Washout

by Bill Noel

  “Dad wrote Mom, told her what LaMond did. He told her how LaMond ran to save himself. Wrote how LaMond deserted him when he needed him the most. How LaMond was a gutless traitor.” His voice increased with each statement.

  Charles interrupted, “That argument doesn’t have a leg to stand on, Tommy.”

  Charles was staring at Tommy, but I knew he was trying to tell me something.

  Tommy ignored Charles’s comment, “Dad said if he ever got out of jail, LaMond was dead. He begged Mom to get revenge.” Tears poured down Tommy’s cheeks. His gaze wandered again, “Dad never recovered from what that man did. LaMond broke Dad. He killed him.”

  His hand shook along with the gun, but it was still pointed at Larry. I was afraid he was going to pull the trigger. I tried to wiggle my hands, but the rope just tightened.

  What had Charles been trying to say?

  “Why didn’t you just kill me instead of murdering those two innocent men?” asked Larry. His voice was strong, and he’d regained his composure. I was surprised.

  “Too easy. You had to suffer. You had to feel some of what Dad went through. You may not have understood all that I meant by the notes, but you had to get the revenge part. You had to get it.”

  Get it? Leg up. The table leg. The rickety table leg that Charles had been preaching at me to fix. If I could somehow loosen the leg under my left foot, the deadly pythonlike rope holding us to the table would lose its grip.

  I nodded my head so Charles would know I understood his cryptic message.

  A faint grin appeared on his sweat-covered face.

  But how was I going to get the leg loose without Tommy knowing?

  Tommy’s rant and my trying to figure out how to free us was drowned out by a siren from a Folly Beach police car in front of the gallery.

  Saved in the nick of time. I took a deep sigh.

  However, instead of stopping, the sound began to fade, and then I heard the lower-pitched sirens of two fire trucks headed up Center Street.

  Tommy grinned even though his face was still streaked with tears. “Thought they were headed here, didn’t you?” An eerie laugh reinforced the ice-cold look in his eyes. “Mr. LaMond, it won’t matter for long, but all those idiots are heading to East Indian Avenue—it seems there’s a big fire. Sorry about your house. It’ll keep them busy for now. Wouldn’t want them spoiling our party.”

  It dawned on me. We who sat here, tied to chairs and each other, had a collective wisdom of more than one and a half centuries, yet we were being outsmarted by an eighteen-year-old.

  Tommy methodically took five sticks of dynamite out of his backpack. The deadly foot-long sticks were tied together with twine. Taped to the lethal explosives was a cheap plastic battery-operated alarm clock.

  His chilling grin was back. Tommy held the bomb up for us to see; he seemed to be enjoying himself now as his moods kept bouncing back and forth. He slowly set the package on the floor, then took the remaining nylon rope and wound it around the base of the table, pulled it tight, and tied the ends to the door handle that opened to the alley. We were lassoed to the table—and it wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Enjoy your final ten minutes.” Tommy leaned on the wall, his arms folded, undoubtedly admiring his handiwork. “I’d love to stick around, but I’ve go to meet my friends at the Washout. My alibis are waiting.”

  Charles suddenly shook his head, yanked his torso around as much as the rope would allow, and yelled, “You stupid little shit. You can’t burn Larry’s house. My jewelry’s in it.”

  Tommy pushed himself away from the wall and looked at Charles.

  Charles screamed louder, “Go stop the fire, you little twit!”

  Over the years, I’d seen most sides of Charles. Occasionally, he’s bordered on irrational, but when he did it came in a calm, makes perfectly good sense to me tone. Besides, he didn’t own a watch, much less any jewelry.

  But he’d succeeded in distracting Tommy.

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” asked Tommy. He moved close to Charles and leaned to inches from his face. Tommy looked ready to backhand my friend.

  Charles’s body went into spasms. He rocked back and forth and shook the table.

  “Eeeee!”

  I’d never heard such a sound come from Charles, but it was music to my ears.

  I kicked my left foot into the table leg. It moved a couple of inches but held firm. Where was the flimsy leg when I needed it?

