Dead Center

by Bill Noel

  Trula said, “Jim Sloan?”

  “Dude at the surf shop,” Cindy said.

  “Sorry,” Bishop said. “Didn’t know that was Dude’s name.” She went to the living room to call.

  Cindy turned to me. “And he left you tied up, and alive, so you’d tell us he killed the hit man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why say anything? Why risk getting caught? You know we don’t have any leads and saw the case getting colder by the day. It’s now a popsicle.”

  “I think he overheard me talking to Dude. I had begun to suspect Rocky, Stephon, or both because of their loyalty to their boss. He figured I was getting close and wanted someone to hear his side. That someone was me.”

  “If what he said’s accurate, it’s self-defense.”

  “I agree. He felt his past would’ve clouded your version of what happened.”

  “Didn’t give us cops much credit.”

  Officer Bishop returned to the room. “Got an APB out on Rocky.”

  “Good,” Cindy said. “Now call Detective Adair and tell him he may want to mosey over. Chris, the walking, talking, disaster magnet, has an enthralling tale to share.”

  Bishop smiled and headed back to the living room.

  Cindy shook her head and looked over at the drawer that was still open. “Want to show me your knife throwing trick before the hot-shot detective from the big city comes a callin’?”

  “No.”

  Cindy chuckled. “Didn’t think so.” She put her hand on my arm. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Better than I was.”

  The next two hours were spent with me repeating my ordeal to Detective Adair. I regaled him with my circus-like escape, although he didn’t appear as impressed with my creativity and dexterity as I had been. I told him for what it was worth, I believed Rocky’s story that he had killed Panella to save himself, and Adair told me my opinion wasn’t worth much. I lied to him when on his way out I said I hoped they’d catch him.

  My wrists were still red and stung from bumbling around trying to free them. My ankles hurt but not as bad as my wrists and I bounced between euphoria for being alive and learning who had killed Panella and sadness that Rocky, trying to do a good deed, one of the few in his life, was wanted for murder, and when caught would face prison time unless he could convince the cops he was acting to save his own life.

  And, there was still one huge unanswered question. Who hired Panella to kill Barb and had he or she hired someone else to finish the job? I gave it more thought before my body told me I didn’t have a future as a contortionist. It was my last thought before falling asleep in the recliner.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Three hours later, the phone rang. Had the police found Rocky? The answer was not forthcoming, when I heard the excited voice of my best friend blaring out a usual Folly, non-socially preferred greeting.

  “Heather and I met Starr. She’s going to cut a demo.”

  “Whoa. Hello Charles, how are you?”

  “Huh?” Oh, fine, gee. Listen, this is exciting.”

  I started to interrupt and share what had happened to me. I wasn’t certain, but thought it would beat whatever he had to say. I knew not to waste words until he’d wound down.

  “Start over. Demo?”

  “It’s great.” Enthusiasm spewed from the speaker. “Heather and I met Kevin Starr. He’s excited and said she needs to get her voice out to record execs—that’s how he talks. He said she needs to cut a demo record, tape, digital thingee, whatever they do now.”

  “That’s great,” I lied—the second bigee of the day.

  “Yeah, except it’ll cost $2,900. She’s got $735 unless she sells her guitar, which’d defeat the plan. I can make up the difference, but it’d lop a big chunk off my estate.”

  “Did she sign a contract with Kevin Starr?”

  “Yeah. He’s officially her agent.”

  I knew little about the music industry and wondered what Starr’s responsibilities were. It seemed strange Heather would have to pay for everything.

  “Why does she have to pay for the demo? If Starr’s representing her, shouldn’t he cover it?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person. I know as much about this stuff as I know how to teach a camel to sing. What I do know is Heather’s on cloud thirty-seven. She zoomed past cloud nine, as soon as she stepped in Starbucks and saw Starr sipping a latte.”

  That’s what I was afraid of.

  “When’s the demo going to be cut? When does she need the money?”

