by Bill Noel
That depressing thought brought me back to what I remembered about Michael Hardin, not finding his lifeless body, but recalling I’d seen him around town. If it wasn’t for his straw hat with the feather, I never would’ve noticed him. The more I thought about it, I realized that I’d seen him on the Pier. He had been talking to two men dressed like they were going to a business meeting rather than taking in the sights.
The three were in animated conversation, their body language hinted that they were arguing. It didn’t strike me as unusual at the time, since conventions were often held at the Tides with participants taking breaks at the bar or on the Pier. Now that I knew one was the dead bookie, I wondered if their disagreement was related to betting. Could the two men have had something to do with his death? It was possible, although the incident took place a week or so before Hardin had been killed. I wouldn’t be able to identify the men, nor had any idea what they were talking about. I shook the memory out of my head as I watched a young boy squeal when his dad caught a two-foot-long shark and dropped it on the deck in front of his son.
I arrived at the Folly Beach Crab Shack, where Barb and Dude were seated on the outside deck.
Dude waved. “Yo, Chris, hang with us?” Dude was on his best behavior since he called me Chris, not Chrisster, his usual permutation.
I didn’t know if they knew that each other had asked me to be part of their breaking pumpkin bread, so I smiled and said that I would.
Neither acted surprised to see me.
Barb scooted over, and I joined her on the bench seat. She kissed my cheek.
Dude said, “Ewe, mushy.”
A server arrived, handed Dude a martini, a beer to Barb, then asked if I wanted anything.
I said I would have a white wine.
Dude took a sip and said, “Be bod searchin’ again?”
Not how I’d hoped our pleasant evening breaking bread, pumpkin or otherwise, would begin.
“Nope. Been a busy week at the surf shop?” I asked to change the subject.
“Nope.”
“I’ve had more customers than most any week since I opened,” Barb said, either understanding my desire to change the subject, or feeling left out of the conversation.
Dude nodded and turned back to me. “Hear who bod was?”
The death was on Dude’s mind, and he wasn’t to be deterred. “Yes, Michael Hardin.”
“Be kiddin’.”
“That’s what Chief LaMond said.”
Barb leaned closer. “Do they know what happened?”
“Nothing, other than someone hit him in the head. No suspects.”
Dude closed his eyes and said, “Michael Hardin, Michael Hardin, me know him.”
That got my attention. “You do?”
“He be bet taker. Me not above laying down lucre on soccer. Nice chap, pays bets rapido.”
The server returned with my drink and took our orders.
Barb waited for him to go before saying, “You bet with a bookie?”
Dude shrugged. “Preachers no take bets.”
“Do you know if he had enemies?” I asked.
Dude held up his forefinger. “One.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Person thought he be baseball,” Dude said as he rotated his arms like he was swinging a bat. He grinned and took a sip of martini.
“You don’t know who?” I said.
“No. He, me, no best buds.”
Barb waved her hand between Dude and me. “Might I suggest we move to a more pleasant topic?”
“You might,” Dude said. “What?”
Barb smiled. “Dude, remember when you told me I needed to move here after my divorce?”
He nodded.
“After I was here a week, I thought you were crazy.”
Dude said, “Why?”
“Everybody was so nice. I wasn’t accustomed to it. They wanted to know all about me, why I was here, what I was doing, suggesting where I should eat. To be honest, it was off-putting.”
Dude rubbed his chin. “Like chocolate pudding?”
Barb tilted her head. “No, I mean disconcerting, unpleasant.”
Now I knew what Dude had meant about me translating.
Dude smiled. “You be on-putting now?”
“Chris told me that most newcomers either hated or loved Folly. I thought I was one of the former yet, the more I relaxed, the more I realized that the people were sincere and cared about me, a stranger; I began to look at things differently.” She laughed. “So, yes, I suppose I’ve come to realize that most of the people here are on-putting.”
“Cool,” Dude said. “Talking newcomers, Sal’s pals be strange.”
Coming from one of the strangest, that was saying something. “What do you mean?”
