by Bill Noel
I felt honored that Bob’s seat-of-choice was now my booth. The other six patrons stared as I confidently strolled to the back of the room. Other than the beer delivery man, Bob and I were the only Caucasians I had seen in Al’s. Either Al considered Bob and me VIPs or he wanted to hide us in the back and the booth was as far as he could send us without taking up valuable restroom seating. I favored the VIP explanation.
Two tables of diners were leaving—unrelated to my arrival, I hoped—when Al slowly made his way to the booth. The other two customers were in deep conversation and looked like they were there to stay. Al set my food and wine on the table and sat himself on the cushioned bench seat opposite me.
“The music sounds different than when Bob’s here,” I said. The Supremes were sharing one of their Motown favorites from the jukebox.
Al laughed, his eyes shared in the twinkle of humor. “For some reason,” he said, “George Jones and Clint Black don’t get as much money on them when Bob’s not around. My regulars ain’t as tone-deaf as Bubba Bob.”
Bob and Al had been friends for years and regularly traded barbs, but I knew Bob had tremendous admiration for the bar owner. Bob had told me with great admiration that Al was an American hero. He’d single-handedly saved a dozen fellow soldiers and civilians during the Korean War; and then after the war, he and his late wife adopted nine children after social services had all but given up on finding families for them. For some mysterious reason, Al liked Bob and had salted his jukebox with some of Bob’s favorite country songs.
Al’s breath was back to normal after his walk to the table, and he massaged his arthritic left knee. “So, what happened to your police chief?” Al had never been on Folly Beach but knew some of the happenings from Bob and me. He had even provided a decisive clue to solving a series of murders on Folly last year.
I shared what I knew and bemoaned not knowing more.
“Let me call Tanesa and see if she can find out anything,” he offered.
Tanesa was one of Al’s adopted kids and an emergency room doctor. I hadn’t met her and didn’t see any female doctors on duty earlier. I handed him my phone to save him the laborious walk to the bar. He said she wouldn’t answer if she didn’t recognize the number. “Don’t worry,” he said, his chin held high, “she’ll answer her daddy’s call—even if her hands are in the middle of somebody’s gut.”
Not quite the image I needed, but I appreciated Al’s efforts. He slowly—very slowly—headed to the bar and braced himself on two chairs along the way. I ate some of the cooling, juicy, and extremely tasty cheeseburger and fries, sipped the cheap white wine, and then looked around the room. Garage-sale nature prints adorned two walls. The furniture was old but clean and sturdy. I was daydreaming about what it would be like to have nine kids when Al returned with another glass of wine and a beer for himself.
“Want the truth or sugarcoated?” he asked.
Sugarcoat, sugarcoat, please. “Truth.”
“Your chief’s barely hanging on,” he said. “Tanesa wasn’t in the OR with him, but the other doc told her they lost him a couple of times and was surprised he kept coming back. It sounds strange, but she said if he wasn’t in such good health, he’d be dead.”
“Prognosis?”
“Less than fifty-fifty. Sorry.” Al took a sip of beer, “Sorry.”
“I appreciate you checking,” I said.
“That’s what friends do,” he said. I think he truly meant it.
One of the men from the other table stood and looked our way.
“Cash or charge?” asked Al over Fats Domino on the jukebox.
“Greenbacks,” said the customer.
Al shut his eyes for a second and then said, “Eleven fifty. Leave it on the bar.”
“Lazy old coot,” said the elderly customer, who then laughed.
“Stiff me, and I’ll poison your next meal,” said Al.
During Al’s threats, I debated if I should call Karen and tell about her dad. Would it help anything? Did she need to know? I was leaning toward not telling her when Al said, “Chris, Chris.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“I was asking,” continued Al, “what’s the deal on the body with the arrow in it?”
I was surprised, “How’d you hear about it?”
“Bubba B. called last night. He was cackling and said something like, ‘Guess what my Folly friend’s got himself into now?’”