  “Day after tomorrow. Something about needing to reserve the studio and stuff. Starr says he can pull strings and slip her in ahead of some of the famous singers booking the studio.”

  Had Charles realized how ridiculous that sounded, or was he getting caught in Heather’s draft?

  “Does it make sense Starr could move her ahead of popular artists?”

  “Chris, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t stop her with a ten-foot-high concrete wall topped with barbed wire. It’s her dream.”

  I felt uneasy, yet told him I understood. I added I had a story to share and proceeded to tell him about my day and Rocky’s confession.

  “When were you going to tell me? Was I going to have to read it in the Tennessean or hear it on CNN? Was—”

  “Charles, it just happened and what part of your story were you going to let me interrupt?”

  “Picky, picky, picky,” he said as if it he was trying to make some illogical point. “Tell me again how you flipped the knife and didn’t slit your wrists?”

  “Never mind. Don’t you wish you were here to share the excitement?”

  He didn’t say anything for a minute and then whispered, “Yes.” There was another pause before he said, “Gotta go. Heather wants to go to Walmart to get a new outfit to wear for her demo session. Try not to get killed and stay away from sharp objects.” The phone went dead.

  Now there were two things bothering me in addition to a cut foot, sore wrists, and ankles. While I doubted Cal could do anything for my sore body parts, he was the closest person I knew to the music industry. I walked three blocks to his bar. To say Cal’s mid-week crowd in February was light would be like saying a candle might not illuminate Times Square. There were two of the town’s better-known drunks at a table in the corner discussing the economic advantages of Budweiser over Miller; and a young couple at another table who appeared more intent on caressing each other’s arms, back, and lower extremities than listening to Waylon Jennings regretting something on the jukebox.

  Cal stood behind the empty bar and was nodding his head in time with the music.

  “Howdy,” he said and tipped his hat in my direction. “A glass of California’s finest?” he asked as he reached for a bottle of red wine.

  If what Cal served was California’s finest, the Golden State better gear up production of walnuts and Napa Valley better rip out its grapevines and start planting marijuana. Regardless, I nodded as he set a glass of wine in front of me.

  Cal leaned on the bar and cocked his Stetson back on his head. “What brings you out? Doubt it’s to peek at my packed house or listen to Hank Snow.”

  I shared what Charles had said and asked for his thoughts on Kevin Starr and the demo session.

  “Be back,” he said, grabbed a couple of Budweiser’s and took them to the drunks. He returned with four empty bottles. “Sorry. When they finish those, I’m shooing their soused selves out of here. They ain’t driving so all they can hurt is each other on the walk home. If they weren’t here, they’d be in another bar.”

  That was more than I wanted to know. I could tell Cal had mixed feelings about how to deal with them.

  Cal gazed at the men and turned back to me. “Know how many star-struck, dreaming, country music star wannabees plane, train, bus, drive, or thumb to Nashville each year?”

  “How many?”

  “Don’t have the foggiest, but it’d fill cattle cars seven miles long. Know how many vulturin’ fake a
gents, record producers, and talent scouts are waitin’ for the wide-eyed, narrow-brained wannabees?”

  I wasn’t going to let him trick me again. “Seventeen thousand.”

  “You made that up,” my astute friend said.

  “Yep. How many?”

  “Hell if I know, but you could be close. Without getting too numbery, it’s a feed trough full of them.”

  “Do you think Starr is trying to rip Heather off?”

  “Let me put it this way.” Cal looked at the ceiling, over at the lovers, then at me. “Charles moseyed over to Music City with Heather. Heather’s got herself an agent. The agent wants to make her famous.”

  He paused and waited for me to nod.

  I accommodated him, and he continued. “It’s the same Heather who’s performed a bunch of times on that stage.”

  I nodded again.

  “And you’ve heard her. You heard her doing what she calls singing?”

  I gave one more nod.

  “Did Agent Starr strike you as tone deaf?”

  My head went the other way this time.

  “That answer your question?”