  Charles could tell I’d finally caught on and intensified his tantrum. Larry began to shout about Charles’s jewelry. I didn’t know if he knew what was happening, but he trusted Charles.

  I was the calmest person at the table so Tommy ignored me.

  A shooting pain went through my foot the second and third time I kicked the table leg. I could tell it was almost loose.

  Tommy looked around the room, clearly losing interest in my friends’ outbursts. I had to act quickly.

  The noise made by Charles and Larry was joined by the siren from another emergency vehicle in front of the gallery. I assumed it was headed to Larry’s house.

  The next kick succeeded. The table leg folded to a forty-five degree angle. I held the tabletop level with my knees and slowly slid the rope toward the floor with my right foot.

  I hoped Charles and Larry could sense the rope’s grip loosening enough for them to free their hands.

  Tommy seemed to be oblivious to our improving position as he slid the handgun in his backpack and casually slung it over his shoulder. He walked to the door leading to the gallery, hesitated, then turned back to the table.

  “Mr. Landrum, I do like your photos. Sorry.” He paused a moment, then said, “LaMond, may you rot in hell.”

  I knew we had to act now—the clock on the bomb was counting down, and Tommy would be gone. Charles gave me a slight nod. I assumed it meant he was free of his bonds. I moved my hands away from the rope and Tommy’s view.

  The most primitive plan came to mind, if only Tommy could be coaxed closer to the table.

  Charles provided the solution.

  “One final question,” said Charles. “How did you know …”

  His voice tapered off, and I couldn’t hear what he was asking. As Tommy moved closer to Charles, he removed the gun from his backpack again.

  The next thing I did hear was Charles say was, “On three.”

  Tommy said, “What?”

  Charles quickly said, “One, two, three.”

  Charles lifted one side of the table; I lifted the other. Before Tommy could react, we flipped the table on end and slammed the table top into him. He staggered back. Blood started pouring from his smashed nose as he hit the floor hard. He fired the gun without aiming. I was close enough to feel the heat from the barrel and take in the terrible smell of cordite. But I was still moving, so I figured the bullet had missed.

  I knocked the gun from his hand before he could improve his aim. Charles grabbed Tommy’s other arm and tried to force it behind his back.

  Tommy had nearly four decades on us and twisted out of our grip, leaping to his feet. He pushed Charles to the floor and kicked him in the ribs. I was able to step out of his range.

  Larry had finally escaped the rope and joined the fray. Tommy had the speed, advantage of youth, and enough anger to fight a polar bear, but we had him outnumbered.

  Sweat rolled down my face. My shirt was drenched, and I was out of breath. Charles was clearly in pain. He was doubled over and looked close to passing out. But Larry was just getting started, and he took advantage of all the dirty fighting skills he’d learned from his years in the prison system.

  Larry and I reached Tommy before he could open the rear door and dragged him to the floor. I untangled the rope from the table and chairs and wrapped it around Tommy’s hands. Larry gra
bbed the other end of the rope and looped it around Tommy’s legs. The results wouldn’t win any rope-tying competition but was a beautiful sight to me.

  The bomb was behind me, so I didn’t see it. However, Larry couldn’t avoid looking at the death package.

  He shouted, “Two minutes!”

  Chapter57

  “Damn!” shouted Tommy. Blood still ran freely from his nose. Charles still looked groggy and doubled over, and Larry was still tightening the knots so Tommy couldn’t escape. We only had about fifteen seconds before the bomb would explode—not enough time to escape or to wait for the police.

  I kneeled down and looked at the deadly device. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I saw wires—red, black, and green. But which one disarmed the device? Who knew? All I knew is that I had to act fast. I thought about my fuse box at home, said a prayer, and yanked the black wire out of the clock. The device stopped ticking. It seemed dead.

  “I think I got it!” I yelled.

  Just then I heard the front door being bashed in and the familiar voice of Chief Newman. “Police! Freeze!”

  I saw Officer Robins rush toward us and apprehend Tommy.

