by Bill Noel
“No, and you don’t want to,” she said. Her voice hardened. “I only heard his name yesterday. Name’s Clarence King, and he’s a member of my favorite police department.”
From the derisive way she spitted out favorite, I asked, “The County Sheriff’s Department?”
She nodded and then shook her head side to side.
“Know anything about him?” asked Larry.
“Not personally,” she replied, “one of the guys called a dispatcher buddy.” She paused and took a bite of pizza and then looked around again. The patio was packed, but no one had the slightest interest in what we were saying. To me, that was a little depressing, but the older I got, the more people seemed to ignore me—especially those under forty.
“And …?” asked Charles, who never wanted gaps in rumor sharing.
“In a nutshell,” continued Cindy, “he’s near retirement. When the mayor asked for candidates, someone in the Sheriff’s Department thought this would be a good way for them to get rid of King the last months before he quit. He has a reputation as a hard-ass. They say he has a horrible temper, numerous citizen complaints, and even some charges brought by fellow officers. The rumor is he was involved in an unexplained shooting a few years back.”
“Sounds like a gem,” said Charles. “When’s he start?”
“We get to meet him in the morning,” said Cindy. Once again, she shook her head.
Charles stood, stretched his arms over his head, and then returned to his seat. “Sounds like the perfect person to bring the two departments together.”
Larry leaned over and gave Cindy a quick kiss on the cheek. She smiled. “Tomorrow’s not here yet—drink up,” she said, and held her glass in the air and toasted the heavens.
CHAPTER 20
A night of watching traffic—foot and vehicular—on Center Street, listening to stories about a New Year’s Eve meatball drop, and dissing the County Sheriff’s Department and the soon-to-be acting chief of the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety, had ended around midnight. Little was achieved, but we had convinced Cindy to spend the night with the local hardware store owner. Larry was thrilled, and Cindy had rolled her eyes and said that she’d spent the night in worse places. Charles had asked her to list them. She declined.
I spent the morning pretending I was a roofer. I borrowed the neighbor’s ladder and attacked the bent tin roof corners with hammer, roofing nails, and caulk. The entire time I thanked the Lord for not directing me to a career in roofing.
Charles and I met at the gallery at noon. I may have missed a couple of customers, but was close to conceding that a couple of sales wouldn’t save the business. Charles was more optimistic, but that was Charles. Besides, he wasn’t writing the checks for rent, utilities, insurance, taxes, and countless other expenses. We sat in the back office, waited for the doorbell to ring, and twiddled our thumbs.
“What time are we going to GB’s?” he asked as he got us a couple of soft drinks.
I looked up from the table. “You don’t like country music.”
“What makes you think I don’t like that screechy, nasal-sounding, cheating, drinking, kick-the-dog, wreck-the-pickup, sell-the-kid-to-pay-for-beer, momma’s-gone-to-prison music?”
“Guess I was wrong.” I had heard his less-than-stellar opinion of country music several times—the latest, only four nights earlier.
“Well,” he continued, “I’ve heard worse. Besides, we told Cal we’d be there.”
“We?” I said.
Cal had told us his first set would begin at nine, so Charles met me in front of the fire station across the street from GB’s a little before then. The sun was gone, but GB’s Saturday night crowd hadn’t yet arrived. We took the table near the back door, as far as possible from the oversized speakers that dominated the space on each side of the small stage. The bar was half-full—from GB’s perspective, half-empty.
The same waitress from Tuesday was quick to our table. Charles ordered his normal Bud Light, and I had to choose from the extensive wine selection: white, red, or pink. Being the wine connoisseur, I quickly ordered white. I was tempted by the welcoming smell of frying onion rings, but resisted—momentarily. The wrinkle in her brow told me we’d better order some food or our welcome would soon end. Charles told her we’d order when she brought our drinks.
The amplified sound of hand-taps on the classic, baseball-sized, silver microphone got our attention. “Testing, testing,” hissed Gregory—GB—into the mike. He looked around the half-whatever room and smiled. “Welcome to GB’s. I appreciate ya’ll coming out tonight. You’ll be glad you did.”
