by Bill Noel
“Thank you. Thank you. Appreciate it,” mumbled the tall crooner into the mike. He paused and looked around the room. “I’d like to dedicate my last song to my friend Lester Patterson, who was brutally murdered just the other day, and my friend Arno Porchini, who barely escaped the heinous killer.” He removed his Stetson and carefully set it on the floor beside his Budweiser. He began strumming “Amazing Grace.”
The room turned silent as the words of the hymn echoed off the concrete walls. I didn’t hear anything after “… that saved a wretch like me.” What kept reverberating in my head was “… my friend Lester Patterson” and “… my friend Arno Porchini.”
The haunting hymn ended, and the only sounds heard were a few amens from a table near the dance floor. The singer bowed from the waist, put his guitar in a beat-up, black case, picked up his beer and Stetson from the floor, left the stage, and headed to the restroom beside the stage.
A rotund, baby-faced man walked to the mike. He looked to be in his forties, but his stooped shoulders, his grease-slicked, muddy gray hair, and his sad face made him seem much older. “Thank you, Cal,” he said as he looked toward the restroom. “Such a terrible tragedy has touched all of us in the GB’s community. All our prayers are with Lester and to Arno for a speedy recovery. Yes, they are.”
His head nodded; I assumed it was a moment of silence or a prayer, although he could have been falling asleep. He jerked his head up and gave a big smile, “And now back to the show. Let’s have a great big GB’s welcome for one of our favorite girl singers, Miss Heather Lee.”
Before Ms. Lee tuned her guitar and reached the stage, Charles was on his way to the restroom.
Heather wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, a bright yellow sequined blouse, a floor-length Kelly green skirt, and an “aw-shucks” smile. I suspected she wore colorful cowboy boots, but her skirt was touching the floor and I couldn’t tell. She was attractive, and freckles on her nose added to her wholesome look. She was in her forties and looked like she stepped out of a cheap cowboy movie from the 1930s.
She began a cover of Patsy Cline’s, “Sweet Dreams,” and I knew she’d never get a singing part in any movie unless silent pictures made a comeback. Her beauty ended with her looks. Fortunately for the customers, the increasing noise of clanking bottles, calls for a waitress, and sounds of people yelling to be heard over their neighbors, kept them from hearing the terrible warbling of Ms. Heather Lee.
Smoking was permitted in restaurants and bars, but most of them self-regulated and prohibited it. Thankfully, GB’s was one of those, so I could see Charles heading back to the table without having to look through a cloud of smoke. He had the Hank Williams Sr. look-alike in tow.
“Chris,” said Charles, “I was telling Cal here how we were big country fans and asked him to join us for a drink.”
I knew Charles was as big a country music fan as I was of opera—near zilch; his reasons for the invite were not quite pure.
“Howdy, I’m Country Cal,” said the tall, not dark, stranger. He reached with his right hand while pulling out the chair beside me with his left. He quickly sat and raised his hand for the nearest waitress. “Where’re you from, Chris?”
“Kentucky,” I said. “Louisville.”
Cal was still waving his hand in the air. “Jackson, Hazard, Ashland, Princeton, Pippa Passes … played them all—Kentucky, I love it.” With his hand still waving, he turned to Charles, “And you, my country music fan?”
“Detroit, originally,” said Charles, “But been here most of my life.”
“Romulus, Flat Rock, Windsor over-the-border … been there, sang there. No offense, Charles, I prefer the South.”
“Me, too,” said Charles, without skipping a beat or taking offense. “And you’re from …?”
“Remember when Mac Davis sang that happiness was Lubbock, Texas, in his rearview mirror?” Cal finally got the waitress’s attention and gave her his broad stage smile. I nodded yes; Charles shrugged. “He stole my hometown and my sentiments.”
The lovely and untalented Heather Lee had finished her song, so I was able to hear without them having to shout. There was only one window in GB’s, and most of the light in the room disappeared with the sunset. Apparently GB’s had the same lighting consultant as Al, or a good beer salesman, since most of the illumination came from a Miller and a Budweiser neon sign over the bar.
