Washout

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Washout Page 19

by Bill Noel


  “Sure.”

  “Hear Larry’s truck depreciated,” he said as he took the chair opposite me.

  “Yep,” I said, proud of my in-depth analysis.

  “Boom! Larry okay?”

  “Well, as you’d expect. How’d you hear about it?”

  He took a drink of some kind of juice that Amber had slid in front of him. “Hard not to,” he said, “big booms not that common here.”

  I gave Dude an even more abbreviated version than I’d given Amber, as I didn’t want to overtax his ears.

  “Who did it? Think he sold someone a defective wrench?”

  Once I had figured out that Dude wasn’t a total idiot, I began to appreciate his humor and learned to appreciate his view of the world. Or, I had fallen prey to the quirkiness of Folly Beach. A few days before in a moment of weakness with breakfast in my mouth, I’d agreed to let Dude give me a surfing lesson. Today we decided next morning would work best. Could Amber have spiked the coffee? I wondered.

  Before I could chime in on his defective wrench theory and how I could change my mind about surfing, Chief Newman stepped up on the patio and headed our way. He grabbed one of the stray chairs that sat behind the potted bamboo in the corner of the patio and sidled up to our table.

  “Sit a spell,” said Dude.

  Brian smiled at Dude and turned to me. “Chris, about three this morning, Officer Robins arrested Tony Anderson for public drunkenness. He was walking, staggering actually, in front of City Hall singing ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’ about as loud as a human can.”

  “Good voice?” asked Dude.

  I guessed the chief was more used to Dude than I. “Nope, butchered it,” he said without even turning his head toward Dude.

  “Should’ve arrested him for defacing a national treasure,” said Dude.

  I could see why he kept his sentences short, but I understood what he said.

  “Robins was going to take him home, sparing us from having to serve him breakfast, but Anderson started screaming ‘Boom, Larry, Boom, Larry, Boom!’ and then laughed.” Brian took a sip of coffee that had mysteriously appeared. “Robins’s generosity ended after the third boom.”

  “Anything to tie him to the explosion?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately, no. He said he spent most of the night in a bar in Charleston. We’re checking it out. It’s lucky he didn’t kill anyone driving back.”

  “If he was in Charleston, how did he know about the explosion?” I asked.

  “He claimed he heard about it when he got back around two,” said Brian. “He said some kids were talking, then an older couple up by the Crab Shack was telling everyone. He lost credibility when he said a dolphin walked up to his car and mentioned it.”

  “Told you everyone knew,” said Dude. “Get the dolphin’s name?”

  Brian mumbled something that sounded like, “Too many waves, too little board.”

  Dude translated the comment to mean the chief didn’t get the mammal’s name. “Too bad,” he said.

  “Chris,” said Brian, again ignoring Dude, “unless something with his story doesn’t jive, we’ll be letting Tony out this afternoon. There’s no law against scrambling a patriotic tune. Most likely, we’ll be able to verify his alibi and folks talking about the explosion last night. I’m not sure about the dolphin.”

  Other than a near fight between a Doberman and an irritating, angry, and yappy Chihuahua over the water pail, the rest of breakfast was uneventful.

  On the walk to the gallery, I began to wonder if we should add Junius to our list of suspects.

  Chapter41

  “So where’ve you been all morning?” asked Charles as I crossed the threshold. “Do I have to do everything here?”

  “Charles, it’s barely nine. How many customers have left because of slow service?”

  “Don’t worry,” he replied with a straight face, “I’ve been able to take care of the rush.”

  “Heard from Larry?”

  “Not directly. I rode by the hardware and Brandon was there. He said Larry called and said he wasn’t coming in today. I took some Hostess Twinkies to Officer Ash—breakfast of champions and cops. She was half asleep in her car in front of Larry’s house. She’s a Pisces, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know—and how would you?”

