Washout

by Bill Noel

  “We’ve been over this I don’t know how many times,” said Larry. “I can only come up with two folks who could have a reason for revenge. We just eliminated one of them, maybe. And I think WW is still in prison.”

  “Chris,” said Charles with a mouthful of world famous crab dip, “weren’t you going to use your magical computer skills to find out where Wilson is?”

  “Yes, but when exactly have I had time to do that? Besides, you can play the Internet as well as I can.”

  Charles persisted. “So, you’ll do it when?”

  “Tonight,” I said.

  “So you don’t have a date with Amber tonight?”

  “Speaking of dates, Larry, have any with Officer Ash?” I asked. Deflection was one of my favorite communication tools.

  “How about those Atlanta Braves?” he replied. I don’t have a monopoly on deflection.

  We talked a little about major league baseball, wondered about what the diners across the creek thought about us, and even confided to Larry how difficult it was to break even with a photo gallery on Folly Beach. Larry offered that I must be paying my help too much. All my staff laughed. Before I knew it, we were having a great time.

  Would there ever be a time when that could happen—a time without our having to worry about killers or people seeking revenge or our fearing premature death?

  Chapter47

  When we dropped Larry at his house, I asked if he wanted to get together later for pizza. I didn’t say it, but I didn’t want anything exploding when I wasn’t around. “No … no, thanks,” he stammered, “I’m … busy later. Thanks.”

  “A certain police escort would be my guess,” said Charles as we pulled away. I nodded.

  Charles said he had things to do himself, especially now that he was off guard duty. He suggested I could use the time wisely by finding the whereabouts of Woody Wilson, our number one suspect.

  I stared at the computer for a few minutes. How would I would locate a needle in a haystack, or more accurately, a prisoner somewhere in Georgia, incarcerated in another state, or out of prison. And then I pondered if it would be that difficult to find a needle in a haystack. Wouldn’t a big magnet make that task rather simple? And then I ate some potato chips and dip. And then I thought about printing some of my recent photos. And then I said heck with it and called Amber. I should have done that first.

  Jason answered and was disappointed that I wasn’t Samuel as he said they were working on a science project together. Jason knew their class would have to do it next year, so he wanted to get a head start. Jason and Samuel were the kind of kids who’d made my life miserable when I was in school. He said I could talk to his mom if we didn’t stay on the phone long. I assured him we wouldn’t.

  Amber was laughing when she answered. She’d overheard Jason’s half of the conversation and was impressed at the way he was being the man of the house. It was great to hear her so happy.

  Heeding Jason’s warning, we had a brief discussion about what Charles, Larry, and I had learned and the speculation about Larry and a date with Officer Ash. Amber gave her approval. When I told her how I was trying to find Woody Wilson, she offered no assistance as she said I knew how computer illiterate she was, but asked if I wanted Jason’s help. I declined but asked if she could keep him on-call in case I got stuck. She laughed again—a pleasurable way to end a conversation.

  I’d stalled all I could. Charles, who was nearly as computer unsavvy as Amber, had told me once to ask the computer what I wanted to know. I’m not sure if he was serious or not, but it beat any idea I had.

  I ventured into the world of the Internet, opened my favorite search engine, and typed in How do I find prisoners in Georgia? The first listing that appeared had something to do with prisoners in the southern states during the Civil War. We were all getting older, but I didn’t think Woody would classify as a prisoner of the War of Northern Aggression. Two other dead ends appeared next, but then I hit pay dirt: the next hit directed me to the Georgia Department of Corrections. I was amazed how much information was available about a topic I had given less than zero attention to until the last week or so. Not only did the official Web site list how many prisoners were currently incarcerated (more than 55,000), but it had in-depth reports on every aspect of the department, and even a 360-degree video tour of one of the prisons.

  All the information was interesting, but the section that caught my eye was headed Offender Search. I continued to follow Charles’s advice and typed in Woody Wilson. The computer then asked me if I wanted to find current inmates or both current and past residents. Just the question gave me hope, but then my luck ran out: no one by that name had been or was currently a resident of the Georgia Department of Corrections.

  Time to regroup and get a glass of wine. Going under the assumption that less was more, I then entered W. Wilson and eight names appeared. I eliminated Wynona, Willamina, and Wanda. Then it got more complicated. While Larry’s former partner could be named Washington, Warren, or Woodman, the most logical of the remaining names was Woodrow Wilson. Clicking a couple of other spots on the Web site reinforced what I’d guessed. Woodrow Wilson had two known aliases: WW and Woody. He’d been born in 1956, which was about right. It said he had a scar on his upper left arm, and his most recent institution was Georgia State Prison, a maximum security facility in Reidsville, Georgia. His list of offenses was fairly extensive and included theft by receiving stolen property, theft by taking, and burglary.

  The rest of the list was in acronyms, numbers, and letter codes. I couldn’t find a glossary so my search had reached an end. But, at least I figured that Woody Wilson was Woodrow Wilson. Beyond that, I had no idea what the 12/88, IA-2, D, 3 years/0 months/6 days, and 12 years/3 months meant. They didn’t appear to be in Dude’s native tongue either.