After our hometowns were analyzed, Charles told me how he had run into Cal in the restroom and quite by happenstance they had started talking. And, what do you know, they knew some of the same folks—Arno Porchini, Lester Patterson, and one that surprised me, Cindy Ash.
“Fine job, fine job, Miss Heather,” Chubby-slick-hair was back on the stage and wrestling the mike from Heather.
Cal leaned closer to Charles and me, gave a big belly laugh, and said, “Tuesday is open-mike night. Gregory’ll let anybody sing who shows up with a guitar and a breath.”
“So that’s GB, Gregory, up there?” I interrupted.
“Yep,” said Cal. “Not hard to figure out. He says the name of the bar about every other word.” He looked toward the bar and then back to us, “Wasted words, if you ask me. If you can hear him, you’re already throwing your cash away at GB’s.” He laughed again. “If you have even a glimmer of talent, Gregory’ll let you sing two songs. If you’ve ever released a record, you get three.”
The waitress quickly brought two beers and a glass of white wine. Hosting Country Cal got us VIP service.
“Guess Heather hasn’t released a record yet,” said Charles.
“Her only record’s for grand theft auto,” said Cal. “I hear she borrowed a car from an ex-boyfriend and forgot to tell him about it. The boyfriend was lucky.” He paused and smiled. “The car didn’t sink all the way in the river, so the police found it. Name isn’t even Heather; it’s Eileen Gordon Smith or maybe Jones—no, I’m sure it’s Smith. Sweet gal, though.”
I took a sip of the finest white wine three fifty could buy and looked at Cal. “Speaking of police, how do you know our friend Cindy?”
“We’re roommates,” he said and breezed past sip to gulp his beer.
“Oh,” I said.
“Well, not really roommates; more like housemates. She lives under me at the Edge.”
And to think, only four days ago I didn’t even know the strange house on the beach had a name. “Lester Patterson lived there, and so does Arno Porchini, right?” said Charles.
“On my floor,” he said. “Harley Something-or-other, too, but he ain’t a singer. Course, neither is Heather, and she lives on the first floor.” He laughed.
I glanced at Charles, and he gave a quick shake of his head. He was a bulldog when he wanted information, so I followed his lead and didn’t pursue the list of residents.
“So, Country Cal,” said Charles, “Your mother must’ve had a sense of humor to name her son Country.” He faced Cal with his best straight face.
Cal burst into another stage laugh, something we were learning came with the territory. “Name’s really Calvin Ballew. Born and reared with that name until my agent—God bless the son-of-a-warthog—told me that if I was going to be famous, the name had to go. The name went, and so did all my money—stolen by that son-of-a-warthog.” He raised his hand to the waitress and waved two fingers at her. He didn’t know what to raise for wine.
“You’re big country fans,” Cal continued, “so you must know my big hit.”
I was a big country fan, had been for years, but had never heard of Country Cal, much less his “big hit.” But Charles, who had never feared to tread where no man had two-stepped, said, “Sure, you were singing it when we came in.”
I wish I’d been that quick. Cal had sung three songs—being a big recording star and all—and didn’t know we heard only part of one of them, and more importantly, didn’t know when we arri
ved. His “big hit” would have been on the playlist.
“Yep,” said Cal. He had an ear-to-ear grin and tilted his head back. “‘End of Your Story,’ released spring, sixty-two; I was only eighteen—had the world by the tail of its coonskin cap. Went to number seventeen on the national charts; top five on some regional lists; number one in Lubbock. Yep, world by the tail.”
“Other hits?” asked Charles.
“Nope, ‘End’ was it. The end of my story.” Cal looked down at his drink. “You boys don’t want to hear all of this. I’ll stop bending your ears.”
“Cal,” said Charles. “I love to hear about country music; don’t stop.”
That was the same Charles who had described country music as “whiny, sad, pitiful, beer-guzzling, cheating, kick-your-dog, leave-your-wife, and watch-your-girlfriend-leave-you-for-the-Roto-Rooter-man kind of music.” He wanted Cal talking so he wouldn’t get suspicious about why we were interested in his house.