  “Asked her, of course. I figured she must be Pisces—compassionate and kind. She sat outside his house all night. Sort of sweet on him too, I think.”

  Seeing no logical way out of the conversation, I changed the subject and told Charles if he could handle the crowds in the gallery, I was going in the back so I could try to find out where Larry’s nemesis, the Reverend Mr. Hugh Arch, watched over his flock. The Internet was the only tool available. After searching churches in El Paso, I was relieved that Reverend Arch didn’t choose to be Baptist or Catholic as there would have been more than a hundred churches from which to choose, but I could only find eight Assembly of God congregations. I began calling. I knew it would be a prayer answered if I got anyone on Monday morning, but it was the only choice I had.

  I’d batted zero for six when I heard the voice of a real human on the phone. Carla, the church secretary at the Second Assembly of God, identified herself. She had a strong Hispanic accent and was quite pleasant to a stranger on the phone. She told me Señor Arch was not her minister, but she knew he’d preached at a nearby church.

  “Señor, I don’t want to talk badly about someone, but a friend told me Señor Arch was no longer at her church. She didn’t tell me why, but said he had done some dreadfully ungodlike things and been asked to leave.”

  I could tell she either didn’t know anything more or wasn’t about to give details over the telephone to someone she had never met. She was kind enough to give me her friend’s number and said if the friend wanted to tell me more, it was between the two of us. I gave her my best gracias.

  Carla’s friend Patricia didn’t answer, so I reluctantly left a brief message and my number. I didn’t know about Patricia, but if someone left me that message, I wouldn’t return the call. Hopefully, West Texans were more courteous than I.

  I rejoined Charles and was surprised to see Dude flipping through the bin of photos and talking—sort of—with Charles.

  “Yo, again,” Dude said when he saw me in the doorway. “Stoked about the big boom, forget to tell you what I heard yesterday. Could help my bud Lar.”

  “We be all ears,” said Charles, the chameleon.

  “Twenty-four ago, that kid Parker, hanging in shop. Probable waiting to lift something. Anyway, heard him tell a kid the nuts-and-bolts store was easy mark.”

  “Would that be Pewter Hardware?” asked Charles as he slid into his role of translator.

  “Course—no psych ward here,” said Dude. He looked at Charles as though he were trying to explain nuclear physics to a chrysanthemum. “Not best judge of what things mean. Thought you two detective types might.”

  “Might, but don’t.” said Charles.

  I couldn’t have summed it up better, and definitely not as succinctly.

  “Gotta go churn the greenbacks. Catch you later.”

  “Thanks, Dude,” I said.

  “Gnat nuts,” replied Dude.

  I looked at Charles for a translation. He just shrugged. Dude was gone as quickly as he’d arrived.

  Charles, grin firmly affixed, said, “That be a clue—you think?”

  “I think Parker is a first class juvenile delinquent. I also think he’s a talented shoplifter. Finally, I think more than a few of my taxpayer dollars will eventually go to reforming him.”

  “I’m waiting for the big but,” said Charles as he waved his cane around the room.

  “But,” I said in frustration, “I see absolutely, positively no motive for Parker to harm Larr
y. And, I don’t think he would know where to begin to plan two deaths and set up Larry for the bomb. Do you?”

  “Not really,” said Charles with little enthusiasm. “Do we know any more now than we did before Dude said boom?”

  “Tony had a motive,” I said. “He has the temper, the hate for Larry, and he’s not above violence. But, he reminds me of an older, much larger and fatter Parker. What he has in size he lacks in intelligence. Could he pull it off?’

  “Not without a brain transplant or an intelligent accomplice,” said Charles.

  That was a scary thought—not the transplant, but the realization there could be two people in it together when we were having trouble coming up with one.

  “If Brian verifies that Tony was in Charleston, he’ll have an airtight alibi for last night.”

  “Unless there’s an accomplice,” Charles reminded me. “What about Ben?”

