No Joke

by Bill Noel

  “No surprise.”

  “Since you think every death is murder, I should add that the coroner said there were no signs of a struggle. Ray’s BAC, that’s blood alcohol content for you common citizens, was .16, twice the threshold for drunken driving. He wasn’t in a vehicle when he tumbled down the steps, so he won’t be posthumously cited for a traffic violation.”

  “It was accidental?”

  “It looks like he was so drunk that he didn’t see the stairs and staggered straight when the floor fell out from under him. The medical examiner agreed. It’s ruled accidental, a result of alcohol, stupidity, and gravity. I added the last two.”

  I asked if Cindy found it strange that one of Theo’s houseguests claims to have seen a body, presumably Michael Hardin, or has killed the bookie, depending upon his mood and, days later, another of his houseguests falls to his death.

  “Of course I find it strange,” Cindy said. “If you’ve been a cop as long as I have, you’ll have seen way more things strange than normal. Still, I can’t see a connection between the two. Can you?”

  I hated to, but I agreed.

  Cindy said, “Welcome to my world of strange.”

  My spirits were lifted when I met Barb for supper at Rita’s Seaside Grille. It was a couple of hours before sunset, and still warm, so I arrived at the restaurant before Barb and was fortunate enough to commandeer the last available patio table.

  Rita’s was on a prime piece of property across the street from the Pier, catty-corner from the Tides Hotel. Customers were standing two deep at the outdoor bar. The rest of the tables were filled with a mix of locals, vacationers, and four men at one table who probably had played hooky from a meeting at the hotel. They wore coats and ties and appeared as uncomfortable as balloons at a porcupine party. The din of festive diners was a welcomed relief after spending hours in silence in my house the last two days.

  My spirits were boosted further when I saw Barb walk across the street. She wore a short-sleeve red blouse, tan linen slacks, and a gleaming, white smile as she weaved her way around two tables and greeted me with a kiss.

  The server had been waiting for her to arrive, was quick to the table, and asked if she needed a drink.

  “Do I ever?” she asked before ordering a bottle of Sam Adams Rebel IPA, way more words in the beer’s name than the beer choices of my other friends.

  “Rough day?” I asked.

  “Not really, but super busy with customers arriving in bunches. I can sit there for an hour without anyone coming in, then a couple of people are buying books, three are waiting to sell books, and someone wants to talk about the muse, or some amorphic symbolism in a book she ‘loved, simply loved.’”

  I’d spent several years in the space when it was the unsuccessful Landrum Gallery, so she lost me on people buying. I nodded like I understood as her drink arrived.

  She took a sip and asked about my day. I shared my fascinating AC and electric stories while she pretended to be interested. After her heart rate slowed after being so excited about my air conditioner’s new electronic part, she told me someone had come in the store who claimed to know me. I asked who. She said she’d tell me later. Her priority was getting food. I waved for the server, and Barb ordered fish and shrimp tacos, while I went with the fried shrimp basket.

  The server left, and I said, “Back to your story?”

  “An older guy, I’d guess in his mid-seventies, all-black clothes. His hair was so black it looked like he put shoe polish on it. He looked like he was going to a Halloween party. It was one of the times the store was empty. The gentleman walked over to me and said, ‘Hi, I’m Wallace Bentley, you may have heard of me. I’m a comedian. Who might such a lovely lady as you be?’”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I smiled, told him my name, and said I had heard of him. I didn’t tell him it was because you screwed-up his fishing trip in the middle of Center Street.”

  “Wise,” I said. “How’d he seem?”

  “Flirty, smarmy. Why?”

  I told her about Wallace’s son’s accident, how he’d told Chief LaMond about killing someone, and how delusional he had appeared to be when confessing.

  “He seemed fine, well, not fine, but didn’t say anything that was out of the ordinary—ordinary for a smarmy flirt.”

  “Why’d he come in?”