“Sixty-two was the best year of my life.” Cal looked at the green wall at the far side of the bar. “Played the Grand Ole Opry. Roy Acuff introduced me. The Opry was in the Ryman then, not out by that monster hotel where it is now. Yep, met Patsy Cline, ‘She’s Got You’ had gone to number one; George Jones called me his ‘buddy.’” He smiled and then continued. “George took me across the alley to Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge and introduced me to Miss Tootsie—nicest lady. I think she adopted all country-pickers and strays, even gave them a few beers and bucks when their hits weren’t.” He smiled.
Since Cal’s best days of his life were nearly a half-century ago, I wondered how he got from the Ryman Auditorium to singing at the open-mike, country jamboree at GB’s. I wasn’t about to ask. That’s why I had Charles.
Charles shrugged his shoulders at me and then nudged, “And then?”
“I was big stuff,” continued Cal. “I went from a regular on the Opry, to a once-a-month appearance, to every night at Tootsie’s and over at Ernest Tubb’s Record Store across the street and sang a few times at his Midnight Jamboree. It was on the radio after the Opry’s last performance of the night, you know.”
I knew Charles didn’t.
“That had to be exciting,” said Charles.
“Yep, fans recognized me. Problem was, fans recognized me. They bought me beer.” He held his Bud bottle in the air. “They shared some weed. They wouldn’t let my hand stay empty—bottle, toke, bottle, night after night. God love fans … almost killed me.”
The two women who were waiting on a table when we came in walked over. The less hefty of the two, not Charles’s almost-arm-wrestling buddy, leaned over to Cal and whispered, “Great songs. Could you sign this for my friend?” As her top runneth over, she handed Cal a page from the Folly Current. He took it and found the page with the most white space and scribbled his name. She giggled and handed the paper to her friend, who was standing directly behind her. Cal was enjoying every second—the attention and the view.
“You haven’t lost it,” said Charles as the two headed back to their table.
“Fans like those gals were the beginning of my downfall,” said Cal, who was still staring at the women. “Somewhere between the walk from the Opry to Tootsie’s, and Ernest Tubb’s, I lost my fame, self-respect, record contract, personal appearances, and my son-of-a-warthog agent. Lost all my money, too.”
I was surprised that Cal was so candid with strangers. I was also thinking that Charles and I could be sitting here listening to the hard-luck story of the crossbow killer.
“We heard you say Lester and Arno were your friends,” I said. I wanted to move the conversation forward about five decades. “Did you know them well?”
Cal shook his head and took another sip. “Nope, not really.” He looked around to see if anyone was close enough to hear. Another singer was onstage telling about his new hit that would be released in “a couple of years.”
Cal smiled, no stage laugh this time. “If I had a buffalo nickel for every time I’ve heard that, I’d be in one of those mansions in the hills near Nashville.” He turned back to us. “Truth be known, I had little use for Patterson. We’d gotten into a couple of fistfights—well, more like shoves—over splitting tips from the jamboree. He wasn’t much of a likable fellow; had a good voice, but wasn’t as good as he thought.” He paused a moment to listen to the two-years-from-now-hit. “Age ain’t going to help that song.”
“What about Porchini?” asked Charles. He was back on target after spending time with Cal in 1962.
“Quiet guy; hardly ever talked to him even though his room was across the hall from me,” said Cal. “Works in construction, but I don’t know doing what. Whatever he did, he was better at it than singing. Yep, quiet guy—hope he’s okay.”
I asked Cal if he wanted another round. He laughed and said no—said that’s what got him in trouble to begin with. We ran out of conversation about the time another country wannabe was taking the stage and Gregory Brile was telling the audience that we should all come back Saturday night when Country Cal would be doing three sets.
Cal stood, waved at the customers, smiled, and then sat back down. He leaned closer to me; his beer breath preceded his words, and he said, “Yep, that’s what a big hit will do for you. Ya’ll are coming back Saturday, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Charles.
I stared at Charles and thought, Wouldn’t?