  “Could be,” I said. “But, is getting a monopoly on the hardware business in this little corner of the world worth killing two people just to make some point to Larry? I realize I’ve led a sheltered life, but that’s too extreme. Why toy with Larry? Why not simply kill him—goal achieved?”

  “Good point,” said Charles. “But remember, you’re being logical. That’s not the route psychopathic killers usually take. And, for your dictionary expansion, I believe gnat nuts means no big deal on Larry’s planet. But, I wouldn’t bet the Bayliner on it.”

  The phone rang before we were struck with a definitive definition or a stroke of genius and the magical appearance of the killer’s name.

  The folks in Texas were more considerate, as Patricia had returned my call. Yes, she said, the Reverend Mr. Hugh Arch had been her minister until three years ago. She was reluctant to talk, but after some careful prodding and assurances that it could be a matter of life or death, she confirmed that the good reverend had been forced to leave. Twelve thousand dollars from the building fund had disappeared. Most of the congregation believed a former church treasurer was responsible. The treasurer had disappeared two weeks before the money went missing. Only three members of the congregation believed Arch was responsible. But, as luck would have it, they were the largest financial contributors. Even in West Texas, money spoke louder than a democratic vote of the parishioners. The Reverend Mr. Arch tendered his resignation, was given a gold-inscribed Bible by a committee made up of the majority, and quietly left town.

  The long distance conversation went from interesting to extraordinarily interesting when I asked Patricia if she knew where he went.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I know it was somewhere in South Carolina. Mount Pheasant, I believe. I’ve never been to east of Texas, so I’m not sure where that is.”

  “Could it have been Mount Pleasant?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  A minute ago, I’d thought the Reverend Mr. Hugh Arch was more than seventeen hundred miles from Folly Beach, but now he’d been relocated to Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina—the Mount Pleasant that was seventeen miles from Larry LaMond’s front porch.

  Finally, a lead.

  Chapter42

  “So, the good reverend is a hop, skip, and prayer from here,” said Charles. I’d profusely thanked Patricia and assured her that if I was ever in El Paso, I’d visit her church. Then I’d shared her story with Charles.

  “I keep remembering what Bob told me about trusting preachers and how Amber had talked about her ex-husband, the minister,” I said.

  “I see a reconnaissance trip in the near future,” said Charles. He pointed his cane in the direction of Mt. Pleasant. Of course he could have been pointing to Bangor, Maine. But before we could go anywhere, the doorbell announced Larry’s arrival. The bags under his eyes had multiplied since yesterday, and to say his eyes were bloodshot would be like calling the Atlantic a puddle.

  “I thought I’d find you two here,” he said without inflection. “You’ll never guess who I got a call from.”

  As he said we couldn’t guess, I didn’t try; instead I offered coffee.

  “Ben Malloy a half hour ago,” Larry went on.

  We trooped into my office, and Larry flopped down on one of the wooden chairs. “What’d he want?” asked Charles. “Did he confess?”

  “Well,” began Larry after slurping coffee, “my good buddy Ben said he’d heard about some of the problems I was having.” He hesitated and looked at Charles, then me, and then back at his cup. “He said because we were such good friends he was terribly distressed to hear about what’d been happening. Now get this: he said he’d heard through the rumor mill that I was going to sell the hardware and leave Folly.”

  “Oh,” said Charles as he covered his forehead with his right palm, “my psychic powers are back. Your good friend Ben said that he would help you out by buying the store.”

  “As we say in the hardware business, you hit the nail on the head,” said Larry. “Ben said he planned to expand his engine repair business and sell the same things I do. But, because we were good buddies, he’d take the hardware off my hands and not have to expand in his current location.”

  “Mighty kind of him,” said Charles. “But as they also say in the hardware business, he’s trying to screw you.”

  No hardware store analogy came to mind, so I asked if Larry knew how Ben had heard about his misfortunes and why he decided to call now.

