Washout

by Bill Noel

  “Perkins, sir.”

  “Now you made me mad,” said Charles, biting his lower lip to keep from laughing. “I’m not sir, I’m Charles. Now don’t you forget it.”

  “No, si … Charles, I won’t.”

  “Samuel,” I said, feeling left out of the conversation, “you and Charles have something in common.”

  “Other than good looks and great wisdom?” interrupted Charles.

  “That too,” I said. “But that wasn’t it. Both of you go by your given name and not a nickname. Samuel, remember you told me your parents didn’t want you to go by Sam even though you wanted to?”

  “Gosh, I told you that umpteen years ago.” Samuel showed his surprise. “How did you remember?”

  “It was only two years ago, but I remembered because of Charles. See, after I met you, I ran into Charles for the first time, and he told me, in no uncertain terms, that his name was Charles, not Charlie. That made me think of you.”

  “Yeah,” said Charles, “my grandmother did the same thing. For years, I hated being called Charles rather than Charlie, but now I prefer it.”

  “Prefer!” I said. “Charles, you start throwing things when someone says Charlie.”

  “Good,” said my young friend, “Maybe I’ll learn to like Samuel some day. Dad says that sometimes people judge you by your name. I wouldn’t want to fool people that way. Besides, my friends call me Sam.”

  Then he told us his dad worked at the Pig and wouldn’t be off until late as this was the store’s best beer sales night of the year. But he’d told Samuel that he could go to the fireworks tonight by himself. “Dad says I’m more responsible than anyone in the family. He jokes that I must be adopted. I think it’s a joke anyway.”

  Before he left, Samuel said the photos weren’t half bad. I took it as a compliment, although I would have preferred to get a better score on the other half. I didn’t have a chance to introduce him to Larry, but welcomed the opportunity to spend a few minutes not thinking about Larry’s troubles.

  Chapter15

  The three of us were back around the table. It was early afternoon, and I decided a glass of Chardonnay wouldn’t cause too much trouble in my counting the day’s sales. After all, how many ways could I miscount zero? Charles and Larry reached for their second beer as I brought out a pint container of WCM beer cheese from Bert’s.

  “It’s hard to believe, guys,” Larry started, “but it’s been twenty years since I went to prison. Time flies.”

  “I doubt you thought that the years you were in,” Charles commented.

  “True,” said Larry. “I remember …”

  “Larry,” I interrupted, not wanting to go too far down Nostalgia Lane. “Tell us about prisoners who might be out to get you.”

  “That’s the problem,” he said, his fingers interlaced, his elbows on the table. “I’ve given it a lot of thought and can’t come up with any.”

  “Tell us what you do remember,” said Charles. He was sitting back in his chair looking like a down-on-his-luck psychiatrist getting ready to analyze his client’s deepest secrets. Only the pipe and medical degree were missing.

  “Mark Block,” Larry stated, then paused.

  “We need a little more information,” said Charles.

  “Charles, give me time,” Larry told him. “This isn’t easy. I hate talking about those days.”

  “Sorry. I won’t interrupt for at least another minute.”

  It will be a miracle if he can pull that off, I thought.

  “Mark Block shared a cell with me for four years at Coastal State Prison. That’s in Garden City, Georgia—what a name for a prison.” Larry’s words were flowing more freely. “Coastal State is a maximum security facility. Not bad food, but about fifteen hundred bad people though. Anyway, Mark and I shared more than a cell. He was about my size, but actually had been a jockey. Gosh, I hated all those horse stories he told. He was in for armed robbery.”

  “Guess he didn’t win the Kentucky Derby,” interrupted Charles, shy of his one-minute non-interrupt promise.

  “Didn’t win much of anything,” said Larry, smiling for the first time today. “I got out a few years before he did. Think he was in Coastal State until nine years ago.”

  “Other than hating his horse stories,” I said, “anything else between the two of you that’d cause bad blood?”