“Why something I’ve got myself into?” I asked. Al and I were alone in the restaurant. Before he answered, Al hobbled to the jukebox, fiddled with something on the side of the machine, pushed some of the numbers, and returned to the table.
“Funny,” said Al, “I asked Bob the same thing.” Al hesitated and listened to the opening notes of “Wabash Cannonball” from the jukebox. “Bob said cause you always do.”
Please be wrong, Bob.
“What’s with the crossbow?” Al stared at me like I was an expert.
“No idea.” The cheeseburger and fries were gone, and I started on the second glass of wine. “You have a guess?”
“When I was in basic, getting ready to head to Korea, I heard about soldiers training with crossbows. They were somewhere in Texas and not even Indians.”
He had my attention. “Why?”
“Stealth combat, they said. They could sneak up on enemy camps and take out the sentries; in and out, no sounds. The enemy couldn’t tell where the shots came from. They could be accurate from fifty yards or more, or so they said.” He paused. “Never heard more about it.”
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“Yeah, Bob said it could be a hunter or someone who wanted to symbolically show that people were animals and could be hunted like animals.” Al giggled, “Bob’s too deep for me sometimes, so I just says ‘could be.’”
“Deep and shallow are close kin when it comes to Bob,” I said.
We both laughed. Even if Al’s cheeseburgers weren’t the best in the United States and Scotland, the way he served them garnished with wisdom and conversation made them great.
“Chris,” the smile was gone from his face, “can I trust you with a secret?”
“Sure.” I didn’t know what to expect.
“Tell Bob, and your cheeseburgers will never taste the same again. Agree?”
“Okay, okay,” I said.
“When I joined the army at the start of the Korean conflict, I’d never been around any country music, especially not at home.” Al stared into his glass. Beer must be fascinating. “Then,” he continued, “I was thrown in with a bunch of crackers—no offense, but that’s what we called you white boys ….”
“That was kind compared to what you were called, I suspect,” I interjected. “No offense taken.”
“Anyway, I started listening to Kitty Wells sing ‘It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels,’ Hank Snow, Lefty Frizzell, and other country singers. It wasn’t bad—pretty good, truth be told. My favorite’s Johnny Cash. If that white boy wasn’t a Negro, he missed his calling.”
“That’s why you have so much country music on your jukebox?”
“Sort of. I had a couple of country songs on it, white man’s blues, I call it.” Al giggled. “Then Bob starts coming in and decided I needed more. He gave me fifty dollars and said to get some good music on the machine. That’s why it’s about half and half—white man blues, black man blues.”
“Your secret’s good with me,” I said. “Besides, Bob wouldn’t listen if I tried to tell him.”
Al’s giggle became a full-blown laugh. “You do know that man, don’t you?”
The grinding sound of the steel door drew our attention away from Bob and “I Walk the Line” on the jukebox. Three men entered and walked directly to the table by the front window.
“Time to go to work,” said
Al. He rubbed his left knee and used the back of the chair to stand. “Come back anytime. Especially when you don’t bring Bubba Bob.” The twinkle in his aging eyes said he was teasing about Bob.
I finished the last of the wine and gave Al a few minutes to see what his customers wanted before I headed to the register. He took my money, leaned across the bar, and whispered, “It takes a damned scary fool to be out there shooting someone with an arrow. It ain’t your job to catch him. Be careful.”
Good advice, I thought. Would I take it?
CHAPTER 11
Summer traffic between Charleston and the beach moved at a snail’s pace, a worn-out, lame snail. Compounding the already slow-moving line of cars, it was the middle of Labor Day weekend. I stopped at the Piggly Wiggly, the last chain-anything before reaching Folly Beach. Technically, the large grocery was in the Folly Beach city limits, but few on the island considered it a part of the “real” Folly Beach. According to Charles, it was an annexation ploy to bring more money to the city coffers. Charles was an expert on many things, but I took his comments with a grain of sea salt when it came to city planning and taxation. After all, he hadn’t paid taxes since the invention of the personal computer.
