No Joke

by Bill Noel

  Cal turned to me and mouthed, “Legends. World Tour. Anxious?”

  “Sal, I said I’d introduce you to Cal and let him decide if he wanted to add comedy to his nightly offerings.”

  “Tomato, tomahto,” Sal said as he waved his hand in my face. He turned to Cal. “What do you think, Cal, old buddy?”

  Cal pushed his Stetson back on his head. “Tell you what, pard. Back when I was making numerous appearances on the Grand Ole Opry, I got to know Sarah Ophelia Colley Cannon and Louis Jones pretty good.”

  “Who?” interrupted Sal.

  Cal grinned. “Sorry, only their good friends called them their real names. You might know them as Minnie Pearl and Grandpa Jones.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sal said. “I didn’t know them as well as you did, of course. Everyone in this business knew about those famous country comics. I saw Minnie Pearl in a show once in Birmingham.”

  Cal looked at Sal and at the other two comics with him. “The point I was going to make is I have a soft spot in my heart for joke tellers. I think, if we can come to terms, I could spare the stage for your show. A Sunday night would work.”

  Sal took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Cal, our group has a limited number of open dates on the schedule. I was checking before we came over, and it looks like sometime in the next couple of weeks might work. Let’s talk about our fee.”

  Cal leaned back in the chair and nodded. “Okay, let’s. Here’s the deal. As an advance, I’ll pay you nothing. After you finish, I’ll double it.”

  Sal started to stand.

  Cal waved at him to remain seated. “Whoa, pard. I’ll tell you what. Before you start, I’ll introduce one of you as MC, and I’ll tell everyone that tips will be appreciated. During your set, umm, acts, you can plug the tips.”

  Sal nodded at the other two stand-up comics. “That’s several Franklins below our minimum. We’re already on Folly, and some of our expenses are being covered by my brother, so we’ll do you a favor and give it a go.”

  “Mighty fine of you, sir,” Cal said.

  I knew he was being sarcastic, but Sal smiled like he’d negotiated a multi-million-dollar tour.

  They agreed to perform Sunday and said they better get back to the house to see how Ray was coming with his TV deal.

  I stood, and Cal asked me to hang around. I stayed at the table, and Cal got more drinks for the table of conventioneers who were still enjoying their time away from the hotel.

  He returned and scooted his chair closer to mine. “Didn’t want to mention it in front of Larry, Curly, and Moe. I figured, since you were nosing into the death of Michael, you need to hear about what happened two nights before he turned up deceased.”

  I started to deny that I was doing any nosing. Instead, I asked, “What happened?”

  “You know Neil Wilson?”

  The name sounded familiar, but I wasn’t sure. “Tell me about him.”

  “Big guy, muscle turned to fat. I hear he played football at South Carolina.”

  “I know who you mean. Looks like a tall fire hydrant on steroids.”

  “That’s him,” Cal said. “He works security at a couple of places in Charleston. A few months ago, he asked if I needed a bouncer. He said he lived in an apartment on Ashley Avenue and was trying to find extra work close to home. I told him that I couldn’t afford my part-time cook and me.”

  “I’ve seen him in Bert’s. What about him?”

  “He sashayed in, lumbered in, and made a beeline toward Michael Hardin. It was the last night I saw Michael at his office table. It was crowded, so I didn’t hear what they were talking about. A few minutes later, I heard Neil bellow something like, ‘Over my dead body.’ He smacked the door so hard on the way out I thought the hinges were going to pop off.”

  “Any idea what it was about?”

  “You’re the detective. Knowing what I know about Michael, it must’ve had to do with money. If I had to guess, I’d say Neil owed Michael a piss-pot full of it.”

  “Enough to kill him over?”