  “After we talked, he strolled around the store like he was killing time rather than looking for anything, then he bought a book on Jewish humor. He paid from a wad of cash and asked if I had other joke books. I told him I didn’t think so.” Barb chuckled. “He said that was okay. Said that, unlike one of his friends, he was funny enough without stealing jokes. I thought that was humorous since he’d just bought a book of jokes.”

  “He say anything else?”

  “He said if I wanted to have a smokin’ good time with a man’s man, I was looking at him. I told him I’d keep that in mind. I wanted to tell him that he was a funny guy, but I smiled instead.”

  It didn’t sound like Wallace was too broken up by his son’s death. Either that, or he was doing something he appears to do well, avoiding reality.

  Our food arrived, and Barb asked if I’d heard anything new about the death of the bookie I gave her my thoughts about Neil Wilson and Janice Raque.

  Being a good attorney, she homed in on the differences between what I knew and what I suspected. I knew what she was getting at, but we weren’t in court. She asked if I’d shared my thoughts with the police.

  I told her that I did.

  She reached across the table and put her hand on mine. “You’ve done all you can. Now it’s up to them.”

  I nodded, recognizing it was time to drop the subject.

  We spent the next hour enjoying a perfect evening watching diners around us soaking in the island’s atmosphere while enjoying a delightful meal.

  I was again reminded why I had chosen to retire on Folly Beach. The best part of the evening, other than spending it with a lovely lady, was that I didn’t give another thought to the murder, or murders.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Theo called the next afternoon to tell me Ray’s body had been cremated. He’d taken Wallace to the funeral home to pick up the cremains.

  I asked how Wallace was, and Theo said he was quite well for someone who’d just lost a son. He went on to mention that, during the trip, the comic never strayed from reality. I thought that was a good sign, although curious.

  Theo then admitted that there was another reason for his call. Sal cornered him as soon as he got back from the funeral home and wanted him to call me to see if I’d meet him at Cal’s tonight. Theo said Sal thought that, since I was such a good friend of the bar owner, it’d be good if I was with Sal when he asked about another appearance. I could tell Cal how good the idea was.

  I’d rather have another visit by an electrician than pimp for Sal and his band of comedians, so I asked Theo what he wanted me to do.

  He stated that Sal was his brother and that family members must stick together. Not a rousing yes.

  I told him that if he was there, I’d be.

  I entered the nearly-full bar as the distinct voice of Hank Williams Sr. singing “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” filled the air, along with the comforting smell of frying hamburgers. Two couples at a nearby table were clinking their beer bottles together toasting something. At another table, four middle-aged women were laughing. Cal was behind the bar, pointing a finger at Chester Carr, who stood in front of the bar nodding at Cal.

  There were two empty tables beside the stage and nobody else entering, so I didn’t have to rush to grab one. I headed to the bar to say hi to Chester and warn Cal about Sal’s visit.

  “Chris,” Cal said as he tipped his Stetson my direction. “Glad you’re here. Tell this old man I’m right.”

  I smiled and turned to Chester. “Old man, Cal’s right.”

  Cal pulled his shoulders back. “I told you so.”

  Chester shoo
k his head. “Chris, you don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  I patted Chester’s shoulder. “Don’t need to. It’s his bar, so he’s right.”

  Cal slid a beer to Chester. “Chester, you could learn a lot by paying attention to this here youngster.” He pointed at me.

  Cal’s mood was often influenced by the size of the crowd. He was excited about the mid-week numbers. My mood was influenced by someone calling me a youngster. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be as bad as I’d anticipated.

  From the jukebox, Johnny Cash was bemoaning how bad his Sunday morning was, two men stepped up to the bar and asked for more Buds, and Chester put a damper on my mood when he asked if I’d caught the bookie’s killer. I would rather he’d told me what he and Cal had been arguing about. I said no.

  He took a sip, looked around the room, and leaned closer to me. “If you ask me, it’s Janice Raque.”

  “What makes you think that, other than the argument you told me about?”