I looked over at Charles, who nodded agreement. He was already leaning back in the wooden chair; his Belmont College, long-sleeve T-shirt with a red and blue bear snarled at the stage. The waitress returned before GB could tell us why we’d be glad. I ordered fries and onion rings; her smile reappeared.
Apparently, GB had introduced Country Cal because the next sound I heard was the first few notes of “End of Your Story” from his road-weary guitar. He stopped playing, took a stage bow, and broke into a version of Hank Williams Sr.’s “Hey, Good Lookin’.”
I knew Cal must have sung the song a zillion times, but he looked like he was debuting it tonight. His right foot tapped to the beat, he smiled from ear to ear, and Charles and I were the only two people in the bar paying attention. As soon as he finished the Williams’ classic, Cal broke into another Hank Sr. hit, “My Bucket’s Got a Hole in It.”
Charles took a sip and looked over at me. “You’ve got to be kidding. That’s really a song?”
I smiled. “Clearly, you failed to experience the full cultural aspects of America’s music up in Detroit.”
“How could I have lived this long without hearing that ditty?” he asked. Charles was making fun of Cal’s playlist, while at the same time his fingers tapped on the table to the beat.
“Thank you, thank you,” said Cal. “Now, boys and girls, I’m going to slow it down so you can get a-gropin’ up here on the dance floor.”
“Want to dance?” asked Charles. He leaned on his cane like he was going to stand.
I laughed. “Don’t you dare get up,” I said.
Cal was already into the second verse of “Take These Chains from My Heart” before Charles resettled and attacked the fries that had finally arrived. He was teasing about dancing, I prayed. A few couples were beginning to pay attention to the entertainment, and two were on the dance floor—not necessarily groping, but their bodies were moving closely together.
Charles’s mouth was full, but it didn’t stop him from talking; very little did. “Think Cal’s the killer?”
“Not a clue,” I said, using a phrase I was using more and more lately.
“Mighty big coincidence: him living in the same building and singing at the same place as Arno and Les.” Charles turned to the stage and stared. “Could be.”
“Want to ask him?” I queried. Charles’s approach to life and difficult questions had begun to rub off on me.
“Let’s see how many beers he has.” Charles smiled, but I could tell he was considering my question. Then, in a segue that should be considered a case study in a college logic class, he said, “How’re we going to get Cindy to move in with Larry? Like full-time.”
In the background, I heard Cal skip several musical decades and sing a solo version of the Oak Ridge Boys’ megahit, “Elvira.” A strange choice for a solo act, but I’d never had a hit so who was I to question his playlist. “Charles, I know you need to be king of the world and control everything, but I’m counting on Larry and Cindy to figure that out.”
“They’re being a little slow about it. I haven’t been to a wedding for years and have that good sport coat that’s only been to funerals lately.”
Charles and I have spent our entire lives on opposite ends o
f most everything, but he had a way of finding humor in the most unlikely places. And since I met him three years ago, we have been in situations most people only dream about—nightmares.
“Good point,” I said. “We need to get them hitched right away. Next time you see Larry, tell him he needs to change his entire life so you can wear your sport coat.”
“Good suggestion; I’ll do that. I can always count on you for good advice.”
Before the strange drifted to absurd and further, Cal finished his first set. He slung his guitar over his shoulder, smiled at the fans who were finally filling all the tables, and headed our way.
My college degree was in psychology, but I couldn’t tell if he had the gait of a deranged crossbow killer or a new friend—or both.
CHAPTER 21
“Hey, Kentucky,” said Cal. He looked at me and then turned to Charles, “Michigan.” He raised his right hand to get the attention of the waitress. “You said you’d be here; thanks for coming.”
Charles moved his cane and Tilley from the next chair and waved for Cal to sit.