“Sal and moi had confab. He no be surfer. Be fan of canines. Stopped Pluto and me in middle of sidewalk to say Pluto cute. I say he be. He, Sal, not Pluto, like to confab with Pluto.” Dude stopped and waited for a comment.
Pluto was Dude’s Australian terrier.
I waited for Barb to say something.
Instead, she looked at me with a glazed look in her eyes.
I took the hint. “Dude, have you met Sal’s buddies?”
“Not that know of. Heard.”
“What’ve you heard about them?” Barb asked. She was catching on.
“They be funny men. They be helpin’ Theo. They be busted.”
The last part got my attention. “Did Sal say that they didn’t have any money?”
“No, he say they be stayin’ in Theo’s casa, eatin’ Theo’s food. Dude knows bummin’ when sees it. They be busted.”
“Oh,” I said.
Dude took that as the end of the discussion about Sal and his friends and started talking about astronomy, one of his favorite subjects.
Barb knew as much about astronomy as I did, which could be summed up in one word: zilch. She moved the conversation back to how well she was doing with her bookstore and how much she liked her condo.
The conversation rambled for the next half hour while food and additional drinks were consumed.
Dude said he needed to get home to let Pluto out.
Barb said she needed to get home to rest up for another busy day in the store.
I said I didn’t need to get anywhere and said I would walk Barb home.
To both Barb and my surprise, Dude picked-up the check, and thanked us for “hangin’” with him. He hugged Barb, and said, “Me no be huggin’ Chrisster.”
Chapter Eleven
I was curious about what Dude shared about Theo’s guests being broke, which reminded me that the comedians wanted to meet Cal to talk about performing at his bar. I called Theo’s at a reasonable hour the next morning. Apparently, 10:00 fell outside the definition of reasonable for people who’d spent their careers with their work day starting after 9:00 p.m.
Theo was awake and told me that he hadn’t heard a mouse stirring upstairs. That wouldn’t have surprised me, considering Theo’s hearing problem, but he assured me he was wearing his hearing aids and would’ve heard his guests moving around. I told him why I was calling, and he said he’d have Sal call once he had his first cup of coffee. He added that I wouldn’t want to hear from his brother before he had his coffee.
I was pondering whether to have a peanut butter sandwich or a four-day-old muffin for lunch when Sal called. I said good morning.
He mumbled, “What’s good about it?”
“It’s a lovely day.”
“Maybe through your eyes.”
He made up for his surliness when he said, “Sorry I’m cranky, mornings aren’t my best time of day.”
I resisted reminding him it was noon. I asked if his group still wanted to meet Cal.
He said, “Definitely.”
I suggested that I could meet them at Cal’s tonight and introduce them to the owner.
He said that was great and suggested 9:00.
I swallowed hard, as I knew that was push
ing against my bedtime. As a concession to Theo, I agreed.
I wanted to remind—warn—Cal about his visitors, so I stepped into the bar an hour before the comedians were to arrive. There was a decent crowd for a weeknight. From the jukebox, Merle Haggard was telling us he was proud to be from Muskogee, a couple seated by the door were arguing about whether Roger Miller was a better songwriter than Kris Kristofferson, and Cal was tending bar while wearing his Stetson, a fire-engine red T-shirt with the Budweiser logo, and black jogging shorts.
I waved but, before I could say anything, he opened the cooler, grabbed a bottle of Chardonnay, and poured me a glass.
I moved to the bar, thanked him for the drink, and said something about him having a nice crowd.
Cal tipped his hat in the direction of two tables, with five customers at each. “This old cowboy loves conventions at the Tides, especially conventions where the meetings are as dull as a marshmallow in a briar patch.”
Cal was from Texas, so I excused some of his sayings. “Great.”
The jukebox played Cal Smith’s version of “Country Bumpkin,” one of the tables of conventioneers sang along, and I reminded Cal about Sal and his crew wanting to talk with him about performing. I told him they were coming tonight.
He pointed to the only empty, large table and said for me to grab it so we could talk when the funny men arrived.