The aisles were packed with vacationers stocking up on the necessities—toilet paper, beer, chips, beer, salsa, and more beer. I followed their lead and filled my cart with the normal health foods that occupied my cupboard: Doritos, Cheetos, Hershey Kisses, and Oreos. I skipped the beer aisle but did restock the wine supply. Between the beer and bakery section, I was stopped by Marc Salmon, a city council member I had a passing acquaintance with from the Dog. He and Houston, a fellow council member, met there most every morning.
“Heard anything about the chief?” he asked as he slowly moved the six-pack of Coors he held in his left hand behind his back.
“He’s still in CCU,” I said. I didn’t see any reason to share the other information with someone who would broadcast the latest gruesome details to anyone who’d listen.
“Yeah,” he responded, “that’s what I heard. Pressure from the mayor must’ve got to him.”
The chief had confided that he and the mayor had issues, but I figured they were the normal flare-ups that take place between elected officials and appointed employees. “What pressure, Marc?”
“No one thing.” The council member pulled his cart to a wider spot in the aisle so other shoppers could get by and then leaned against the steel end cap. He was a talker. “The mayor’s been on him hot-and-heavy about traffic; worse this summer than since the Civil War, says the mayor. Some of those young folks buying the McMansions are complaining about too much noise, drinking, and trash on the beach and drunks on the streets—walking, driving, riding bikes.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “It’s pure bunk. They think it should be like Kiawah or Hilton Head—ritzy, well-manicured, and dull. I’ve lived here all my life, and Folly Beach is … well, Folly Beach. Love it or leave it.” He slapped his hand on the cart handle. He was on a roll. “On top of that, the mayor says that with the economic situation, the chief has to lay off three of his staff and park two patrol cars. My view is the mayor’s trying to force him out.”
The first notes of “My Way” flowed from Salmon’s phone and interrupted his rant. He mumbled a few words into the mouthpiece, took a sheet of folded, lined notepaper from his pocket, and wrote mustard, oatmeal, and chocolate chips on his list. “Gotta go,” he said after closing the flip phone. “Ms. B’s waiting. Good talking to you.”
More like talking at me, I thought, as he walked toward the fresh meat section. He was on the opposite side of the mayor on most issues and didn’t always have his facts straight, but I was surprised to hear that about the mayor and the chief. The Lester Patterson’s murder investigation was under the jurisdiction of the County Sheriff’s Department, but I wondered if another murder on Folly Beach would put another nail, or arrow, in the chief’s coffin.
I left the Pig, as we locals call it, and pulled off the right side of the road at a boat that hadn’t floated for twenty years. The Boat was deposited between the marsh and its shimmering, green grasses and Folly Road by Hurricane Hugo, which ravaged this part of the country in 1989. No one had claimed the thirty-five-foot-long fishing boat, and in the quirky style of Folly Beach, it had become a landmark and community bulletin board. Cans of spray paint and a little creativity were all it took to leave messages on the ever-changing side of the water-challenged craft. It was not uncommon to have a new message each day. Larry had told me that spray paint was his best selling item. Instead of “I love you Aunt Susie” or “Congratulations Michael and Leigh Ann,” today’s message was a simple, “Hurricane Frank, was that your best shot?”
Folly, with the exception of Les, will live to see another day.
CHAPTER 12
The last time Charles had a steady job was nearly a quarter of a century ago. After he had seen the light, the light of the beach, and became fed up with the light from headlights he had installed on new Fords in Detroit, he surrendered his urge to work for a living. I had retired from a “real job” three years ago and opened the doors at Landrum Gallery whenever I wanted. So, today was Labor Day, and Charles and I couldn’t have cared less. What we did care about was that the island was swarming with vacationers who spent months each year drooling over the chance to take the long Labor Day weekend and celebrate the traditional end of summer. I couldn’t understand why the way to celebrate labor was to not labor, but whoever created the holiday hadn’t asked me.