“Be right there,” he said. Cal turned to a nearby table occupied by three women. Two were giggling, and the other one leaned on the table to push herself into a standing position. She lunged at the singer and wrapped her ample arms around his waist. She must have weighed as much as my Lexus, dent and all; I feared for Cal’s life. She was a foot shorter than Cal, but her bouffant hairdo made up the difference. He caught his breath and thanked her for the hug. She offered to buy him a drink. He said that he’d like to but was meeting friends. He nodded toward our table.
Charles leaned toward me. “You heard that, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Don’t get too excited about our ‘new friend,’” I said. “He figures we’re safer than being pythoned to death.”
Cal’s beer arrived at the same time he did. “Well,” he said, “what’d you think about the set?”
Charles looked at the empty stage and then at Cal. “Old Hank’d be might angry with you; yes, he would.”
Cal looked surprised—a sign that he didn’t know Charles very well. He said, “Huh. Why?”
Grin lines appeared around Charles’s mouth. “Because you’re singing his songs better than he ever thought about—he’d be might angry. I’d never heard ‘My Bucket’s Got a Hole in It’ sung better.”
Finally, the truth, I thought.
“Being compared to the ‘hillbilly Shakespeare’ is quite a compliment,” said Cal. His grin was as large as his Stetson. “Thanks, Michigan.”
Before Charles could spout off more country knowledge than I knew he had, Cal had turned to the exit and the person standing in the doorway. “Look who’s here,” he said as he stood and headed to the door.
Arno Porchini squinted as he looked around the room. His left arm was in a sling; he looked like he had been hit by a train rather than an arrow. His sandy hair was heading all directions, his shirt was half–buttoned, and one of his mud-covered work boots was untied. He was in his forties but looked older.
I couldn’t hear what Cal whispered, but he was shepherding him to our table. Arno grimaced with each step. We were in the darkest corner of the already dark room, so Arno nearly stumbled over the table before he saw who we were.
He managed a pain-infused smile. “Hi, Charles,” he said, “good to see you.”
I was glad he called my friend by his name. Charles, who couldn’t stand to even be called Charlie, had to be on the border of violence by the Michigan proclamation.
“How’re you feeling?” asked Charles.
I moved my Tilley from the other chair and pulled it out for Arno. Cal had leaned his guitar against the chair and moved it from Arno’s path.
He slowly lowered his body in the chair. “Like spoiled manure,” he said.
Charles nodded like he heard that all the time.
“Pills are keeping me going.” Arno turned to me and stuck out his right hand. “Hi, I’m Arno.”
I introduced myself, expressed condolences for his injury, and asked if he wanted a beer.
“Better not. Pills and alcohol don’t mix,” he said as he looked around the room.
“Amen to that,” said Cal.
Arno then turned to me. “I’ve heard of you. Some sort of detective?”
“Not really,” I laughed. “Charles and I’ve helped the police a few times.”
“Then you’d better help them find who done this,” he said and grimaced as he tried to lift his wounded wing. He then shook his head. “Cops are running all over the place; I don’t think they know what they’re doing.”
“They’ll figure it out,” I said.
Arno shrugged, or half-shrugged—his left shoulder didn’t move. “Cal, that’s a nice guitar.” His attention was now focused on the instrument leaning against the wall. “Rosewood back and sides, mahogany neck?”
Cal slowly nodded. “Sure is, John Cash had one just like it; it’s a Martin.”
“Who knocked a hole in it?” asked Arno as he pointed to the amateur patch job.
Cal picked up the guitar and rubbed his hand on the plywood patch. “Some old drunk in Cumberland Gap, Tennessee.”
“Who fixed it?” said Charles.
“Same guy,” he said. “Next day. He worked in a lumberyard. It was nice of him to try to make good, so I didn’t say anything. Never had a chance to get it fixed right.”
“Doesn’t hurt the sound,” I said. I like music, but I’m tone-deaf and wouldn’t know if it affected it or not.
Arno took the instrument from Cal. “I’ll fix it up good; let me know when. I’m not very good at avoiding arrows, but am a better-than-fair carpenter.”
