by Bill Noel
“Good crowds?” asked Charles.
“Occasionally,” said Cal. “To be honest, for a one-hit wonder, trying to kick a drinking, drugging habit, I got what I deserved.” He shook his head, and I noticed his fingers tapping nervously on the table. “On good nights, had a hundred or so folks; sold enough records to buy gas to the next town; people were generous enough to buy me a couple of hot dogs and … and, every so often, someone offered me a real room to stay in. The Caddy’s seats were large, but I’m larger and don’t fold comfortably.” He stopped and gave us a big stage grin. “Every once in a while, the person offering me the room was a lady, if you know what I mean.”
We did.
CHAPTER 42
My passengers slept between the Starbucks and where I switched to I-40 near Asheville. I wasn’t much more awake than the sleeping beauties around me, so I stopped at the sign of the golden arches to stretch and got lunch. The word food roused my fellow travelers. Cal said he was having a Big Mac attack and thanked me for stopping at his favorite restaurant. Charles asked where we were. He was disappointed that we weren’t in Lexington—in his dream world, things are what he wants them to be.
“Chris,” said Charles, his mouth half-stuffed with fries, “isn’t Amber from around here?”
“Uh-huh,” I said. Amber had told me her life story, which began within thirty miles of where we were sitting, but she hadn’t shared it with anyone on Folly Beach. I wasn’t comfortable telling Charles anything other than confirming what he already knew. He was miffed that I wasn’t more forthcoming, but had learned that sharing personal information wasn’t my strength.
Cal had listened patiently—or simply devoting his full attention to devouring his Big Mac. “So, what’s it with you and Amber?” he asked. Perhaps he had been listening. “I hear she’s mighty smitten on you.”
“Smitten!” said Charles. “She’d move in with my smooth-talking, charming friend at the drop of an Easter egg; I don’t know why, but she would. Go figure.”
Enough, I thought, and looked at Cal. “Have you been married?”
“Pretty sure I had a couple of wives in the sixties. One was named Katty … Katty Lefler … not a bad country singer in her day. She and her sister, Kathy, had a duet act—Katty and Kathy. They played up and down the east coast—North and South Carolina, some Georgia and Florida. Our days overlapped for a while until she smarted-up and left me somewhere between the gutter and rehab. Didn’t blame her an iota.” He stopped and looked at Charles. “How about you?”
“Nope,” said Charles. “What about the other one?”
“Other what?” asked Cal.
“Other wife; you said you had two.”
“Nothing worth talking about,” said Cal. “It didn’t last much longer than this trip. We met at a bar I was playing outside Knoxville; got all kissy-faced and plastered—not sure which first. Next thing I knew, I was in a wedding chapel in Gatlinburg, eating chocolate and pecan fudge and saying ‘I do.’” Cal took another bite of Big Mac, slurped a Coke, laughed, and said, “Monday rolled around, and she rolled out. Never got divorced, so if we really got married, I still am. Damned good fudge, though.”
“Ought to be a song in there,” said Charles.
I nodded in agreement.
“Speaking of a song,” said Charles. He turned his attention from Cal and focused on me. “Seems like Karen Lawson would like to play a duet with you, lover boy.”
“Don’t know what you mean.” I became increasingly anxious to hit the road.
“I suppose you haven’t noticed her coming around more, asking people about you, wanting to give you updates on the chief’s condition only a couple of days after you’d seen him. I suppose you haven’t seen her eyes increase their wattage when she’s around you. And I suppose you didn’t notice the near Amber-Karen feline-fight in the Dog.”
“Charles,” I said, “all I’ve noticed is that she’s worried about her dad and has thanked me for being there. Period.”
Charles rolled his eyes and looked at Cal, who leaned back in his chair and had a wide grin on his face. “Cal,” said Charles, “I think you’d better drive the rest of the way. My friend here’s done gone sightless.”
“Time to go,” I said and pushed away from the table, hoping no one noticed my red face.
Cal got coffee to go and asked Charles if he wanted any.
“As President Reagan said, ‘I never drink coffee at lunch—I find it keeps me awake in the afternoon.’”
I hoped sleep would come quickly to nosy, pushy, president-quoting Charles.
The conversation on the winding mountain interstate from Asheville to Knoxville was more benign—hardly any talk about the crossbow murderer or my love life. Every thirty miles or so, Cal would say something like, “Clyde, North Carolina—played an old school there once,” or “Maggie Valley—fell off a mule after a concert; stood on a hay wagon when I was singing,” or “Newport—don’t remember what happened there, but my left foot hurt for days.”
“What’s the story behind your big hit?” asked Charles.
Cal stared at the landscape speeding by. “I was about fifteen; lived in a trailer park in Lubbock. The cutest little girl I’d ever seen lived behind us.” He paused and continued to stare out the window. “Name was Leslee.”
“And …?” asked Charles.
“And … and we spent hours hanging out. Rode our bikes all over the area … explored creeks, found little ole snakes and nearly scared her to death with them, and … well, anyway, I fell as much in love with her as a fifteen-year-old could.”
Cal continued to stare outside and didn’t say anything for the longest time. Charles was smart enough (this time) not to interrupt the silence.
