by Bill Noel
“You knew him pretty well,” I said. “Have any idea who may’ve killed him?”
“Not really. He and I were good, but there are always disgruntled customers.” He shook his head for the second time. “I suppose one of them could’ve fallen in the trap of killing the messenger. I see that a lot at my bar job, drunken show-offs, trying to pick fights with poor bartenders minding their own business doing their job. They’re pissed about something and take it out on whoever happens to be around. Michael didn’t lose horse races, games, tennis matches, or whatever. All he did was take bets. He didn’t hold a gun to anyone’s head to bet with him.” He gave one more shake of his head. “Damn world’s going all to hell.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I was searching for something to say when he grabbed a bar napkin and wrote a number on it. “Here. I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call if you hear of any work.”
I said that I would.
He gulped down the rest of his beer and mumbled that he needed to get home to get some sleep. He punctuated it with another yawn as he slid off the chair.
All I concluded from my conversation with Neil was that he was a world-class liar. I didn’t know if he was responsible for Michael Hardin’s death. I equally knew Cal had told me the truth about Neil’s tirade directed at Michael. Neil probably hadn’t stolen the figurine or the money from Theo, but he was now at the top of my suspect list for killing the bookie.
Chapter Sixteen
Boring another hole in my belt hinted that I needed to cut back on my traditional French toast breakfast at the Lost Dog Cafe. Over the last month, I’d been successful, so decided to celebrate my lower caloric intake by having French toast. Did that make sense? Of course not. Did that stop me? Nope. I rationalized it by walking instead of driving several blocks to the Dog where I was greeted by Amber, my favorite server. She was approaching fifty, five-foot five, with long auburn hair pulled in a ponytail. We had dated for a couple of years when I first arrived on Folly and have remained friends ever since; a relationship I cherished. It was already a good day. It was made better when she led me to my favorite table.
With a radiant smile, she said, “Coffee and fresh fruit parfait?”
“Out of mud-covered gravel?” I asked the lady, whose sense of humor equaled her beauty.
She knew I was more likely to order gravel than fresh fruit parfait.
“How about French toast?”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“But not the calories,” she said as she punched my arm then left to put in the order.
She returned with coffee. “Wrangle any more guys fishing for mackerel in the middle of Center Street?”
In addition to being great at her job, Amber was exceptional at collecting rumors.
“No.”
“How about bodies in the bush?”
I sighed. “No.”
“You’re slipping. Figure out who killed the bookie?”
“Who said I was trying?”
“Let’s see.” She rubbed her chin. “Chester Carr said you were sticking your nose in again. Charles told me that you almost have it figured out. Dude—”
I looked toward the window leading to the kitchen. “Think my food’s ready?”
She laughed and headed to the kitchen.
Marc Salmon was standing beside my table before Amber returned with my celebratory breakfast. “Morning, Chris.” He stared at the seat across from me.
I took the hint. “Join me.”
“I can spare a few. Houston isn’t here yet.”
Marc and his fellow councilmember, Houston Bass, met most mornings in the Dog. Marc claimed they discuss the “intricacies of the difficult issues” facing the council. Granted, they could be overheard discussing the business of governing the island, although most of the time, they were chewing on breakfast and the rumor de jour. It was said they had a decent handle on the “pulse of the community,” and a firm grip on “all the gossip worth repeating.”
Amber returned, set a mug of coffee in front of Marc, and told me my food would be up as soon as the cook stuffs the calories in.
I faked a smile and watched her move to a nearby table to see if there was anything else she could do for the couple seated there.
Marc took a sip, and said, “What’s the latest on the dead guy?”
“I suspect you know more than I do.”
He chuckled. “Won’t know until you tell me what you know.”
The gossip-collecting councilmember came by his reputation honestly. I shared what little I knew, skipping over my conversation with Neil Wilson.
“Nothing new there,” he said, more to himself than to me.
“Got a question,” I said.
“Shoot.”
“Do you know Janice Raque?”
“Why?”
“I asked first.”
A childish comment, I admit. Unless I got Marc talking, I’d never get anything out of him.
“Yes, she is one of our fine citizens, attends some of the council meetings, and shares her opinions whether asked or not. She lives at Mariner’s Cay.”
Mariner’s Cay is a condo complex and marina on Folly Road the other side of the Folly River, but a short walk to the retail stores and restaurants on the island, as well as the beach. I wasn’t about to ask Marc if he thought she was capable of killing the bookie and found it hard to believe he didn’t know anything else about her.
“Is that it?”
He looked up from his mug and narrowed his eyes, irritated that I was disappointed because he didn’t know more about Janice.
“She’s married. I suppose he lives with her. I’ve only seen him once, and she clams up when anyone asks about him.” Marc smiled. “She smiles a lot. She’s also a bit feisty if you ask her something she doesn’t want to talk about.”
Marc said it like he had first-hand experience.
Amber returned with three plates, set the one with French toast in front of me, and took the other two to a couple behind us.
Marc pointed to the door and started to stand. “There’s Houston, better get to discussing city business.”
He grabbed his mug and was gone before I could ask, “What city business?”
