’d lean close to an old silver microphone and sing a country classic. I can’t guess the number of nights, Cal’s voice, image, and sad songs would transport me back to my early years listening to the country greats of the time. A night at Cal’s was magical.
I considered it an honor to be his friend, but it was difficult at times to step behind the magical stage and see the realities of his world, and I suppose the real world of most who appear bigger than life when they’re on stage.
I told Cal about Theo’s houseguests. Cal was a member of the walking group that Theo was a part of, so he knew Theo’s experiences on Folly. They weren’t close, yet Cal felt a kinship to Theo.
I finished, and Cal asked if I wanted another drink. I declined, and he went for another beer, returned, looked around the empty room, then lowered himself in the chair. He looked at the ceiling, and said, “Stand-up comics and country crooners from my era have a passel of things in common. In the ’60s, before comedy clubs began to spring up like rabbits, there weren’t many places for comics to perform, so many of them travelled around the country the same way I did. I’d grab a gig wherever I could find one and, occasionally, there were comics sharing the stage. We led nomadic lives.” He grinned. “Hell’s bells, I’ve got a couple of ex-wives to prove it. Anyway, we hit tiny towns, tinier towns, towns that weren’t even towns.”
“That had to be rough.”
“If I made enough money to pay for a couple of meals and gas to get to the next town; it was a good gig. I heard that many of the funny guys who were making the rounds were about as successful as I was. Once a few comedy clubs opened, mostly along the left and right coast, some of the guys, or an occasional gal, made it big. Comedy clubs were the thing in the 1970s. One old-timer told me there were more than three hundred of them in the ‘80s. People laughed more back then.”
I was surprised that Cal knew that much about the history of stand-up comedy, and I told him so.
“Chris, if I hadn’t taken the road to poverty by being a country singer, I dreamed about being a funny guy.”
Cal could be funny but had never struck me as being a comedian. “Did you try?”
He wiggled his hand. “Could have made it big, yes, I sure could have.”
“What stopped you?”
“Couple of things. I had a piss-poor memory. Couldn’t remember a routine.” He shook his head and closed his eyes.
I wondered if he was reliving a time on stage. “The other thing?”
“Couldn’t tell jokes.”
That’d be an impediment. “I’m glad you couldn’t. I can’t picture you being anything but a country singer.”
“Enough about my past. Why are you telling me about Theo’s jokesters?”
“They were wondering if you’d let them do their thing from up there.” I pointed to the stage.
“Are they any good?”
“Never heard them.”
Cal looked at the stage and at me. “They can’t be as bad as some of the singers, and I use that term loosely, that show up open-mic night.”
Cal’s had open-mic night every Tuesday. The level of talent ranged from I wonder why they don’t have a record deal, to I wonder why anyone ever told them that they could sing worth a darn.
“That’s great. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled.”
“They don’t expect to be paid, do they?”
“Afraid so.”
“If they think that, they are funny. Pard, I can’t afford to pay me. I care a lot more about myself than I do them.”
“How about me telling them that they can perform for tips. If they show that they can bring in a big crowd, you’ll consider paying them.”
Cal rubbed his chin. “That’ll work. See if they can do their thing on Sunday night. That’s my slowest time. They can’t run off too many customers.”
On that ringing endorsement, I left Cal, so he could get back to playing electrician.
Chapter Nine
I wondered why I hadn’t told Cal about one of the comedians claiming to have seen the body and decided it may’ve changed his mind about letting the group perform. My mind wandered back to thinking about what Wallace had said and his state of mind when he said it. I didn’t wonder long. My phone rang.
“Good afternoon, chief.”
“If you think it’s a good afternoon, you’re in a time zone other than mine. Give me a hint about what’s good about it?”
“Well—”
“Never mind,” she interrupted. “That’s not why I called. Are you roaming around my fair city?”
“If you mean roaming like walking aimlessly, of course not. I am out, was at Cal’s, now heading home.”
“Crap, if I wanted a definition of roaming, I would’ve grabbed a dictionary instead of a phone.”
“Why did you call stupid, old me?”
“Don’t put yourself down. You ain’t that stupid. Now old, well.”
“Cindy, why’d you call?”
“I learned a couple of things about the body that my crack force couldn’t find, yet some senior citizen had no problem stumbling across.”