“It ended like most teen love stories,” Cal finally said. “Leslee was discovered by the star football player. I was about as athletic as a beach umbrella and didn’t have a chance. She was a year older and in the next grade.” Cal finally turned his attention back inside the car. “The last time I talked to her, I remember telling her I’d always be there for her. She said, ‘I’ll catch you later.’”
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“Don’t know. I heard she moved to France, and then someone told me she had gone to medical school.”
“Ever try to find her?” asked Charles.
“I’d love to. I don’t know her last name now,” said Cal. “Know how many Leslee’s there are in France or docs in the U.S.?”
“Not offhand,” said Charles.
“Me either,” said Cal.
I suspected we were at the end of the story.
Somewhere just north of the Kentucky state line, Charles asked Cal if he ever got tired of being on the road.
“Yep,” he said. “Somewhere in the eighties I hung up my guitar strap—symbolically, of course; I didn’t have a wall to hang it on. I decided to enter the paying world of work.”
He paused a little past Charles’s comfort level of silence. “What’d you do?”
“Became a long-haul trucker. Good money; job security.”
Cal didn’t notice anything strange about getting off the road by becoming a long-haul trucker.
“What happened?” asked Charles.
“Rolled the truck on a curve near Little Rock. Decided singing was safer.”
Safer unless you were Les Patterson, Arno Porchini, and possibly Heather Lee if Cal found a crossbow.
CHAPTER 43
Folly Beach to Lexington was five hundred fifty miles—or in Cal-speak, nearly seventy-five cities where he had sung. I stopped at a Sleep Inn near Hamburg Place on the outskirts of the city late afternoon, rather than challenge downtown at rush hour. Charles swore he had never been to Lexington but said he knew we had to be in horse country when the name of the street we took off the interstate was Man
o’ War Boulevard.
I was providing the transportation, gas, room, and food money, so I pulled rank and took a single room and told Charles and Cal they’d have to bunk together. Cal said if Charles snored as much as he had talked the entire way, he’d sleep in the car.
I wasn’t real familiar with Lexington but had been there enough to find my way around. Cal had played a few honky-tonks in the area but said it had been before the turn of the century and he didn’t recognize the new office buildings, big-box retailers, and branch banks near the hotel.
“Now what do we do?” asked Charles. He and Cal had invaded my tiny room. He sat in the only chair, leaving Cal to fend for himself. The crooner slowly lowered himself to the floor and used the wall as a backrest.
“I thought you’d have it figured out,” I said.
I was looking at Charles, but Cal responded. “I checked the brochures in the lobby. There was one about something called the Kentucky Horse Park, and one on Shaker Village of Pleasant Hill.” He reached toward his head like he was going to push his Stetson back before realizing it hadn’t made the trip. “I didn’t see any that mentioned crossbow school.”
I thought it was a joke, but I didn’t say anything in case it wasn’t.
Charles ignored him and nodded his head like a plan was forming. “The Stewart Barlow fellow has an address on Main Street—wherever that is; true?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“And you said that must be a business. So, we need to head there in the morning.”
“And do what?” asked Cal.
“Detectin’,” said Charles, like duh, we should’ve known that.
Cal pushed Charles enough to where he admitted that Mr. Barlow just “might not” confess to killing anyone, having anyone killed, or having hired Pat Rowland.
I tuned out their discussion—generously using the word discussion—and found the phone book in the bed stand. In my previous life with a health insurance company, I occasionally had contacts with some of the mega-agencies in Central Kentucky and had become friends with Steve Dewrite, one of the owners of the Dewrite-Allen Agency. Insurance agents were uber-nosy by trade, so I thought Steve might know Stewart Barlow and took a chance and called him. Charles, whose nosy level would put him in good stead with insurance agents, stopped talking and listened as I dialed the agency.
Dewrite was still in the office and agreed to meet me for an early supper. He said he was surprised to hear from me but didn’t question the out-of-the-blue invitation. I told Charles and Cal I could get more information if we met one-on-one. Charles opened his mouth to argue, immediately shut it, and frowned.
Cal noticed and said, “Good. Who wants to have supper with a stuffy ole insurance man?”
Charles grudgingly agreed and then began bemoaning how he and Cal would starve since the hotel didn’t have a restaurant. I looked out the window and rolled my eyes. “Come here and see if you can find anywhere to eat.”
Charles elbowed me away from the third-floor window. “Not much,” he said, “just McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, Wendy’s, Waffle House, Taco Bell, Arby’s, KFC.”
“Sure hope they have vending machines here,” said Cal. “We might starve.” He smiled.
I gave Charles two twenties to seal the deal.
Dewrite said the easiest place to meet was at Harry’s Bar, part of the larger Malone’s Restaurant complex within walking distance of the hotel. The restaurant was closer than I had anticipated, so I arrived ten minutes early. The oversize bar was in a new building and about as much like Al’s as a cricket was to a giraffe. The bar was packed with happy-hour patrons—most Caucasian and nattily attired in suits and coats, with the ladies wearing skirts and miserable-looking high heels. The walls were dotted with large, flat-screen televisions tuned to more sports channels than I knew existed. A smiling, college-aged hostess showed me to a bar-height round table for two. A glance at the menu told me that Harry’s had about 713 items more than Al’s. I took a deep breath and thanked the food gods that I’d be going home to Al’s.