  I was afraid it did. I tried one more possibility. “Could Starr hear something in her voice that shows potential?”

  Cal shook his head and put his fist to his forehead. “Yes. He hears her song of desperation, her dream, and the sweet sound of ka-ching of his cash register.”

  I told him about her appearing at the Bluebird for open-mic night and asked if anything good could come from it.

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “The Bluebird’s open-mic nights are for songwriters. They’re hawking songs and not their singing. A good singing voice ain’t a gift God bestowed on many writers. If Heather was there to plug her ditties, and someone liked them, she could sell a song or two. Songwriters have used the Bluebird’s tiny stage to leapfrog to successful writing careers. It’s possible one in a zillion kicked off a singing career there.”

  To my knowledge, Heather had written two songs, and they weren’t anything to kick her to a higher tax bracket. Her sole reason for going was to find fame as a performer. Cal also said Starr should be fronting the demo fee, and even if he didn’t, for what Heather needed, it shouldn’t cost more than half of what he was charging. Cal said there were millions to be made in Music City, although newcomers were often on the spending end. Regardless how we tried to spin it, we decided Heather’s chance of achieving anything beyond emptying her bank account was no better than Cal being elected into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. We also concluded there was little, if anything, we could do to dissuade her from moving full-speed ahead. I told him I would let Charles know what Cal said about the cost of the demo. After that, it was up to Charles and Heather.

  “Another question?” We had exhausted our fame for Heather discussion.

  “That’ll cost you another glass of vino.” Cal filled my empty glass. The couple of lovers had taken their laying on of hands to another venue and the town drunks had staggered out. From the jukebox, Tom T. Hall was telling us how much he loved beer, and Cal and I were the only occupants of the tired bar.

  “Do you know a man named Sylvester Lopp?”

  “Takes a mighty strung out woman named Lopp to name a kid Sylvester, don’t it?”

  I nodded. “You know him?”

  Brenda Lee was singing “Big Four Poster Bed,” Cal was pushing his Stetson farther back on his head, and taking his time answering. “Sure.”

  “You do?”

  “Yep.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s a salesman. Sells those imitation Tupperware containers you see at groceries and dollar stores. Or, that’s what he says. The boy does have a strange way about him. Sometimes it looks like he should be talking and he’s not. A little shy, I think.”

  “Known him long?”

  “No. Started sipping a brew or two the last couple of months, maybe not that long. Why?”

  “He’d been in Barb’s Books a few times and she thought he seemed strange.”

  The room got silent and Cal smiled. “Makes sense.” Cal went to the jukebox and punched in a few numbers.

  Jim Reeves began “He’ll Have to Go,” and Cal moved to one of the tables and pointed for me to join him.

  “These old clodhoppers don’t keep the feet from painin’ like they used to.”

  I waited to hear why Lopp’s visits to Barb’s Books made sense, and motioned for Cal to continue.

  “Sylvester’s single, divorced, been that way for three years. Born in Missouri. I’m not a good judge of age, but’d say he’s in his late fifties, early sixties. Anyway, I think he’s got a crush, or whatever you call it when someone that old’s likin’ someone.” Cal smiled. “Think the boy’s besotted with Barb.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Let’s see.” Cal said, as he took off his Stetson and looked in it like it was full of tea leaves waiting to be read. “His first time in he asked if I’d been in the bookstore. I said no, reading ain’t my thing. Second time he asked me if the bookstore lady was hitched. I told him I didn’t think so. Next time I saw him, he was right over there.” Cal pointed to the stool at the end of the bar. “Heard him ask Chester the same things about Barb. I didn’t hear all they said, but remember Chester saying, ‘Go for it.’”

  That would explain Lopp’s visits to the bookstore. Could he have been working up the nerve to ask her out? It had never made sense that if he was hired to kill her he would be that conspicuous.

  “Know where he lives?”

  “Must be around here. This ain’t the neighborhood bar for folks in Idaho.”