“Thanks,” said Cal. “I’ll take you up on it. I sure know where to find you.”
Both laughed, and Cal looked at his life-beaten Timex. “Gotta go entertain my fans.” He gingerly took his Martin from Arno and walked his lanky frame to the stage.
Arno seemed content with our company—or was in too much pain to move. Charles walked to the bar and bought him a Coke.
“Thanks,” said Arno, “it’s time to take a pill.” He slowly reached into his unbuttoned shirt pocket and pulled out a prescription bottle.
“How well did you know Les Patterson?” asked Charles.
Arno popped two pills and took a swig of soft drink. “Hardly at all. We saw each other in here on Tuesdays, of course. We lived in the same building; talked some but not about anything—never really knew much about him.” He hesitated and took another drink. “He worked HVAC, but not on my jobs. Seemed like a nice guy sober. After dark or on weekends, he wasn’t worth seal spit.”
Gregory appeared behind Arno and put his hand on his good shoulder. Arno jerked his head before turning around and seeing who it was.
“Geez, Gregory, you nearly scared the piss out of me.”
“Sorry,” said the bar’s owner. “I just wanted to check on you. You had us scared.”
“No problem,” said Arno, “I’m still jumpy. Terrible about Les, though.”
Arno and Gregory commiserated, while Cal began his set with the first few notes of his hit, his only hit, “End of Your Story,” before going up-tempo with George Jones’s blockbuster, “The Race Is On.”
“Good to see you back,” said Gregory, who then turned to speak to another table of patrons.
Charles was on a mission and wasn’t going to be distracted by Gregory or Cal’s singing.
“How well do you know Cal?” asked Charles.
“Not much more than I did Les,” he replied. He kept watching Cal but was talking to Charles. “Funny, isn’t it? Les, Cal, and me living at the same place and singing in here. There was no love lost between Cal and Les. I heard they even got in a couple of fights over Tuesday tip-splitting—maybe more to it,
but I never heard what.”
“Who started it?” I asked.
“Think it was Les. Cal’s a nice guy, they say; doesn’t mess with anyone. Just does what he loves—sing. He was big once, you know.”
The veins in Arno’s neck throbbed less; the pills were working.
“Did you see anything or anybody before you were hit?” I asked. I knew he had told the police he hadn’t.
His drug-glazed eyes stared at me. “Wish to hell I did,” he said. “I’ve pondered it a thousand times. I remember hearing a few cars, trucks, a motorcycle, but that wasn’t unusual, so I didn’t look that way. One could’ve stopped, and I wouldn’t have paid attention. All I remember was a burning pain in the arm and blood squirting everywhere. It felt like I was being branded.” He looked down at the sling and in a much lower voice said, “I knew I was gone. Damn, I was scared.”
The crowd noise had picked up. GB’s was finally filled to overflow, and Cal had turned up the mike to hold everyone’s attention.
Arno began to shudder and rested his good arm on the table. “I thought I could make it out tonight,” he said. “I think I need to get home. Good meeting you, Chris; see ya, Charles.”
“Want me to walk you home?” asked Charles as Arno stood. His legs wobbled.
“Thanks,” said Arno, “I can make it just fine; need some fresh air. Again, thanks.”
He walked by the bar and spent a couple of minutes talking to a couple of people, waved to Gregory, and then headed out the door.
“Who wouldn’t be scared?” asked Charles.
Who wouldn’t be was right, I thought.
CHAPTER 22
Sunday morning was my favorite time. Citizens seemed more courteous; they dressed less sloppily; their dogs didn’t bark as loud. The pounding on my front door made me think this wasn’t going to be one of those Sundays. When I saw Charles, I knew I was right.
He was gasping for breath and leaning on his cane. His hat was askance, and he had on a long-sleeve T-shirt with Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary on the breast pocket. “There’s been another murder,” he said and then brushed past me and into the kitchen. “Got any juice?”