I was lost in thoughts about wanting to be back in South Carolina, when I heard Steve’s booming voice. “My God,” he said, yelling above the buzz of the full bar, “I haven’t heard from you in ages.”
Steve was nearly a foot taller than I and weighed an additional hundred pounds. To say he was rotund would be kind. I hadn’t seen him for three years, but he looked at least a decade older than what I remembered.
We shook hands, and I pointed toward the empty seat. His suit cost more than some cars, but it was tight in all the wrong places. His shirt had lost its morning starch, and his rust and brown Hermes tie would have appeared quite dapper on most of the males in the bar; on Steve, it looked exhausted.
He motioned for a waitress and ordered a Blanton’s and water. He caught his breath and turned to me. “I heard you’d retired and headed for the good life somewhere in the south. Think I’m envious.”
I gave him a capsule summary of my last three years but chose to leave out the parts about nearly being murdered by a crazed killer seeking revenge, or the time I was saved by my strange best friend who was stuck in the hotel a few blocks away. I didn’t think it would be prudent to tell him about arguing with the police about whether someone committed suicide and then getting in the way of the person who actually killed the “suicide” victim. Truth be told, I could easily have been the murderer’s next victim. And he never would have understood me hanging around with Country Cal, Larry, the retired cat burglar, and Charles, whatever one could call him. Steve felt obligated to moan about staffing problems in his agency, how the economy played shambles with his business, his budgeting woes, and his multiple hernias and aching bunions.
He was babbling about another health issue, but I caught myself staring at the large, flat-screen television I could see over his left shoulder, and missed the diagnosis. I realized that I was paying more attention to the baseball game than to Steve. And I’m convinced that watching baseball on television is about as exciting as watching paint dry—oil-based paint; water-based dries quickly and is more exciting than baseball. The last fifteen minutes banished any doubts I may have had about retiring.
I nodded a couple of times and said “that’s too bad.” I had no idea what Steve had been talking about, but the look on his face told me it wasn’t good.
I decided to get to the reason I was here before Steve started showing me his prescription bottles or photos of his grandkids and grandpets. “A friend works for the police and is investigating a strange case.” I hesitated and took a sip of Chardonnay. I realized how absurd my story would sound if I told all of it. A little late to be worrying about it, I thought. “Well, there’s no need to go into all the details, but the name of a man from Lexington came up. I told my friend that I was going to Louisville and would stop here and see if I could learn something about the guy. I knew you know everyone who’s anyone. So, here I am.” A little ego-stroking went a long way with my self-absorbed former colleague.
“So, who is he?”
“Name’s Stewart Barlow.”
“He in trouble?”
I wasn’t ready to share. “I don’t think so; my friend said it was a routine investigation; a name he came across.”
Steve glanced down at his drink and grinned. “I know Barlow. And your friend isn’t telling you everything. If Barlow’s involved, there’s trouble.”
“How?”
“Barlow’s got a business down on Main Street, the Bluegrass Gallery. He was a client of mine for years, up until May.” Steve was looking around the room. “This all confidential?”
I nodded.
“Barlow filed a claim saying some of his paintings were stolen. It sounded fishy to our investigator. Barlow huffed and puffed and, quicker than a flash, withdrew the claim. We didn’t go to the police but should have.” Steve shook his head.
“We dropped his account—should’ve done it sooner, I might add.”
I didn’t think Steve had said anything to hang my hat on. I used Charles’s technique. “And …?”
“This is only rumor, okay?”
I nodded again.
“The word is that Barlow deals in stolen art, forgeries, and no telling what else. I hear we’re talking mucho bucks—maybe millions. But I don’t know that for sure—none of my business.”
Amber had been trying for months to get me to eat healthy foods. I watched Steve wolf down three Mini Bacon Cheeseburgers and a double order of fries. I saw his stomach push his oversize shirt to the max; Amber had a point. Of course, I was eating a Pepperoni and Sausage Pizza as I watched him.
I asked Steve several questions between bites, and he talked for fifteen more minutes about Barlow, but all it did was reinforce what he had said earlier, “… don’t know that for sure.”
I suffered through several more insurance-related stories before telling Steve that it had been a long day and I needed to get back to the hotel. We walked out together.
“Your police friend isn’t telling you the whole truth,” he said as we turned to go our separate ways. “If Barlow’s involved, there’s trouble. Another rumor is he’s laundering a boatload of money. Be careful.”
Not unfamiliar advice.
CHAPTER 44
I walked toward the Sleep Inn’s elevator but was distracted by the familiar sounds of a Martin guitar and Cal coming from the breakfast area off the lobby. He was standing in front of two commercial-grade waffle makers on the counter against the far wall. He had one foot in a chair with his guitar resting on his knee. He was sharing his version of “Help Me Make It Through the Night” with Charles, two middle-aged women wearing Sleep Inn name tags, and a teenage boy dressed in shorts down to his ankles.