  “Anything else about him?”

  “Good tipper.”

  “While we’re alone, let me ask another question?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Charles may be in Music City, but a hefty bunch of his nosiness has rubbed off on you.”

  “Someone’s got to do it. What do you know about Rocky, the guy who works for Dude?”

  “As much as I want to know and that ain’t much. He’s been in here twice I know of. Seems like an hateful little prick. Demanding and gave my regulars the dirty eye like he thought they were covered with jellyfish. If he has friends, which I doubt, they weren’t with him. Why?”

  “Wondering,” I sipped my drink and looked down in the glass. “He pointed a gun at me today, tied me to a chair, and told me he shot the hit man who came to town.”

  I peeked at Cal who was staring at me like I had recited the Declaration of Independence in Hungarian.

  “Holy heifer. When were you going to fess up about that?”

  I smiled, and felt good I still could after my day. I gave him an abridged version of Rocky’s visit and what he had told me.

  “He telling the truth?”

  “Think so.”

  “So Bookstore Barb was who the hit man was here to eradicate?”

  “Yes.”

  “So who hired the hit man?”

  “Don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

  “How?”

  “No idea.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Overnight, the bottom dropped out of the thermometer. I awoke after a fitful night, with the temperature hovered around freezing, several degrees below average. I was surprised when Karen called and said she had to go in to work late and wanted to come over and walk on the beach. I was more surprised when she said she’d be at the house in a couple of minutes, and less than a minute later she was at the door.

  She looked more like she was heading to the North Pole than to the beach. She wore a black barn coat, a wool, red and black plaid Tilley Aviator hat I’d given her a couple of years ago, black jeans, and old boots, the kind that’d be more at home on a ranch rather than in a fashion magazine. I asked if she wanted coffee and she looked at her watch and said she didn’t have time. I grabbed my heaviest coat and my hat and followed her. I tried not to venture out when it was this cold and di
dn’t have appropriate outerwear.

  We walked to the beach and limited our conversation to the weather and how deserted the streets were. My fellow residents had more sense than the two of us. The palmetto trees were shivering in the wind along with me. Other than a lone walker, we had the beach to ourselves and Karen turned left when we reached the shoreline. We nodded to the walker as we crossed paths. Karen started to say something and hesitated.

  We walked a few more yards and she said, “I’ve decided.”

  I couldn’t imagine her wanting to be out here in this weather if her decision was to stay. The icy breeze off the ocean felt like daggers of ice blowing right through me. A deeper freeze grabbed my heart.

  “You’re taking it,” I said and looked toward the ocean. I didn’t want to look at her when she answered.

  “Yes.”

  I mumbled, “Congratulations.”

  She reached over and grabbed my arm. We stopped.

  “Chris, I can’t pass it up. I don’t know how much longer I could keep doing what I’m doing. It’s a young person’s game and I’m … well, I’m not getting younger. I’m good at catching bad guys, although it’s getting more difficult and frustrating. I’m not only battling criminals, I’m fighting with the courts, attorneys, the bureaucracy, and infighting among the various outside departments, crap, even my own office.” She pulled her coat tighter and leaned closer to me. All I felt was her pulling away.

  “It’s too good to turn down. You deserve it.”

  “If it was nearby, I would’ve accepted in a heartbeat.” She sniffled.

  Maybe it was the cold.

  “Leaving Dad and … you … never mind. It was the hardest thing I’ve had to do.”

  “Hey,” I said with little enthusiasm, “it’s not like you’re moving to France. It’s just a couple hundred miles away.”

  She smiled, with equally little enthusiasm, and said, “A little ways up the road.”

  I looked at the frigid, breaking waves, and back at her. She had wiped the tears from her cheek and put her arm in mine.

  “I’d love to say I’d move to Charlotte.” I hesitated. “I can’t, my life is here. This is what I dreamed about forever. My friends are here.” I hesitated and cringed thinking about Charles being gone. “I’m sorry.”