CHAPTER 15
A westerly breeze had shoved some of the day’s heat out of the area, so Charles and I leisurely walked along Center Street. Walking was far from my list of favorite activities, but we went slowly and enjoyed the sounds of soft-rock and beach music drifting from the outdoor bars along the main drag.
“Wouldn’t miss it?” I said as we passed Woody’s Pizza. I gave him a sideways glance and an arched brow.
“Nope,” he said, and continued to stare straight ahead. “I figured Cal’s our only lead to the crossbow killer. Looks to me like he’s the killer or, who knows, maybe the next victim.”
It had entered my mind, but wondered why Charles thought so. “Why?”
Charles abruptly stopped, tapped his cane three times on the sidewalk, and then looked around. “My coincidence barometer says he’s got too much in common with Mr. Dead and Mr. Near-Dead.”
Charles waited for a black lab to pull one of the city’s residents across the street in front of us.
“You know … Patterson, Porchini, and Cal, all country singers; all live at the Edge. My gut tells me Cal’s not the killer. He seemed like a nice guy.”
“Remember, Charles, Hitler had a mother and was probably a cute baby; bet he even had friends.”
Charles lifted his hat and rubbed the sweat from his face on his T-shirt. “Hitler never lived at the Edge and sang country music.”
Charles gave me a wink and headed toward his apartment. I continued the short walk home—sometimes words weren’t necessary. Cal’s greatest hit remained in my head … “I’ll catch you at the end of your story; And we’ll be together through it all.”
* * *
I varied from my usual route to the complimentary coffee at the Holiday Inn and walked by the house that had garnered so much attention. The roar of chain saws filled the air as homeowners were getting an early start on the tree limbs rudely removed by Hurricane Frank. Two dark blue Crown Vics were conspicuously parked in a beach access area at the side of the boardinghouse. Only a blind burglar wouldn’t recognize the unmarked vehicles as cop cars. My eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, but I recognized the County Sheriff’s Office detectives’ modes of transportation. There were no flashing lights or marked patrol cars, or ambulances, or vans marked Coroner, so I assumed the detectives were looking for evidence or talking to the occupants of the increasingly-infamous house. I continued to the coffee bar.
Early morning was the best time to
experience Folly Beach this time of year. The sun was raising its glowing face over the pier, so most of the residents of the near-full hotel were still in their rooms or sipping coffee on their balconies overlooking the Atlantic. A bored desk clerk was the only other person in the lobby. I took my coffee and walked the short distance to the pier. Several fishermen were doing what fishermen do—staring at the water as if they could will the fish to choose breakfast from their hook instead of the zillions of other morsels in the wide, deep ocean. I walked past three fishermen, exchanged good-morning nods, and then sat on one of the many fixed wooden seats that dotted the impressive structure.
Golden rays from the morning sun provided direct, low illumination on the houses and condos facing the beach. Off to the right, I could see the Edge. Two crew-cut-topped men in fish-out-of-water dark suits slowly walked around the small yard where Charles and I had talked—yelled—to Mrs. Klein. They were looking at the ground and using their feet to push rocks, bricks, and various remnants of Hurricane Frank. I wondered if they expected to find a fingerprint-laden crossbow under the rubble. I tried to connect the dots between country singers, residents of the boardinghouse, crossbows, and one and a half murders. I failed miserably and concluded that it was none of my business; after all, that’s what the detectives in the backyard were earning my tax dollars to do.
My mind also drifted to a subject I had successfully avoided for decades—health. Brian’s heart attack had scared me. Here was a healthy, active man, only a few years older than me, and now hanging on by a thread, if that.
I had been relatively healthy most of my life—a few minor surgeries here and there and cholesterol level above desired. But here I was, overweight (but shy of fat, I told myself), years of being averse to exercise, and beginning my seventh decade. Would I be strapped to a gurney in an ambulance, EMTs pressing on my chest; would I become a burden to … to whom? Amber and I had dated for a while, but was I ready to make that permanent? Would she have me; could I change my years of a comfortable routine and adjust to having a twelve-year-old living under the same roof?