Nine o’clock came and went, as did 9:15. Many customers had departed, leaving the conventioneers and the couple who continued to debate the pluses and minuses of country songwriters.
I was ten minutes from calling it a night when the door opened and Sal entered, followed by Wallace and Pete. Jerry Lee Lewis screaming “Great Balls of Fire” from the jukebox couldn’t come close to holding the remaining customers’ attention compared to the sight of three seventy-something-year-olds strutting in.
One wore a robin-egg blue three-piece suit, one had on a red sport coat, a white open-collar dress shirt, and a black ascot with white polka dots, and the third gentleman was doing a Johnny Cash imitation, wearing all black. I didn’t know how funny their act was, but they looked hilarious.
I peeked at Cal.
His eyes widened; his next move was a combination of head shake plus shoulders slump.
Everyone in the bar was staring at the three men who must’ve parked their time machine out front.
I was the only person who knew who they were, so I greeted them and led them to the table I’d been saving.
“Sorry we’re a tad late,” Sal said as he led the group to the table. “Pete couldn’t find his ascot.”
The Johnny Cash look-alike Wallace chimed in, “I thought I’d burned it. No such luck.”
The three took seats around the table.
Sal said, “We wanted Cal to see us at our best. This is our stage wear. I say look professional, be professional.”
“What’re the chances of us getting beer?” Pete asked.
“Pretty good, pard,” Cal said. He was standing behind Sal and looking down at the comedians. Three Buds?”
“That’d be a good start, barkeep. Cool hat.”
I moved closer to Cal and introduced the group. I stuck with first names since I wasn’t sure I remembered their last names.
Wallace tipped an imaginary hat to Cal and said, “A dyslexic walks into a bra.”
Sal laughed, patted Wallace on the shoulder, and said, “Good one, Wallace.” He turned to Cal. “We’re comedians. Can’t help being funny.”
Cal looked at Wallace, without breaking a smile, even after Wallace couldn’t help being funny. “I’ll grab the drinks.”
“Where’re Ray and Theo?” I asked the group.
Wallace said, “Theo said it was too late to be running around. Ray, umm, Ray. Oh yeah, my son. He stayed at the house. He was talking to his agent about starring in a TV sitcom.”
“Yeah, right,” Pete said, “and I’m king of Kansas.”
“He may join us later,” Sal said, probably to prevent a battle between Wallace and Pete.
Cal returned, set a bottle of Budweiser in front of each comedian, and Pete pulled a pack of Marlboros from his coat pocket.
Cal slipped his hand between Pete and the cigarettes. “Whoa, pard. No smoking in here.”
Pete’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”
“Nope,” Cal said. “You’re the comedian. I’m an old country crooner.”
Sal leaned toward Cal. “How can you have a country bar without cigarette smoke sucking out oxygen?”
“Well, turtle turd,” Pete said poetically. “First, we can’t light up at Theo’s, now not here. What happened to freedom? I thought one of the Constitution’s amendment things gave us the right to smoke in bars.”
Wallace nodded, “Sir, we’re comedians. Research has found that joke and smoke go together like pigs and pork chops.”
Cal pulled his Stetson down lower on his forehead. “Gentlemen, I’m no expert in research and haven’t read the Constitution since I was in high school, about the time it was written. In my book, smoke, choke, and croak go together.” He pulled a chair from the empty table next to us, turned it around and straddled the back. “Let me tell you something. I spent more nights on the road than there are grains of sand out there on the beach singing in bars, restaurants, on bales of hay on pickup trucks, hell, even highway rest stops. Cigarette smoke was everywhere. I hated it, but it was part of where I performed; probably the same for you guys.”
Wallace nodded again.
Sal started to say something, but Cal wasn’t done.
“Two of my best buds from yesteryear; danged good singers in their day, died of lung cancer. One smoked like a forest fire. My other friend never stuck a cigarette in his mouth. Hell, he got lung cancer from secondhand smoke, was in hillbilly heaven before the term secondhand smoke was invented.”