  “Not really. We all had scrapes with cell mates. None of us were altar boys or on any short list for sainthood. Besides, I heard he was only out a couple of years before falling back into his old ways. From what I understand, he’s back in prison.”

  “And why didn’t you just tell us that first?” asked Charles as he looked down at the paper in front of him. “Look at all the notes I’ve taken. What a waste.”

  I guessed that was the most Charles had written since he left community college in Detroit decades ago.

  “Give me a break.” Larry spread his arms out over the table. “I told you I hate talking about myself.”

  I moved from the table, peeked into the gallery to see if anyone had snuck in, then opened the refrigerator and took two more beers to the table.

  “That’s great, Larry,” I said after sitting back down. “Anyone else?”

  “There were several crooks, thieves, con artists, and even a couple of murderers I had the privilege of sharing a few months with, but only one other guy I can recall spending any significant time with in a cell.”

  “And he is?” asked Charles, pencil perched in his right hand, can of Bud in his left.

  “The guy’s name is Hugh Arch, but we called him Huey. We shared a cell for a year. I don’t remember what got him there. I think it was some con game. Honesty wasn’t his strong suit. We argued some—more than some really. He had a chip on his shoulder bigger than a palmetto tree. But prison did change him, and I don’t think we fought about anything that he’d want revenge for,” said Larry, then he smiled.

  “Tell us anyway,” Charles prodded. “We’ll decide if it’s important.”

  “We argued about God. At the time, I was against him—God, not Huey. Huey was pretty sure he was real. Got more real the longer Huey was in.”

  “Hmm.” Charles put down his beer and rubbed his chin. “Wars have been started over that subject. Maybe we’re onto something.”

  “I doubt it,” said Larry. “Huey had to overcome tons of demons. He’s now the Most Reverend Hugh Arch, and he’s got himself a small church in West Texas.”

  “Why don’t you start with those little facts—still in the hoosegow, now a preacher—before you get us all excited about finding the killer?” Charles pointed his cane at the ceiling, or perhaps to the heavens.

  I thought it was a good question, but knew Larry would tell us his story the way he wanted to regardless of Charles’s harangues.

  “Besides,” Charles continued, “how do you know this stuff about these guys? You haven’t made any sentimental visits back just to see the old gang, have you?”

  “Simple—I made friends with two guards while I was in. One still works there, and the other is in a retirement community in Savannah, just down the road from the prison. They write occasionally, keep me up on some of the guys and remind me why I don’t want to backslide.”

  Charles lowered his cane and made Larry the target. “Do you think one of these guards is our man?”

  “Yeah, I thought about it for ten seconds,” said Larry, “but they’re both in their late eighties and Clarence, the one in the retirement community, is bedridden; I think that’s why he writes.”

  “I wish we could rule someone in as a candidate as quickly as you’re eliminating them,” said a frustrated Charles.

  He was not alone.

  Chapter16

  Occasionally, I learn something memorable. My sentence-challenged friend Dude
once told me that June 21 was not the longest day of the year everywhere. In Nairobi, Kenya, the longest day was December 21. I took him at his word. After all, he was carrying a book on astronomy when he told me.

  I was convinced that by seven, July 4 has to be the longest day of the year on Folly Beach, South Carolina. Landrum Gallery’s first annual Fourth of July and Murder-Solving Party was losing steam. Charles and I had tried to talk some about who might have it in for Larry. Then we tried to change the subject to lighten the mood, and then we consumed more adult beverages and hors d’oeuvres from the Pig. My best recollection was that we’d accomplished nothing.

  The jingle of the doorbell awakened us from the party’s chilling out phase. Charles went to see who it was. “Well, hello, hello,” I heard him say. I followed him out and was glad to see Amber and her son. Amber looked fantastic in navy blue shorts and a crisp white T-shirt. Jason was attired in a Goth motif with black jeans, black tennis shoes, and a black short-sleeved T-shirt with I love UFOs in jagged white script across the front. He also wore a dog tag with Marilyn Manson engraved on it.