“What?”
�
�It’ll cost you.”
I sighed louder than I’d intended.
“No need to get huffy,” the chief said. “I’ll let you off easy. Meet me at the Surf Bar in five. All I need is an order of fries. Since the head of local law enforcement is supposed to be sober most of the time, you’ll get off cheap buying me a Coke.”
She hung up before I could say that I’d be delighted to buy her fries and a Coke. She was right, it often cost much more to get information out of her.
The Surf Bar is across the street from the section of City Hall housing the Department of Public Safety. When I arrived, Cindy was at a table near the front door of the rustic bar. The interior was small, and most of the tables were occupied by customers ranging from college students getting an early start on happy hour, a couple of construction workers, whose clothes looked like they had been down-and-dirty in dirt, and a lone middle-aged man, gripping a beer bottle while staring at a surfer video on the monitor in the center of the back bar.
Cindy waved a greeting. She’s in her early-fifties, five-foot three, with curly dark hair and a quick smile. Today, it wasn’t at full wattage.
“Rough day,” I said as I sat opposite her.
She looked at the table, at the dollar bills attached to most every surface, and shook her head. “Do you know how many moving violations my guys handed out yesterday?”
“How many?”
She gave me a tight grin. “Hell if I know. Halfway through the pile of paperwork, I hurled it at the wall. I lied about wanting a Coke. Would you mind going over to the bar to grab me a Blue Moon on tap while I sit here feeling sorry for myself?”
“With fries?”
“If you insist.”
I told the bartender what I wanted.
She pulled a Blue Moon for Cindy, handed me a Coke, and said she’d bring the fries to the table when they were ready.
Cindy took two gulps of beer before I settled in the chair. I didn’t figure that a pile of moving violations would’ve put her in the sour mood. We’ve been friends for years, so I felt comfortable pushing.
“What’s bothering you?”
She took another gulp and tapped her fingers on the table. “Nothing.”
I stared at her.
She sighed. “Okay, you beat it out of me. The little squirt’s beginning to piss me off.”
The little squirt was how she occasionally described Larry, her husband, although for obvious reasons, never to his face. Larry, who owns Folly’s hardware store, had been married to Cindy for seven years. He was a decade older than his wife, at five-foot-one, was a couple of inches shorter, and way more pounds lighter than his spouse would admit to being. I’d known each of them before they met. They were the happiest couple I knew.
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s beginning to piss and moan about me having to work so much. He forgets that, during the holiday season, he handcuffs himself to the store, and the only time I see him is if I go there to buy a set of Allen wrenches, whatever the hell they are.”
Cindy and Larry had gone through a horrific time a couple of years back when he’d been accused of murdering a friend who’d tried to blackmail the hardware-store owner about something from his past. They had weathered the storm and, from what I could tell, were still madly in love.
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“We talking about the same Larry?”
I didn’t answer.
“Talking to that squirt about feelings is like talking to a cockroach about its family tree.”
The fries arrived, and she asked the server if she could find another beer hanging out somewhere in the bar.
The server said she thought she knew where one was and went in search of it.
Cindy shook her head. “How’d you manage to shanghai the reason for me wanting to talk to you? You want to hear what I know about the body, or not?”
“Yes, although I’m more concerned about you.”
She patted my hand. “You’re so freakin’ sweet. Downright sickening.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“Don’t let it go to your balding head. I spend most of my time dealing with the dregs of society, slobbering drunks, and arrogant vacationers. Compared to what I have to deal with, you’re not so bad.” She smiled. “Thanks for caring. We’ll be okay.”
The server had been successful in her search for another beer.
Cindy took a drink, a sip instead of the gulps she’d chugged earlier. A good sign.
“Okay, here’s the skinny. The body that my entire police force couldn’t find, but you managed to trip over without breaking a sweat, was Michael Hardin. Name ring a bell?”
“No.”
“Hmm,” she said. “Anyway, he celebrated his forty-seventh, and last, birthday, a couple of months ago. He was well-known by the Charleston Police Department, although not because of his benevolent donations to their orphans’ fund. He had a rap sheet the length of a roll of toilet paper. To sum it up, he’d been a drug dealer. It gets sketchy at that point. According to Detective Callahan, the late Michael Hardin, may’ve been a confidential informant for their drug unit.”