I met Charles at the Dog earlier than usual to beat the nonlaboring laborers. Amber greeted me with a subtle hug and a steaming mug of coffee. Charles had already staked out our table. He was leaning back in his chair and proudly displayed a red and gold Arizona State University Sun Devil long-sleeve T-shirt. His Tilley hat and handmade cane were sitting on a nearby chair.
“Any news on the chief?” he asked before I settled. He was worried and stared at me until I answered.
I took a deep breath, soaked in the welcoming smell of burritos, and shared that Al had called to say that his daughter reported the chief was still in critical condition. She said he only had a fifty-fifty chance. But he was alive.
“I don’t understand,” said Charles. “The chief is in great shape—trim, eats well, exercises.”
Dude Sloan mysteriously appeared before I could respond. He nodded twice at the vacant chair. “Empty?”
“Casper the Ghost and two of his buddies sitting there,” deadpanned Charles. “Want me to move them?”
“Appreciate it,” said Dude.
He said it like he often had to shoo ghosts.
Charles made sweeping motions with his arms and proclaimed the seat vacant.
“Thanks,” said Dude. “Chuckster, own a word-shirt factory?” He stared at the Sun Devil on Charles’s shirt.
“Nope,” replied Charles, alias (only to Dude) Chuckster.
“Number got?” said Dude.
“A gross, give or take,” said Charles, with his head held high.
“Cool,” said Dude, who looked at Charles with new admiration. He put his finger to his chin. “Cool and weird.”
Dude sat and turned to me. “Chief ready to surf?”
I hadn’t imagined I could be so relieved to talk about a heart attack. I repeated what Al had told me. Dude nervously ran his hand through his long, gray hair. “Bummer,” he said. “Not that many moons old. Why him?”
“He’s sixty-four,” said Charles, who felt the need to quantify not many moons. “That’s older than me, and even older than Chris here.
“Charles,” I said in mock exasperation, “you’re only two years younger than me; don’t make it sound like a dozen.”
Charles held his right hand in front of his face and stared at his palm. “I look a dozen years younger.”
“Don’t know what you se
e in that hand-mirror,” said Dude, “but the view be warped. Me be around fewer Halloweens than both of you.”
“How old would that be?” I asked Dude. Charles and I had speculated on Dude’s age a couple of times. Charles had said he knew it was between forty-one and seventy-three.
“Fifty-seven people years,” said Dude. I assumed he meant earth-people but didn’t ask. He barely paused, “You passed the big seven forty-two, didn’t you?”
Dude looked at me. I looked at Charles for a translation.
“If that means sixty, yes.” Charles responded.
“Thought so; no secrets here.” Dude turned to Charles and then took his Sharpie pen from the side pocket in his cargo shorts and wrote something on the copy of Astronomy magazine. He added some numbers and put the pen’s cap in his mouth. “Chuckster,” he said, “how many full moons you seen?”
Charles put his fork on the side of his plate, let out an exaggerated sigh, and said, “I’m fifty-eight. I don’t know how may days, leap years, full or empty moons, and don’t care. Fifty-eight be fifty-eight.”
Charles couldn’t stand being called Charlie, much less Chuckster, any more than the pope liked being called rabbi. He tried to hide his cringe, but it nearly vibrated the table. He held his tongue and took a deep breath. “Guys, as Abraham Lincoln once said, ‘In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count, it’s the life in your years.’”
Dude slowly lowered his head onto the top of his hand that was near the top of the table. “My bud, Les, was only forty-three.” Charles and I had to lean forward to hear what he said. “He’ll never grow as historic as you two, or the chief. A shame.”
“Sorry, Dude,” said Charles, “I didn’t know you were close.”
Dude kept his head lowered, “Close—not too. I’m short on friends; I liked him.” Dude raised his head and looked at Charles. “He not be perfect; sipped too much; sang at GB’s bar; hung out with insanity. But we had good talks.”