  Newman commanded, “Get out, everybody.”

  He didn’t need to say it twice. I helped Charles straighten up and stumbled with him out the shattered front door. Larry took advantage of his low center of gravity and wind-resistant body and was on the sidewalk before Charles and I could step over the smashed door and window glass that blocked the exit.

  Officer Robins had dragged Tommy, still bound by the rope, out of the gallery and into the back of his cruiser in the middle of Center Street. Despite his daggerlike stares, Tommy looked much less fearsome and deadly than he had minutes earlier. The blood drenching his shirt reminded me of the pool of blood on Larry’s floor. A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk across the street, but two officers shooed people away.

  Amber knelt behind one of the cruisers. Once she saw me on the sidewalk, she dared anyone to try to stop her as she darted across the street into my arms. I wasn’t sure if my wobbly legs would keep me upright. When I told her we should walk away from the gallery, she neither asked why nor resisted. I leaned on her emotionally and physically.

  I expected to see the chief diving out the door, the sound of an explosion bursting my eardrums, and then a ball of fire rolling out the front window. That’s how it happened in movies.

  Charles walked over and leaned against my left shoulder. “I’m getting too old for this kind of stuff, Mr. Photo Man. My ribs are killing me. Does my job provide health insurance?”

  I hoped he was kidding and knew he was doing his lightening the mood routine. Larry was standing about a hundred feet to our left. Officer Ash provided his support.

  Charles nodded toward them. “Ah, what a cute couple. It should work—he’s nearly as tall as our newest police officer.”

  It must have disappointed many of the onlookers, but there was no explosion. I had actually disarmed a bomb. Me. A bomb.

  Chief Newman stepped over the prone door and onto the sidewalk. He held the sticks of dynamite in his left hand, the cheap clock in his right. “The excitement’s over folks,” he yelled. “Time to get back to your normal lives.” He turned to us and in a calmer, quieter voice said, “Charles, Larry, Chris—could I have a few words with you in the gallery? You can come too, Amber. Officer Ash, why don’t you go over to the Dog and get us some coffee? This may take a while.”

  Charles mumbled something about her bringing a case of beer. The newest member of Folly’s Finest ignored him.

  We made our way over the unhinged door, around the glass, and beside the bin of photos that had been knocked over when the door fell.

  “Sorry about the door, Chris,” said the chief, as he handed the two parts of the bomb to Officer Robins, “Couldn’t figure a quicker way in. I thought you might need some help.”

  “Don’t worry about it, chief,” said Charles. “Chris’s got insurance to cover the police breaking into his place.”

  I wouldn’t put money on it, but it sounded good. We crowded into the office as the chief asked Officer Spencer to make sure no one entered the building.

  “Okay, guys,” said Brian, “from the top. What in the hell’s going on?”

  “Before we start,” I said, “how’d you know we were in trouble?”

  Brian chuckled, not the response I’d expected.

  “Chris, you know Louise over at Island Realty, don’t you?”

  “Sure, she’s some kin to Bob Howard. She’s also addicted to the police scanner. I doubt your troops do much she doesn’t know about.”

  “Well, she got a call from Bob this morning. She said he told her, and this is her quote, ‘that Landrum guy with a froufrou camera has a shitload of flaws, but not being where he says he will be isn’t one of them.’ You were supposed to be in the gallery when he called and the ‘damned machine’ tried to get him to leave a message. He was on the other side of Charleston and asked her to check on you. Instead of leaving her office, she called us.”

  That was a surprise from left field—deep left field. “That’s what got you here?” I asked.

  “Partially,” said the chief. “About the same time, the dispatcher got the call about flames coming from all the windows at Larry’s house. I was on my way to the fire when Amber flagged me down in front of the building next door.”

  Amber interrupted the chief’s story. “I was going to the gallery to see if you were free for lunch. The door was locked, and I knew something was wrong. That’s when I saw the chief and waved for him to stop.”