  “Jason got all dressed up patriotic-like for tonight’s fireworks,” Amber said. She laughed as she looked at her son’s shirt.

  “Cool,” said Charles, who could identify with nonconventional slogans on T-shirts.

  Jason raised his chin and defiantly straightened his shoulders. “My teacher said the Fourth of July is our country’s way to tell anyone who tries to tell us what to do to stick it.”

  He had something there, but I doubted that was how the teacher had presented it. To be honest, I preferred the casual look of his mother asserting her right to look as lovely as anyone on Folly Beach.

  “Jason and I are heading to the pier for supper and to watch the fireworks,” she said. “Thought we’d stop by and see if ya’ll want to join us.”

  Larry appeared in the doorway. “Oh,” said Amber. “I didn’t know you had company. We’ll head on out.”

  “No, we’re just finishing,” I said.

  “Umm, Larry and I would love to go,” Charles said, “but, we have other plans—hardware store emergency, right, Larry?” He glanced at Larry while avoiding eye contact with me. “Chris doesn’t have anything to do, so he’ll go.”

  Though probably confused, Larry nodded in agreement with social event planner Charles. “We’d better hurry, Larry,” Charles told him. He looked at his watch-less wrist, then pointed his cane at the door.

  “Yeah, don’t want to be late.” Larry’s confused look wasn’t that different from his normal appearance, so Amber probably couldn’t tell the difference, but I’d bet Jason could. Larry and Charles rushed out the door like someone’s house was flooding, and they needed to get there with some plumbing doohickey to save the day.

  ***

  Storekeeper casual was the accepted attire for most store employees on Folly Beach, and I had enthusiastically embraced the custom. After wearing suits and ties to work every day for more than thirty years, I had readily switched to golf shirts and shorts. Thus I was already dressed and ready to head to the Fourth of July festivities with Amber and Jason.

  “Mom, can we eat now?” asked Jason. He’d been walking a few feet in front of us, no doubt as a symbol of independence. “You said we could after we tried to pick up Mr. Landrum?”

  Amber’s tan turned redder. She took a couple of quick steps, narrowing the distance between her and her innocent-like-a-fox son, and whispered something. I slowed my pace, so I didn’t hear what she said. He was giving her a less-than-loving look.

  She slowed again, but avoided looking at me. “Sorry about that,” she said. “He gets mixed up sometimes. Want to get something to eat?”

  I told her I was starved and wondered what she had in mind. She said Jason had wanted to eat on the pier, but she thought the restaurant was closed because of the fireworks. The pier, formally known as the Edwin S. Taylor Fishing Pier, was one of the major attractions on the compact island. At more than a thousand feet long, it was hard to miss. Because of its central location, the pier was the perfect spot from which to launch the fireworks.

  We decided to get hamburgers and fries from one of the street vendors permitted to set up in the Holiday Inn parking lot adjacent to the pier. I would have preferred the outside seating area of the Terrapin Café across East Arctic Avenue, but I knew those seats had been taken long ago. I was surprised to catch myself thinking it would be nice for Amber and me to eat there some less crowded evening.

  The fireworks were still more than an hour away, but the temporary tables and road curbs were already full with vacationers and locals. The temperature in the mideighties combined with a beautiful cloudless sky and light winds ensured a packed downtown. To Jason’s obvious chagrin, Amber grabbed a small wooden picnic table that was being vacated by a family of four. He would have to sit with us, but the saving grace was that it was between the Holiday Inn parking lot and the parking area for the pier—a prime viewing area for the fireworks.

  “Do you come to the fireworks every year?” I asked. Amber and I had deputized Jason to guard the table while we went in search of supper.

  “Not really,” she said. We were standing in line at the tent sponsored by one of the local civic clubs. I could hear juicy burgers sizzling on the grill and smell hot greasy fries—what more could one ask for? Thank God there weren’t any soy burgers or fat-free potato chips on the menu for Amber to force on me. She leaned closer so I could hear better—maybe. “The last three years, Jason came with the family of one of his schoolmates. I haven’t been for six or seven years. Never figured it would be fun coming alone.”