  Cal nodded. “You bet.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I got up later and hungrier than usual. Last night at Cal’s had pushed me past my normal bedtime, so I walked to Bert’s for coffee and a two-pack of donuts, where I saw Chester Carr talking to Denise, one of the clerks. I had known Chester for several years, first when he worked at Bert’s, much better two years ago, when he formed a senior-citizen walking group that I had joined to learn more about an alleged blackmailer among the walkers. That experience nearly got Theo and Chester killed, not to mention me almost losing my life.

  “Morning, Chris,” Denise said, interrupting her conversation with Chester.

  I returned her greeting, acknowledged Chester. With the late Michael Hardin fresh on my mind, I asked Chester if he could spare a few minutes when he was finished talking to Denise.

  He nodded.

  I continued to the coffee urn.

  Before I took my first sip, Chester was beside me. “Been missing you and Charles walking with us.”

  Chester was approaching ninety, stood five-foot six and, in the words of Charles’s late Aunt Melinda, was “a spittin’ image of Mr. Magoo.”

  “Sorry, Chester. I need to start back.”

  “I’ve heard that before. What’s up?”

  “Do you know Michael Hardin?”

  Chester took his Coke-bottle-thick glasses off to rub his left eye. He returned the glasses to their rightful place. “Would that be the Michael Hardin you and Charles found out past the Oceanfront Villas?”

  I smiled. “The same.”

  “Yeah, I knew him. Nice guy. I hated to hear what happened, although, I’m not surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “I heard he was pushing drugs a few years back. Seldom anything good comes from that. After he got in deep doo-doo with the cops, he switched directions to become a bookie.” Chester looked around and whispered, “I heard that he’d spent time in prison. That’s a rumor; he didn’t tell me. I’d guess that participants in both of those careers have shorter life spans than the average clerk in here.”

  That was hard to argue with. I asked if he knew anything more specific.

  “Mind you, I never placed a bet with Michael,” he said. “Don’t suppose I ever will now. I know a few who did.”

  The store was crowded, and we were in the line of traffic to the coffee. If I’d learned anything from years of frequenting Bert’s, it’s not to stand between morning customers and their caffeine.

  “Let’s step outside.”

  It was in the low seventies and pleasant, so Chester followed me to the tree-shaded, parking area between the store and my house.

  Chester took a sip of coffee and said, “You trying to catch whoever killed Michael?”

  “Not really. I’d seen him a few times, was trying to learn more about him.”

  “That sounds like yes to me.”

  I shrugged. “Know if he had enemies?”

  Chester watched a rusting, classic Fiat carrying a surfboard drive past then turned to me. “I didn’t know him well. He was always pleasant. It seems he had a booming bookmaking business from the number of people I saw him huddled with. Betters lose more often than they win, so I reckon some of them could’ve been mad, but heck, it wasn’t Michael’s fault they lost.”

  “You weren’t aware of anyone angry with him?”

  “Not off the top of my head.”

  “Do you know Neil Wilson?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. Who’s he?”

  “Someone I hear had a beef with Michael.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Big guy,” I said. “Played college football, works security in Charleston. I don’t know him. I’ve seen him in Bert’s a couple of times, but never talked to him.”

  “Still doesn’t ring a bell. What was his problem with Michael?”

  “Not sure. I heard they had an argument in Cal’s.”

  Chester shuffled
his feet in the sandy parking lot. “Now that you mention an argument, I do recall something. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. It was, oh, a couple of weeks back, when I saw Michael on the sidewalk in front of Snapper Jack’s. He was puffin’ on a cigarette and waving his arm around like he was being attacked by a swarm of bees.” Chester hesitated and smiled. “I can picture it now. Sort of funny.” He hesitated again and watched another vehicle drive by.

  “And?” I said, channeling Charles’s lack of patience.

  “Sorry, my train of thought ran off the tracks.”

  “Michael fighting off a swarm of bees.”

  “Oh, yeah. Weren’t bees. I was coming up from behind him, didn’t see the other person until I got beside Michael.”

  “Other person?”

  “Yeah, Michael was blocking my view. He was in a heated discussion with Janice.”