Amber returned, looked around the room, and took the seat that Marc had vacated. “Heard you talking about Janice Raque.”
“I was asking Marc what he knew about her. You know her?”
“She’s been in a few times. Don’t know much about her, except that she’s got a temper and a gambling problem.”
“How do you know?”
Amber leaned closer to the table. “A couple of weeks ago, she was sitting right over there.” Amber pointed to a table in the center of the room. “Shantel, a server on her second day, was waiting on her. Somehow, Shantel grabbed the wrong plate and plopped it down in front of Janice. Well, you would’ve thought that Shantel took a plate of wiggly-worms to the bitty. I was afraid Janice was going to stab poor Shantel with her butter knife.”
“What happened?”
“Zack was the manager on duty. He was nearby and stepped between Shantel and Janice. He managed to settle down the knife-wielding woman. Janice didn’t apologize to Shantel. She did leave a decent tip; probably because we comped breakfast.”
“You mentioned a gambling problem.”
Amber saw a customer on the other side of the room raise her hand. She said she’d be back. My breakfast was getting cold, but it didn’t stop me from sopping it in syrup and enjoying each bite.
Amber returned and said, “That’s what I hear.”
I assumed she was talking about Janice’s gambling problem, “What did you hear about it?”
“Now, mind you, this came from someone who’s accurate more often than not. I can’t swear to how true it is. From what I hear, Janice placed a large bet on a horserace with a bookie. The horse she bet won, and she would’ve won, get this, $3,500.”
“Would have won?”
“Goo
d catch. Janice called in her bet with the bookie. The next day, the bookie told her she didn’t get it in before the race went off. The person who told me said Janice wasn’t spittin’ nails, she was spittin’ railroad spikes. She didn’t have to pay the bet, but lost a ton of money because it wasn’t placed. She swore she had it in plenty early. Who knows?”
“That’s bad, though it doesn’t mean she has a gambling problem.”
“Oh,” Amber said, “Didn’t I tell you that she already owed the bookie $3,000 before that bet? She planned that the bet she won, and didn’t win, would get her out of the hole.”
I nodded. “The bookie was Michael Hardin?”
Amber smiled.
Chapter Seventeen
The Comedy Legends World Tour was mere hours from its Folly Beach debut. Theo had called three times since sunrise. During the first call, he said that Sal told him, before going to bed, to call me first thing in the morning to see what time their opening act, a.k.a. Country Cal Ballew, would finish his first set.
I promised myself not to tell Cal about his opening act status. If I had, the Legends tour would have been cancelled, as Cal would say, “in a hummingbird’s heartbeat.” I told Theo I’d have to ask Cal and suggested that he could call him instead of me relaying the information. He said he didn’t want to bother the bar’s owner. I took it as a compliment that he felt comfortable pestering me, or so I told myself.
I gave Cal a couple of hours to wake up before I called. He said that the funny guys should be ready to go on at 9:00, that he’d be starting his second set at 10:00 sharp. He repeated 10:00 sharp.
Theo called a second time before I could call with the starting time. “Sal wants to know if there will be reporters from the Charleston television stations at the performance. If so, did they want to interview the Legends before or after the performance?
I started to ask if he was serious. Instead, I said, “They’ll be there if Cal’s is on fire.”
“Oh. I’ll tell them you weren’t sure.”
Wise. With the public relations questions out of the way, I told Theo what Cal said about their starting time.
His third call came two hours before Cal was to begin his set.
“Chris, Sal wanted to let you know that I will be chauffeuring the Legends in my Mercedes. Sal said all the top promoters they’ve worked with provided a limo to their sold-out performances.” He lowered his voice. “He wanted me to wear a chauffeur’s outfit, including one of those silly hats. I said, “No way.’” He chuckled. “Actually, I said, ‘Hell no!’”
Visions of trick-or-treat popped in my head. “Why a limo?”
I heard him sigh. “Sal said if television cameras are there, it’s a good visual for the Legends’ arrival.”
I told him I’d keep that in mind and that I’d see him tonight. I also wondered if anyone would notice if I jumped off the Folly Pier rather than attend the Comedy Legends’ Folly debut.
Charles said he’d meet me at the bar an hour before Cal started his set. We could get a good table for the historic event. That meant my friend would be there by 6:30, so I walked four blocks to Cal’s and was there around the time I figured Charles would show. I was surprised to see Charles and Pete, or Marvin Peters, at the front of the room, sliding together three tables near the raised stage. They had already moved eight chairs to the tables. I waved at Cal, who was standing behind the bar, drying a wine glass. He cocked his head in the direction of Charles and Pete.
Johnny Cash was singing “Ring of Fire,” from the Wurlitzer as I headed over to see what Charles was doing.
“Good timing,” Charles said. “We’re done.”
I smiled and shook Pete’s hand. He was dressed in raggedy jeans and a black T-shirt with THE COMEDY STORE in red and white letters on the front. It looked as old as Pete.