  Chester looked around again, then turned to me, “Last night—”

  Cal set a glass of wine in front of me, nodded in Chester’s direction, and interrupted, “You convinced my pard here that I’m always right?”

  “Yes,” Chester said before I could. “You’re always right, Cal. You remember when I was in here last night sitting by the table near the door?”

  “I’m old, not senile. Of course, I remember. You were with Horace and Janice Raque. Am I right, or am I right?”

  “Did you notice that Horace left before Janice?”

  “That slipped by me. What’s your point?”

  Chester motioned for Cal to lean closer. “I was telling Chris that I think Janice killed Michael Hardin.”

  Cal took off his hat and rubbed his hand through his hair. “Because her husband left before she did?”

  Chester shook his head. “You know why he left?”

  “I’m a broken-down, country-singing barkeep, not a psychic.”

  “Why’d he leave? I asked, hoping to move the deteriorating conversation along.

  “Janice started to tell me how much she lost when the bookie claimed he didn’t place her bet in time. Horace snarled at her and said that he’s sick of hearing her tell that story and how happy she is that the blankety-blank bookie’s dead.”

  Somehow, I’d missed how that made her a murderer. I said, “Is that why you think she killed him?”

  Chester hesitated and whispered, “When Horace was storming out, Janice mumbled, “That’s why I freakin’ killed him.”

  “Whoa,” Cal said. “That came from nowhere. You sure that’s what she said?”

  “I barely heard her. It surprised me. I asked her what she said. She looked embarrassed, like she didn’t know that she said it out loud.”

  Cal reached over the bar and punched Chester on the arm. “Don’t keep us in suspense. What’d she say?”

  “She stammered, ‘I, umm, said, I’m glad Michael is dead.’”

  “You sure that’s what she said?” Cal asked.

  Chester tapped his beer bottle on the bar. “That’s what she told me. That ain’t what I heard. Not what I think I heard.”

  Two men at the other end of the bar called for more drinks.

  “Damn, just when it’s getting good,” Cal said and moved to the thirsty customers.

  “Chester, you want to tell the chief what you heard?”

  “Chris, that’s all I’ve thought about since last night. I’ve tried to think how I could’ve misunderstood her. If I didn’t, if she was serious, umm, it was loud in here. My hearing’s not what it used to be. The more I ponder it, the more I’m not sure. I don’t feel comfortable blabbing to the police.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Roy Acuff’s version of “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” filled the room as Sal sauntered in wearing his three-piece, robin-egg blue suit. He was followed by Pete and Theo.

  Sal saw me and shrugged.

  I motioned them to the empty table by the stage and turned back to Chester. I offered to go with him to see the chief if that’d help. He promised to keep my offer in mind, threw a ten-dollar bill on the bar, said he was tired, and wanted to get home.

  Sal and Pete had taken seats at the table; Theo was talking to a nearby couple. I moved to the newcomers, even though I would rather have spent more time trying to convince Chester to share his story with the police.

  Theo finished talking with the women, and he and I took the two vacant chairs.

  Sal thanked me for meeting them and waved for the harried server to take our order.

  She was quick to the table and said it would be a few minutes before she could get back with the drinks.

  I asked, “Where’s Wallace?”

  Theo looked at Sal and answered, “He stayed home. Said he was torn up by Ray’s death, didn’t feel like seeing anyone.”

  “News to me,” Sal said. “Wallace couldn’t stand being around Ray when he was alive. Now he wants to stay in his room to stare at a box of ashes.”

  Pete spoke for the first time. “Ray’s a lot nicer in a box than when he was alive.”

  “Come on, Pete,” Sal said, “that’s a horrible thing to say.”

  Pete smiled. “It’s true.”

  Cal brought our drinks and welcomed my table mates.

  Sal moved around the table to shake Cal’s hand. “Great to see you again, good buddy. How’s business?”