“May have been?”
“He thought it was more than may have been but couldn’t confirm it. If Hardin had been a CI, that role ended a while back. Hardin made a career change three years ago.”
“Became a cop?”
“Funny. He turned to bookmaking, not the kind you read.”
“A bookie?”
“Yes, the ancient art of taking bets ain’t kosher although, if caught, you don’t get thrown in the hoosegow for as long as you do for selling drugs.”
“Did he live over here?”
“No, he had an apartment in downtown Charleston although, according to a couple of my guys, he spent quite a bit of time hanging out in some of our restaurants, as well as the Pier.”
“Plying his trade?”
“No doubt.” Cindy chuckled. “One of my guys said he wasn’t too hard to recognize. He wore a straw hat with a feather sticking out the top.”
“That rings a bell. I think I saw him a few times. Average size, good tan, well-dressed. I remember the feather. I thought it was strange.” I shrugged. “Over here, who knows?”
“That’s the one.”
“What killed him?”
“Unless he had a massive heart attack while strolling through the dunes, it was blunt force trauma caused by something hard smacking him in the head.”
“Has anyone talked to Wallace Bentley since the body’s been identified?”
“Callahan did last night. Wallace swore that he’d never seen anyone dead, or alive, at the beach. The police must’ve been smoking pot to think that he had.”
“Yet Wallace told Allen Spencer and me that he’d seen a body. He’d been confused about how long ago it was.”
“Welcome to my world,” Cindy said before taking another sip.
“What’s next?”
“Let’s see. I’m going to wolf down the rest of these fries, finish this beer, head home, see if I can communicate with the cockroach, and—”
“About the murder,” I interrupted.
For the second time in an equal number of beers, she said, “Hell if I know.”
Chapter Ten
I left Cindy attacking the rest of the fries and stopped at Barb’s Books. I could’ve called, but it was easier to visit. Besides I’d rather see Barb than talk to her on the phone.
A woman was buying four used books, and a man was browsing a shelf of mystery novels when I entered.
Barb saw me at the door and held up one finger, indicating that I should wait.
The customer finished her purchase and nodded to me as she left.
The man continued browsing without paying attention to us.
“Good,” Barb said as I approached the counter. “I was getting ready to call. Dude asked if we could move supper to tonight instead of some future moon phase.”
I peeked at my watch. “I t
hink I can work it in my busy schedule. Where and when?”
Barb smiled. “Busy schedule?”
“Retirement’s a full-time job.”
She rolled her eyes. “6:00, the Crab Shack. Think you can take a break from your full-time job to help me understand what Dude’s talking about?”
“For you, anything,” I said, as the former browser became a book purchaser. I stepped aside so Barb could take the man’s money. On my way out I said I’d see her at 6:00.
I had a couple of hours to kill before I was to begin my translator duties, so I walked to the end of the Folly Beach Fishing Pier. Along the way, I passed a dozen or so men and women watching over fishing rods, hoping to land the catch of the day. Several vacationers strolled along the walkway, hoping to get a glimpse of the dolphins that frolicked nearby, competing with the fishermen for food. At the Atlantic Ocean end of the Pier, I climbed to the second level of the diamond-shaped structure and gazed back at the beach.
The outdoor bar at the Tides was packed, and a rousing volleyball game was in progress at the court between the hotel and the pier. I smiled, thinking about the many hours I’d spent over the years at this spot, reveling in how fortunate I was to live on the Edge of America, as Folly was called, being lucky enough to have a full-time job being retired, and having more friends that I’d accumulated during my life in Kentucky. I thought about how different some of my friends were to the others, to the point that I was asked by both Dude and Barb to serve as a translator. I chuckled when I reminded myself that they were related.
My mood changed as my eyes shifted from the Tides, past the Charleston Oceanfront Villas, to the spot where I discovered the late Michael Hardin. It was ironic how a matter of a few feet can separate the gaiety of the vacationers romping in the surf, soaking up the sun’s rays, while the lifeless corpse of someone who would never laugh again had been so close. As much as we would like to think that we are in control of our lives, the reality is that, often, we aren’t, and how we erroneously think we know what’s happening nearby.