He saw me looking at his shirt. “In addition to being one of the Legends, I’m filling in as advance man. Our regular guy couldn’t make flight arrangements. Got to make sure the venue’s ready. I’ll walk back to Theo’s and get in my stage garb before our grand entrance.”
It was more than I wanted to know. “Oh.”
He looked at his watch. “Better get going. Got to get dressed then decide which jokes to open with.” He nodded goodbye to Charles and me then went to the bar to shake Cal’s hand and thank him for his hospitality, things I figured a good advance man would do.
The bar was beginning to fill. I knew some of the regulars, plus several newcomers. I asked Charles about them, and he said that Sal had taped posters around town announcing the Legends’ Tour and left a stack of flyers at the Tides.
Charles looked around for Cal and whispered, “You may not want to mention the posters to Cal. Seems his name was left off.” He rolled his eyes. “An oversight, I’m sure.”
“Right.”
The sounds of Tanya Tucker’s “Delta Dawn” and the smell of frying burgers filled the air. All but two tables were occupied, so Cal had a grin on his face as he made his way over to Charles and me.
“Best Sunday crowd I’ve had since, well, since I don’t know when. Word must’ve gotten around that I’m doing a couple of sets. Don’t usually sing on Sundays, you know.”
Charles looked at me and gave an abbreviated shake of his head, roughly translated as, “Don’t you dare mention the posters.”
I didn’t need the reminder. “Great group, Cal. Word got around.”
Cal looked at the empty seats at the double table. “What time is my undercard getting here?”
In addition to not telling Cal that the comedians are considering him their opening act, I won’t mention to the comedians that Cal has called them his undercard. It’s beginning to look like a night to keep my mouth shut.
Charles helped me with that plan when he said, “Don’t know. I’m sure they’ll want to hear you sing.”
“No doubt,” Cal said. “Chris, you did tell them when they’ll go on, and off?”
I told him I’d shared that information with Theo.
He nodded and said that he’d better help Joy, his server, distribute beer to his “adoring fans.”
Charles watched the country crooner head to the bar. “It’d be best if we could keep the ‘undercard’ and the ‘opening act’ as far away from each other as possible. I’m not big on bar brawls.”
I agreed and noticed a couple at a table between us and the bar. The room was dark, and I couldn’t make out their features, but thought the woman looked familiar and fit the description I’d been given of Janice Raque. I asked Charles if he knew who they were.
He squinted in the direction of the couple. “Not certain, but I think the woman’s Janice Raque. I’ve seen her a few times but remembered because of her unusual last name. Why?”
I gave him a rundown on what I’d heard about Janice and her relationship with Michael Hardin.
“When were you going to tell me?”
Charles was peeved that I knew something and hadn’t shared it a millisecond after I’d learned it.
I told him that we hadn’t had a chance to talk recently.
He reminded me that he had a phone.
I conceded that I could’ve called and gave a half-hearted apology.
He huffed but seemed mollified. Jumping off the Pier was becoming more appealing.
Randy Travis had finished “On the Other Hand” when a blaring automobile horn grabbed the attention of all but the noisiest customers. It continued to fill the air with its irritating bellowing.
Charles headed out to see what was going on.
I followed, but not as enthusiastically.
Theo’s Mercedes was in front of the bar; its horn continued to blow. The back door opened, and out stepped three-fourths of the Legends. Sal was out first, dressed in the same robin-egg blue three-piece suit he’d worn when he first met Cal. Wallace, in all black, was next to scoot out of the seat, followed by Marvin Peters, excuse me, Pete Marvin. Yes, he had on his red sport coat and black ascot. They reminded me of goin
g to the circus when I was a kid and watching approximately seventy-five colorfully dressed clowns exit a Volkswagen. Ray Bentley stepped out of the front passenger’s seat. He wore jeans, faded green T-shirt, and looked like he would rather be anywhere but here.
The three clowns, excuse me, comedians from the back seat looked around, probably for television cameras. Theo was still in the Mercedes limo and wiggled his finger for me to stick my head in the window.
“They made me sit on the horn, something about alerting the media that they’re here.”
In the dim light of the car’s interior, I saw Theo blush. I felt his pain.
We watched the comedians straightening their clothes, pulling their shoulders back, and entering Cal’s like they were entering Madison Square Garden to perform for thousands.
It wasn’t an exaggeration to think this would be one of the longest nights of my life.
Chapter Eighteen
“Guys and gals,” came Cal’s powerful voice through an oversized speaker on each side of the stage. He wore his trademark rhinestone-adorned white coat, black jeans, cowboy boots, and Stetson, with his gray hair inching out around the sides. “Thanks for coming out. Ya’ll are in for a treat. Not only will I be performing country classics and my top-ten hit, we have a group of comedians from out of town who’ve agreed to share their funny business with us.” He looked over, nodded to the tables where Sal and his group were seated with Theo, Charles, and me. He clapped his hands in the direction of the entertainers like he was applauding their attendance. The only other sounds coming from the room were beer bottles clanking, plus a man at the bar asking about his burger.
“Without further ado, I’ll kick off the festivities with ‘Hey, Good Lookin’,’ a ditty made famous by my good friend Hank Williams Sr.”