  A phone number was listed for inmate information and records, but the message on the machine said to call during business hours. I wondered if they only put people in jail during business hours but decided that was probably another division. I also wondered how I would tell Charles that once again he was correct about how to use a computer. Finally, I wondered what Amber was doing.

  Chapter48

  Overnight showers had moved through the area, and steam rose from the puddles as I walked to breakfast. I passed two full-timers I recognized by the dogs they followed. The short, stocky middle-aged gentleman was accompanied by a large, beautiful Malamute that was dragging the hapless owner like a dogsled. The other canine was a pug that I could generously describe as ugly. I suspected his owner would disagree, so I smiled and nodded. Other than chirps from a few birds, the strained pant of the man being taken for a walk by his dog, and the muted sounds of other canines in the distance, Folly Beach was silent, with an on-the-surface calm. I was gun-shy about using the word calm with much conviction.

  I stepped around puddles in the parking lot of the Dog and noticed Dude sitting by himself on the covered patio. He saw me and asked if I wanted to share a table. Not my top priority, but I didn’t want to appear unfriendly. Besides, he didn’t have a surfboard with him.

  Amber gave me a quizzical look when she saw me headed toward Dude’s table as it wasn’t in her section.

  “Morning, Christer,” said Dude. I wondered if he knew he was the only human on earth to call me that. “Cooking on the water today,” he continued.

  I was in a strange land without my interpreter. For all I knew, Dude might have called me an idiot.

  He continued after giving his surf-condition report, “Larry-the-Unluckster still kicking?”

  I wouldn’t have said it exactly like that, but I could tell that Dude was concerned. “Yep, far as I can tell.”

  It’s amazing how simply being in the presence of Dude sucked words out of folk’s vocabulary. That wasn’t so bad. Too many people used too many words anyway.

  “Kids today,” D
ude said as he brushed crumbs from his bagel off his tie-dyed T-shirt, and shook his head. “Don’t know what planet they’re from.”

  I waited, but realized he’d said his piece. I could barely stifle a giggle: here I was with Cool Dude Sloan as he bemoaned—sort of—how kids were from another planet. It could be that they weren’t from his own weird, wonderful planet.

  “Meaning what, Dude?”

  He appeared surprised that I’d asked, “When I was a pupster, I never asked for stuff all the time.” He shook his head again. “Gnarly parents would’ve killed me.”

  I was tempted to ask if pupster was what children were called in his part of the galaxy.

  A waitress I didn’t recognize brought a plate of strawberries with a miniature pancake on the side and said that Amber sent them. I scowled but kept it—this time. She asked Dude if he needed anything else. He said he was fine, or I think that’s what he meant.

  Dude wasn’t ready to stop. “Christer, I have more money than anyone should, selling surf stuff, big ticket items,” he said. “Guilt gifts galore, parents opening wallets for their prick kids,” Dude shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Kids play their parents—divorce, other family screwups, makes parents give things. Shouldn’t be that way. Almost told them they couldn’t buy stuff from me. But, didn’t let dumb do me in.”

  “If you don’t want their money, send some of them to Landrum Gallery. Guilt money’s welcome there,” I said.

  “Kids can’t surf on a picture frame; no offense, Christer. Anyway, reckon I like having money. It may beat poverty.”

  He had an excellent point. I couldn’t tell if he was serious—a distinction that’s often hidden with the Dudester. I said, “Yep.”

  “Good talking at you,” he said, took the last sip of orange juice, and stood. “Gotta go take their money before they figure out their kids are kooks.”

  ***

  Charles had agreed to help a contractor with some demo on a remodel job at one of the pre-Hugo houses that overlooked the marsh. He picked up a pocketful of cash for a couple of mornings of work every few weeks. It paid his rent and took the pressure off me from having to pay him. That was good, as I didn’t take in enough to pay even the rent and utilities on the gallery. Most of the time that didn’t bother me, but this morning I sat at the table in the office trying to balance the checkbook. I faced too many minuses and too few plusses. My college degree was in psychology, but I figured out that spending more than I was making couldn’t be a good thing.

  I would have to decide soon if I could keep putting money into the gallery or should admit that it couldn’t make it. I wasn’t wealthy, but knew that I would be able to live comfortably, although not extravagantly, without having to work—unless I had to keep shoveling money into the gallery. But, how would I spend my time if I shut it? I was in good health; I’d gained more weight than I should, but I didn’t face serious health problems. Could I really sit around the house and do nothing? However, I figured out it would beat sitting around the poorhouse.

  The sound of the doorbell jarred me out of feeling sorry for myself. Parker, Tommy, and Louis graced the entry, but only Tommy and Louis actually came in. Instead Parker leaned his surfboard against the front window and his bicycle against the board so it blocked the sidewalk. Obviously he didn’t care. The other two left their bikes and boards at the curb.

  “Parker, you idiot,” said Tommy, swinging his backpack to the corner of the room. “Move your shit off the sidewalk.”

  Parker gave Tommy a hostile glare but turned and headed back out. I suspected something had gone on between the two before they’d come into the gallery as Tommy seemed angry.

  “It’s okay, Tommy,” Louis said as he put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “He’ll be gone in a few days.”