  “And where he’d heard that Larry wanted to sell, and where he was last night, and if he carries dynamite in his store, and if he had a near-empty can of black spray paint?” added Charles before taking a breath.

  Larry didn’t have an answer to any of the questions, and said he’d told Ben he would think about his kind offer. He continued, “Guys, I’d never thought about selling the store—you know it’s my life, but maybe Ben doesn’t have that bad an idea. I love it here. The only friends I have in the world are within two miles of my house—hell, most of them are in this room.” He hesitated and stared at the coffee in his mug. “But, is it worth it if I end up dead? I could go back to Atlanta, get a job in a store there. I don’t know … I don’t know.”

  I ignored the tears that rolled down Larry’s cheeks as I refilled his cup. “Larry, Charles and I are going to find the son of a bitch doing this. You’re not going anywhere—that’s all there is to it. Besides, if you left, who would Officer Ash guard?”

  Larry smiled, but it wasn’t much of one. I shared what I’d learned from the calls to Texas. Larry said that if adding another suspect was supposed to cheer him, we’d failed. Then to further ruin his morning, I told him what Dude had said about Parker.

  “That’s no surprise,” said Larry. “Parker and his buddies have become regulars at the store. They come in and go in three different directions. They carry those nylon backpacks that kids have today, so it wouldn’t take much to stick some smaller items in the pockets. Brandon and I try to keep an eye on them, but we’re outnumbered. I usually end up talking to Tommy about everything and nothing. He’s the only one who can carry on a conversation. I have no idea what he sees in Parker. He’s always saying bad stuff about him.”

  “Have you caught them taking anything?” I asked.

  “No. Most of what I have are small ticket items. Unless they try to push a lawn mower out the door, I don’t worry too much.”

  “All they’re interested in is chicks and surfing,” said Charles. “I doubt they have love for saw, sanders, or shovels. Dude would have more to worry about than you.”

  “True,” said Larry. “But Tommy says that his dad buys them anything they want from Dude. Must be nice being the kid of a rich doc.”

  “Or a friend of the son of a rich doc,” added Charles. “I know we all make fun of Dude, but he could have a point about Parker. Larry, didn’t Parker start coming around about the time you received the bloody messages? He’s always hanging around on
his bike. And, the chief and even his friend says he’s trouble.”

  “I guess,” said Larry, “but why? What’s he have to gain?”

  “Something to think about,” said Charles. “Want more coffee?”

  Larry declined and said he should head to the store and relieve Brandon.

  A late morning customer provided a welcome distraction from Larry’s trials and tribulations. I’d promised Bob that I’d meet him at Al’s for a late lunch. I wasn’t anxious to go, as the longer I was awake, the more I realized how little sleep I’d had. But, meeting Mr. Howard was always an adventure. Charles said that since I was never there, he’d grown accustomed to running the gallery. He had earned his un-pay.

  I had to promise Charles that we’d take a field trip to Mt. Pleasant on Tuesday after I got back from my first surfing lesson with Dude.

  What could it hurt? I thought.

  Chapter43

  Entering Al’s from a sunlit afternoon was always the proverbial difference between night and day, or more accurately, day and night. From the jukebox, Cal Smith was lamenting the story of a “Country Bumpkin.” Al greeted me like a long-lost cousin, said he’d put my cheeseburger on, and pointed to the battered table where Bob was doing his Mafioso imitation. When I walked in, the customer population increased by a hundred percent. Mondays aren’t busy even if Al does have the best burgers in the universe.

  “Seen any trucks explode lately?” asked my burly friend loud enough for everyone in the crowd to hear. Al turned to listen.

  “How’d you hear?” I asked as I slid into the booth. I’d asked him the same question not that long ago.

  “I sure as hell didn’t hear it from you. If it weren’t for Louise and her police scanner, I’d never hear about all the fun you and your damn idiotic friends are having. So let’s hear it—all of it.”

 

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