  “Janice?”

  “Yeah, you may know her, Janice Raque. Nice little lady. She’s in her late fifties, about five-foot three, short brown hair with bunches of gray sneaking in. She spends a lot of time walking the beach, hunting shark teeth.”

  That described several people. I didn’t know if I knew her or not. “What about her?”

  “She’s usually chirpy, big smile, easy laugh. Not that day. She looked like she was ready to knee Michael in the, umm, well, somewhere that’d get his attention.”

  Chester stopped talking. I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to knee him to get him to finish whatever he was trying to tell me. “What was she upset about?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. I didn’t want to stop and get in the middle of it. I did hear her say something about him not doing what he was supposed to do, how it cost her big bucks.”

  “Any idea what?”

  “Nope, but I can tell you that dear, sweet Janice was royally freakin’ out.”

  He didn’t think about that when I asked if he knew someone who might have been angry at Michael?

  “Do me a favor. Let me know if you hear anything else about Janice and Michael, or if you hear anything about anyone else mad at him.”

  Chester laughed. “So, you want to know because you’re not trying to figure out who killed him?”

  “Correct,” I said, wondering if it sounded as insincere to Chester as it had to me.

  “If you say so.”

  That answered the question.

  Chapter Thirteen

  According to Chester and Cal, Neil Wilson and Janice Raque had issues with Michael Hardin. Could their anger have escalated to murder? I had a nodding relationship with Neil, but didn’t know Janice. If anyone knew more about them, it would be Charles. It was a gorgeous day, so I walked eight blocks to his Sandbar Lane apartment.

  He gave me a less-than-welcoming reception, as he motioned me in. He looked like he hadn’t shaved for a week. His long-sleeved Virginia Commonwealth University T-shirt had a mustard stain between the m’s in Commonwealth. His hair was a mess, matching the rest of him.

  Charles was one of the most positive people I knew. He could find good in the most obnoxious people, liked most everyone, and was a walking, talking ambassador for Folly Beach.

  A year ago, his long-term significant other, Heather Lee, an aspiring country music singer, had decided at the urging of a Tennessee music agent to move to Nashville to seek fame. To no one’s surprise, Charles moved with her. To no one’s surprise, Heather was a failure in Music City. She had been a regular performer at Cal’s open-mic nights, entertaining the audience with her enthusiasm and positive stage presence. Her singing sucked. That wasn’t enough to stop her from following her dream; a dream that became a nightmare when her agent was murdered. She skyrocketed to the top of the suspect chart with a bullet.

  I helped prove her innocent through luck and with assistance from friends. The experience convinced her to lower her expectations and remain a big fish in the small pond in the country music world on Folly.

  Charles and Heather returned to the beachside community, yet Heather never returned to her former, cheerful self. She slipped out of town, leaving Charles a note, asking that he not try to find her.

  He was devastated. While he’s shown glimmers of his former self, there’ve been bouts of despair. It seems I caught him in the middle of one of those downs.

  “Up for a walk?” I asked as he looked around the room for somewhere for me to sit.

  Charles had one of the largest collections of books outside the Library of Congress. Floor to ceiling bookshelves covered three walls in the living room, nearly as many in the other rooms, including the bathroom. Plus, each horizontal surface, including the two chairs in the living room, held stacks of reading material.

  He muttered, “I guess.”

  That was the right answer, since it would’ve taken a forklift to clear a spot for me to sit. Some of my fondest memories had been when we walked agenda-free around the island. We were photographers, and the island was a photo-rich environment, so we’d spent hours taking photos, although that was a good excuse to talk about whatever came to mind.

  We left the large, gravel and shell parking lot when Charles said, “What direction?”

  I was more interested in helping my friend than where we walked. “Your call.”

  “I’m not in the mood to find more bodies, so let’s not go to the beach.”

  I turned right on West Indian Avenue then walked a couple of blocks before he spoke again.