  “Not soon enough,” said Tommy, loud enough for everyone to hear. Parker clomped back into the gallery.

  “What can I do for you guys?” I asked in my best shopkeeper voice. I had no clue what had gone on among the three but didn’t see an upside to it escalating in the gallery.

  “I wanted to buy that photo for my dad.” He pointed to one of the nicer, larger, and more expensive images displayed by the door to the office. “He’s gone out of his way to be nice to these two, and I wanted to do something for him.” Tommy nodded his head in the direction of his fellow “shoppers.”

  “Yes, oh wonderful Father, oh great Dad. Bull,” said Parker. He started to say something else, then hurried to the door. “See you at the Washout, suck up,” he uttered as a parting shot.

  I continued to play gracious shopkeeper, resisting my instinct to ask what was going on. Tommy paid, grabbed his backpack, and said he would have his mom pick up the photo later. Then he added he’d better get to the Washout and keep Parker from drowning any kittens or puppies. Other than one exchange with Tommy, Louis hadn’t spoken. He followed Tommy out.

  Chapter49

  Whenever I started to think how nice it would be to be young again, something like the visit from the three high schoolers occurred, and I thanked God he’d allowed me to get old. My professional background tried to surface and force me figure out what was going on. My retired shopkeeper role won: it was none of my business. Besides, I had my hands more than full with Larry.

  That reminded me to call the Georgia Department of Corrections. I pressed key after key on the phone in response to a recorded series of messages, but the system finally failed—a human answered. The prim-and-proper voice on the other end of the line said that she was Ms. Mayfield and asked what she could do to be of assistance. I told her I was calling about a friend of a friend who, through some unfortunate circumstances, found himself in one of the facilities that paid her salary.

  “Hot darn,” she said, her primness subsiding. “That’s the nicest way anyone has ever asked about one of our residents. Where’d you say you were calling from?”

  She’d never heard of Folly Beach, but offered that she was a big fan of the ocean and would have to look it up sometime. I told her I was looking for information on Woodrow Wilson and gave his GDC ID number.

  “You mean like President Woodrow Wilson?” she asked.

  “Yes, but I don’t think it’s one and the same.”

  “Didn’t suspect it was.”

  I heard a faint, demure giggle. I could also hear the keys on her computer getting a good workout and after a minute, she asked what I needed to know. I asked a couple of questions, and she shared that many of the dates represented when Mr. Wilson was serving his time. As he’d been in and out several times, there were multiple numeric entries. She got my attention when she said the IA-2 status meant that he was no longer under the care of the Georgia Department of Corrections.

  She got double my attention when she said the letter D under the heading Additional Information stood for deceased.

  Chapter50

  I had been in the amateur detective business for only a couple of years. Even with my extraordinarily skimpy amount of experience, I knew that when the prime suspect had reached the official Department of Corrections status of deceased, it would be difficult to blame him for the killings or threats to Larry.

  Ms. Mayfield entered another database to get more information. That gave me time to compose myself and think of more questions.

  “Here it is, Mr. Landrum,” she said as she returned to the phone, “Mr. Wilson passed away while under our care in 1999; cause listed as lung cancer. Age listed as forty-one.”

  “Anything else?” I asked, not knowing what I was looking for.

  “It shows three wives, the latest named Michelle, no last name, no address.” She hesitated, and I could hear the keyboard clicking again. “It shows that he was the father of four children, no names listed. Sorry, that’s about it.”

  I thanked her, and she said to share her condolences with Mr. Wilson’s friend
. I didn’t have the heart to tell her friend may have been a bit strong, since it was more like the person who’d thought Wilson was out to kill him.

  I’d convinced myself that Woody had to be guilty; he was the only person we knew who had a long-term, deep resentment against Larry. Now what? If Bob, Al, and even Dude were correct, we were left with zero suspects. If somebody wanted Larry dead, there were countless opportunities without the need for notes with messages in blood—and without butchering two innocent strangers just to make a point.

  What had I missed? What was the point? Someone took time to prepare the notes—had they meant something other than a cruel warning?

  Charles had returned from his morning of manual labor. His cargo shorts were muddy, and his University of Alaska long-sleeved T-shirt had a tear on the left arm and dirty handprints on both sides.

  “I remembered why I quit the job at the Ford plant,” he said. He slammed the gallery door and threw his cane on the office table. “Too much work—way too much work. Too cold in Michigan, but that’s another story. That construction company would have me out there all day if I’d let them. If anyone asks, you called an emergency staff meeting. Now, what’s this meeting about?”

  It was always a treat being part of Charles’s fantasy world. It’s hard to believe I’d survived most of my life without these adventures.

  “I don’t think it’ll take long to discuss the outstanding gallery issues,” I said. I should have called the “emergency meeting” to order before making that comment, but Charles’s Rules of Order would always trump Robert’s. “But, I do have some interesting news to report on the Woody Wilson front.”

  “Let me guess,” said Charles, “he was paroled six months ago, put on his new prison-provided suit, took the cash he’d been saving for the last sixteen years, moved to Charleston, and started working in a newsstand with access to magazines and scissors.”