  Cal shook Sal’s hand and gave me a sideways look. He’d told me that, after several decades of being on the road entertaining and encountering countless managers, promoters, and bar owners trying to take advantage of him, he could spot BS a mile away. He was even better spotting it at three feet.

  “Good,” was all Cal said before Sal interrupted and asked the singer to join us. He reached over to pull another chair to the table before Cal could escape.

  Cal looked around and didn’t see anyone needing his attention. He gave me a dirty look as he sat.

  Sal smiled. “Pete, Wallace, and I were checking and uncovered a couple of open slots in our schedule. We thought since you were so happy with our performance, we’d be willing to do an encore. We know we can’t compete with your incredible singing talents, but we could give you a break you know, fill in between your sets. What do ya think?”

  I don’t know what Cal thought, but I thought it was the biggest crock I’d heard in Cal’s.

  “Tell you what, guys,” Cal said and set his Stetson on the table, “Chris knows this, but you may not. Each Tuesday, I have open mic night for crooners. We draw a good crowd and a handful of wannabes. I was thinking we could try a few open mic nights for comedians. I’ve had customers mention it, even say they might could lay some jokes on an audience. We could do it Sunday nights. If you could work it in your busy schedule, we could feature the Legends Tour the first few weeks to get us off to a rousing start. I bet the newcomers could learn a bunch from you professionals. How about it?”

  Not only could Cal spot BS, but he could also sling it. It was interesting that he chose his slowest night of the week and, with other joke tellers, there was a chance of hearing something funny from the stage.

  Sal looked at Pete then turned to Cal. “Of course, we’ll have to talk to our agent and our booking company. There’s a decent chance we’ll be able to break free to help you get your event off to a good start. Our business manager will want to know the pay.”

  Without hesitation, Cal said, “Same as last time.”

  Sal stared at the ceiling then at Cal. “That’ll work.”

  Pete said, “Now, about something else, smoking. It’s a proven fact that people don’t hear things as funny unless there’s smoke in their eyes. Seems I’ve seen folks smoking in a couple of places over here. So, it can be okay during our performances, right?”

  Cal said, “I’m a country singer. I don’t tell jokes or funny stories. I’ll tell you what I do. I make payments on this bar. I own those speakers up there.” He pointed to the stag
e. “I own that big ole silver microphone that’s hooked into my amp that’s hooked to the speakers. And, I make the rules. When ya’ll asked about smoking the last time, it was no joke when I said no, N-O. If you don’t like it, there’s the door.” Cal glared at Pete. “That clear enough?”

  Sal put his hand in front of Pete. “Don’t get all worked up, Cal. Pete was just asking,”

  Cal nodded. “I think that Dylan guy said it good when he warbled ‘The Times They Are a-Changin’.’ Change your hang-up about people puffin’.”

  Cal had said he couldn’t tell a joke, yet he’s talking about changing, talk coming from a man who’s so stuck in the 1960s that he thinks music written after that should be banned.

  “Good point, Cal,” Sal said. “It’s easy to see why you have such a successful bar. We’ll let you get back to your job. Someone will call you tomorrow to let you know what our support staff says about the Legends headlining Sunday.”

  Headlining. Support staff. Sal was funny.

  Cal was quick to leave. No one was waiting for drinks, so it was to escape from the Legends rather than to get back to bartending.

  I finished my drink and left Theo and his houseguests enjoying drinks, country classics, conversation, and a night out of the house where Ray had fallen to his death and his dad was conversing with his son’s ashes.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Charles was waiting for me the next morning at the Dog. I’d called him on my way home from Cal’s to see if he had breakfast plans. He said that he did but, because I was such a good friend, and had offered to pick up the tab, he’d shift his schedule around to free up breakfast—all that to say he had nothing to do.

  Amber and I arrived at the table at the same time, and she placed a steaming hot mug of coffee in front of me.

  A group of five ladies on the other side of the room waved for Amber’s attention.

  She acknowledged their signal but, before she left, she said, “When it slows down, I’ve got something to tell you.”