  Charles kicked a rock out of the road and mumbled, “The only two women I’ve loved. One dead, one gone.”

  Four years ago, Charles’s Aunt Melinda, whom he hadn’t seen for many years, moved to Folly from Detroit, Charles’s hometown. She had brought her boundless enthusiasm, friendliness, and endearing charm with her. She also brought a diagnosis of terminal cancer and died less than a year after arriving. Charles was still not over her passing. Now with Heather gone, he was struggling to return to the man I’d known for years.

  “Charles, there’s nothing I can say to lessen the pain, but there’re many people here who think the world of you. They’d do anything to help.”

  He kicked another rock. “That’s what’s keeping me sane.”

  I started to joke about his sanity, something I could’ve done before all of this happened. He would’ve responded to my insult with a smart aleck remark, and we would have continued our walk. After Heather moved, his friends were on thinner ice, weighing their words carefully. His sense of humor had been a casualty of the loss of his two loves.

  We walked another block before he said, “Learn anything new about Michael Hardin?”

  I took that as a sign of hope that he was looking past his problems. I told him what Cal said about Michael Hardin’s argument with Neil Wilson.

  Charles stopped. “Big guy, six-foot two or three, lives out East Ashley?”

  “That’s the one. How well do you know him?”

  “I don’t. He was in Bert’s talking to Norman. When he left, I asked Norman who he was, and he said his first name was Neil, but forgot the last name. He told me where the guy lived and said he was asking if the store wanted to hire him to provide overnight security when foot traffic was low and alcohol levels high. Neil told the clerk that they could pay him anything. He was desperate for work. It seems that Neil had two part-time jobs in Charleston.”

  “What did Norman tell him?”

  “They didn’t need help.”

  “It sounds like he could’ve owed Michael Hardin money.”

  “Hmm,” Charles said. He bobbed his head up and down. “A good way to wipe out a loan is to wipe out the loaner. Think he killed him?”

  “Don’t know. I was going to tell Cindy.”

  Charles stopped in the middle of the street and pointed to the pocket holding my phone. “What’re you waiting for?”

  I started to say that I thought there was a better place than in the middle of the street to make the call. My argument against calling the chief would have fallen on deaf ears, so I moved to the
sandy berm. I tapped her number, thinking there’s something unsettling about having the chief on speed dial.

  She answered with a growl. “What trouble are you going to cause me now?”

  I smiled. “Afternoon, Cindy. Pleasant day, isn’t it. I’m with Charles. “We—”

  “Crap, double trouble. Want to know what’s been so strange about today? Until now, that is.”

  “What?” I said, as Charles waved his hand at the phone, which was his signal for me to put it on speaker. I did.

  “Glad you asked. Today has been peaceful. My competent police and fire departments haven’t brought me any impossible situations, and not a single house has burned down. So I wait on the edge of my chair to hear how you plan to ruin it.”

  I assured her I didn’t plan to and then told her about my conversations with Cal and Chester. I made the mistake of asking if she’d learned anything about people who’d been betting with Michael Hardin and might have reason to do him in.

  “Gee, Chris, why hadn’t I thought of that? I sleep better at night knowing that some of my citizens, you know, those without any law enforcement training, are always thinking of things that we, the dumb cops, would never think of on our own.”

  I stifled a smart remark for the same reason that I’d withheld one from Charles earlier. Cindy had been in a bad mood the last two times we’d talked. Today’s disposition wasn’t an improvement.

  “I know you and your folks are doing what you can. I was curious if anyone had looked closer at Neil Wilson and Janice Raque.”

  “Hang on a sec,” she said. I heard papers rustling in the background. She returned to the phone. “I was looking through the reports of interviews my guys conducted. I know who Janice is. Let’s see, yes, Officer Fisk interviewed her yesterday. She claims to have been visiting friends in Charleston around the time that Michael lost his last bet. Neil Wilson hasn’t been interviewed by my folks.”