Sal said, “Sorry.”
Cal was on a roll. “I can’t stop people from doing stupid things. What I can do is slow them down when they’re in here. Like my good buddy, great songwriter, and performer Roger Miller once penned, ‘Don’t we all have the right to be wrong now and then.’” Cal lowered his head, “Roger died of lung cancer.”
That silenced the group.
Pete broke the uneasy silence. “Cal, speaking of dead, did you know the bookie that was dead on the beach?”
“Don’t think so. What was his name?”
Wallace stood, smiled at Cal, and said, “What did the fish say when he ran into the wall?”
“Huh?” Cal said.
“Dam,” Wallace said, then laughed at his joke.
Pete chuckled, and Sal shook his head.
It was past my bedtime. I began wondering if I was having a bad dream.
The comedians’ beers were gone before two more songs finished on the jukebox, and Cal headed to the bar for refills. He returned, and the comedians greeted the bottles like they were their first drinks after being stranded on a desert island.
Cal turned his chair around and scooted up to the table. “Chris, you’re always sticking your nose into everything. Do you know who the dead guy was? Ascot man there said he was a bookie.” Cal pointed his beer bottle at Pete.
I said, “Name was Michael Hardin. He was—”
“Damn,” Cal muttered. “I know him.”
Cal’s revelation quieted the group. I wanted to hug him for that welcomed event. Instead, I asked how he knew Michael.
“Hard to miss,” Cal said, not answering my question. “The boy wore that stupid hat with the bird feather sticking out of it. He was in here all the time.”
“I know who you’re talking about,” I said, “I don’t remember seeing him here.”
Cal removed his Stetson and ran his hand through his long, gray hair. “He mostly showed up late, probably past your bedtime.”
“Was he here with the same people each time?” I asked.
“Nah, most nights he came in by himself. Sat at that table over there.” Cal pointed to a table on the far sid
e of the room.
I looked at the table then turned back to Cal. “Did that seem strange?”
“Chris, you know I don’t like butting in anyone’s business. I never asked him, and couldn’t swear to it on a stack of Bibles. If I was a wagering man, I’d put a good helping of greenbacks on Michael taking bets.”
Sal chuckled. “If he wasn’t dead, you could place your bet with him.”
Cal sighed, shook his head, turned away from Sal, and said, “Chris, I’ve seen a fair amount of betting in my day. Michael would park his rear end at that table, buy a drink or two, and, all casual like, some of my regulars would saunter up to his table, take a seat, lean over, and whisper something. Yes, they would.”
Cal stopped and looked around the table like that had explained everything.
“What else happened, Cal?” I asked, hoping for more.
He rubbed his chin. “Let’s see. Michael would take one of those flip notepads. You know, like cops carry.”
I said I knew.
“He’d open it, write something and, after he finished scribing, the person with him would take cash out of his, occasionally her, pocket and give it to Michael.”
Cindy said that Michael had dealt drugs before turning to bookmaking.
“Cal, could he have been dealing drugs instead of taking bets?”
“Suppose so, although I never saw him giving his visitors anything except cash. From what I know about some of his customers, umm, visitors, taking drugs would be a big stretch.” Cal looked at the table where he had remembered seeing Michael. “I’ll miss him.”
Sal leaned closer to the table. “That reminds me. A man goes into a Hallmark Store. He says to the clerk, ‘Do you sell sympathy cards?’ Clerk said, ‘We do.’ The man says, ‘Could I exchange this Get Well Soon card I bought yesterday?’”
Now I knew I was dreaming.
Sal added, “Get it? It’s a dead joke, like that bookie.”
Cal and I stared at him.
Pete slapped him on arm. “That joke was funny when Ray told it, remember? That was, before you stole it from him.”
Sal said, “Picky, picky. Ray ain’t here. It seemed appropriate in light of the gruesome conversation those guys are having.” Sal turned to Cal. “While we’re talking about jokes, Chris said you were anxious to talk to us about bringing our Comedy Legends World Tour to your fine establishment.”