  We reached the front of the line, and ordering interrupted our conversation.

  “What’s going on with Larry?’ she asked. We were weaving our way to Jason and our prime piece of fireworks-viewing real estate.

  “To be honest,” I replied as I juggled three drinks and tried to avoid the growing crowd, “I have no idea. But it’s serious. Someone’s been killed, and it looks to me the only reason was to send a message to Larry. Scary.”

  When we returned to the table, we softened the discussion for Jason’s sake.

  “Mom, Mr. Landrum, did you know the Chinese invented fireworks?” he asked.

  “I think I do,” said Amber. She’d been sitting beside Jason while I was on the other side of the table. I was impressed with the way she focused her attention on his every word. “But, I learned that a long time ago. Thanks for reminding me.”

  “My friend Adler said the Chinese write up and down the paper and not like us,” he said, making a smoother transition than I could from fireworks to writing. “Do you think that’s why the fireworks go straight up?”

  I decided to leave that one to Amber. She looked at me. Before either of us could answer, he continued, “Do you think that if Americans had invented fireworks, they would shoot sideways like we write?”

  It was coming back to me why I was uncomfortable around children. I could carry on a fairly intelligent conversation about human resources management, film versus digital photography, even about fixing a leaking toilet, but all that was easy compared to most questions coming from the mouths of people who weren’t alive during America’s bicentennial.

  Amber and I weren’t saved by the bell, but by my other preteen acquaintance.

  “Hey, Samuel,” Jason yelled. He apparently forgot his deep philosophical question as he continued looking over my shoulder.

  “Hey, Jason,” responded a familiar voice. My young buddy Samuel hurried over to our table. If he was surprised to see me with Jason and his mother, it didn’t show.

  “Mr. Landrum,” said a surprisingly polite Goth, “this is my friend Samuel. We both go to James Island Elementary.”

  “I’ve known Mr. Landrum for years,” said Samuel to Jason. “We hang out together sometimes.”


  I was glad Sam answered before I had time to respond to Jason’s introduction. I was pleased to hear how good buds we were.

  “Jason and I ride the bus together,” said Samuel. “We were both Superstar Readers last summer.” He puffed up as he said it.

  “Superstar Readers is a special group that reads the most books during the summer,” said Amber.

  Samuel eyed Jason’s fries.

  “Samuel, would you do me a favor?” I asked. He nodded. “I’m still hungry—would you go and get me some more fries? While you’re there, want to get yourself some? How about a drink too?” I gave him enough money for both.

  “Jason, want to go with me?”

  The two Superstar Readers made a beeline for the concessions.

  Amber flashed a skeptical grin. “Still hungry, hmm? Jason’s always talking about Samuel. They both have vivid imaginations, or at least I know Jason does. It’s good to see him in a good mood.”

  Amber had finished her food and was staring at the stairs leading to the entrance to the pier. I decided nothing was the best thing I could say.

  “I wish his dad could see him now,” she murmured. “Jason looks so much like him. Unfortunately, he has his dad’s temper too.”

  In all our conversations, Amber had never uttered the words Jason’s dad. Of course, most of our conversations had taken place at the Dog with her working, not an atmosphere conducive to personal conversations. But Charles, who had known her for more than a decade, had told me she never discussed her past and he had no idea who Jason’s father was.

  “He’s missing a great kid,” I said, not wanting to push the subject.

  “Yeah,” she said. The late evening setting sun reflected in the tears under her eyes.

  Once again, saved by Samuel. “Hey, Mrs. Lewis, Mr. Landrum, we’ve got an idea.” He and Jason had returned to the table, both with fries stuffed in their mouths. “Could me and Jason watch the fireworks together? Like, down at the beach behind the hotel. You two wouldn’t have to go down there and get sand in your shoes.”