  “So here I was,” said the chief as he picked up the story, “peacefully speeding up Center Street to a fire and one old lady is pestering me to check on you for no reason other than your answering machine was working and a beautiful young waitress is stepping in front of the car to get me to stop. Amber, I’ll let you tell him why you were so sure something was wrong.”

  “It’s simple,” she said, “your door was locked and your “Open When I’m Here; Closed When I’m Not” sign wasn’t in the window. If that’s not a distress signal, I don’t know what is. Besides, I stopped by the Dog to pick up my paycheck and Temple told me you’d been in and she saw you walk toward the gallery.”

  Only on Folly Beach, I thought and put my arms around Amber. “Charles, remind me to send Louise flowers,” I said. “No, scratch that—remind me to send them to Bob.”

  “Enough flowers and hugs,” said Brian, “again, what the hell happened?”

  Fortunately, Officer Ash had returned with the coffee. She handed Larry his, passed out the rest, and took a position behind Larry’s chair with her left hand discretely on his shoulder. I suggested that the chief tape the conversation, as I knew once Larry, Charles, and I began the tall tale, no one could keep up with it.

  Chapter 58

  The tale began. If I hadn’t been in the middle of it, I wouldn’t have believed it. The chief knew that regardless how preposterous it sounded, we were leveling with him. Most of the time anyway.

  Officer Spencer was summoned to make a second coffee run after the first hour. Charles was the only one who was hyper enough not to need any; Larry and I were fading fast. Before the two-hour marathon session ended, each of us had to tell our version twice. The chief tried to take notes but finally thanked me for suggesting the recorder. Charles’s wall of clues was still in place and the chief alternated his gaze between it, the three-legged table, and the three of us.

  Before the session had begun, the chief called Detective Lawson. She was responsible for investigating the two murders and needed to hear our story. She’d arrived after our first telling, but benefited from the second time around. She had us retell the part where Tommy admitted he had killed the two drifters. She confided that that was the first hard evidence in the terrible waste of lif
e.

  “Gentlemen,” said the chief, “I think that’s all we need for now. Larry, I hate to tell you, but your house is a total loss. Tommy must have used a full can of gas. We didn’t have a chance. Sorry.”

  Larry’s reaction surprised me—something that’s getting more and more difficult to do. “Hey, no problem. I feel like a ton of bricks is off my shoulders. It’ll be fun starting over.” He turned his attention to Charles. “Charles, I’m sorry about your jewelry.”

  Charles and I laughed. The chief and Detective Lawson shrugged. They were both smart enough not to ask.

  “And you, Landrum,” said the chief in his sternest tone of voice, “don’t you ever, ever try to disarm an explosive device again. Either wait for the experts or get the hell out of the area. You got that?”

  “Yes … yes, sir” I said, saluting. “Understood, sir.”

  The chief awkwardly saluted back and then left.

  Charles leaned against my left shoulder. “I’m getting too old for this kind of stuff, Mr. Photo Man. My ribs are killing me. You still haven’t told me if my job provides health insurance.”

  I smiled; Charles winced.

  Charles saw he wasn’t getting anywhere with me and turned his attention to Larry. “Hey, Larry,” he said after all of Folly’s public servants and one classy detective from Charleston had left, “know anywhere where a poor gallery owner can get a new front door?”

  Larry gazed at the opening where the front door once stood. “Sure, Charles. Know anywhere where a poor hardware store owner can get a new house?”

  Barely escaping death apparently brought out the wit in my friends.

  I turned toward Amber, who had been mostly silent, and hugged her. We stayed like that until our racing hearts calmed down, and we could breathe again.

  Chapter 59

  We stayed at the gallery until the contractor Larry called arrived. Larry had referred numerous jobs to him, so he responded quickly. Amber said she needed to run some errands, blew me a kiss, and left. With the gallery secure, Larry, Charles, and I walked the short distance to Larry’s house—make that former house. The chief wasn’t lying when he’d said it was a total loss. The aged wooden framing and Tommy’s generous dose of accelerant had combined to turn a typical Folly home into a pile of black ashes. One fire vehicle remained in the street as smoke lazily rose into the sky from a couple of hot spots.