by Bill Noel
“That’s all they can do.”
“What about the others?” He snapped his fingers. “Got it. They could move to Hope House?”
I readied myself for another burst of irritation, then told him about my conversation with Burl.
“Crap. Christmas is around the corner and I doubt any of them could fit in a manger, even if we could find one for rent.”
I interpreted that comment to be more out of frustration than my failure to tell him about meeting Burl. He got a far-away look in his eyes, a look I’d learned over the years not to interrupt.
He snapped his fingers a second time. “Got an idea.”
I waited for him to share. When he didn’t, I said, “What?”
“My apartment’s too small for me to live in much less adding someone else.”
Charles was right. In addition to being small, he’d added bookshelves to almost every wall, filled them with enough reading material to fill a small-town library. Other than his bed, every horizontal surface was covered with books, including much of the floor.
“I agree.”
He smiled. “Your house is another story. Think about that extra bedroom that’s only holding a computer with a printer. Acres of empty space. There’d be plenty of room for one of the poor, sad, displaced tenants to hang his hat until better accommodations come available.” He nodded. “Great idea, if I say so myself.”
I’d come to the same conclusion last night but didn’t know if I was ready for a housemate. I’d lived alone for thirty years. Every time I’d considered other options, like adding a spouse, I broke out in cold sweats.
“Charles, there’s no bed, besides, who’s to say one of them would be interested?”
“You’re right. Heck, I’m sure Ty is thrilled to be living like a pretzel in his Miata. Noelle must be feeling like a queen living in her pickup. We don’t know anything about Neil or Janice. Think about it. I’ll see if I can twist arms to help the others out. Surely I can guilt somebody by playing the Christmas card.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good, you can tell me your decision tomorrow when we go to Cal’s for a burger, a drink, a powwow with Neil.”
Chapter Ten
The next morning began with me heading next door to grab a cinnamon Danish and cup of complimentary coffee. It was at least ten degrees colder than the last two days, so I pulled the collar of my lightweight jacket up around my neck. Over the years, I’d been tempted to buy a heavier coat, but refused telling myself Folly Beach was in the South so I wouldn’t need anything warmer. Several times over the years, I’d regretted my stubbornness. This was one of those times.
Ty’s Miata was parked in the lot between my house and Bert’s. I was tempted to peek in to see if his cat was there. Instead, I rushed to the warmth of the store. Ty was behind the counter where three people waited to check out. He smiled when he saw me then went back to giving a woman change. My feet automatically took me to the case where oversized gooey delights would tempt me. I put a Danish in a paper bag then proceeded to the large coffee urn and filled a cup. By the time I made it to the register, Ty’s customers were gone.
“Morning, Ty,” I said as I put money on the counter for the Danish.
Ty’s smile widened. “Mr. Landrum, it’s a wonderful day.”
His attitude was better than mine would be under similar circumstances.
“You seem happy this morning. Win the lottery?”
He continued to smile. “Afraid not, Mr. Landrum. I’m thankful Lost and I wasn’t hurt in the fire. Things can always be worse, be worse.”
“Is Lost in your car?”
“Not today, it’s too cold for the little fellow. Left him in the hotel where the good folks from Red Cross are letting me bunk.”
I knew the answer, but asked anyway, “How long will you be there?”
“Tonight will be it. It was nice of them to give me two nights.”
“What’ll happen then?”
“Suppose I’ll move back in my car. Not quite luxury digs, but beggars can’t be choosers, be choosers. I think that’s how the saying goes.”
A woman carrying a loaf of bread appeared behind me. I stepped aside so she could pay. Ty took her money, told her to have a wonderful day, then turned to me.
“Mr. Landrum, would you let me know if you hear of any cheap apartments for rent. Lost needs a better place to live than the car.”
“What about you?”
He smiled. “Wouldn’t mind it myself.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Lost would appreciate it.”
At the risk of sounding like Charles, curiosity got me to ask, “How’d you come up with the name Lost?”
He smiled. “Not the first time I’ve heard that question. Want the long or short version?”
I looked around and didn’t see anyone vying for Ty’s attention. “Whichever you have time for.”
“I don’t suppose you know anything about me other than what you see in here.”
“True.”
“I moved from Baltimore a little over a year ago. I came to Folly with a couple of friends I worked with at a roofing company. Tell you something, Mr. Landrum, slapping roofs on buildings when it’s ninety degrees isn’t high on the list of fun jobs, but see, I sort of barely got through high school. They said I was smart enough to go to college, but since I had a better time not being in school than when I was there, I figured I wouldn’t be good for college. College wouldn’t be good for me. That may not have been one of my better decisions. Anyway, my buds and me were coming here to vacation, surf, drink beer, then, drink more beer. Two days before we were to go back to roofing, we came in here to buy beer.” He hesitated, then smiled. “I was standing right where you are when I saw a girl working behind the deli counter. Heard her tell someone her name was Aimee.” His smile widened. “Mr. Landrum, she was the cutest girl I’d ever seen. I mean ever.”
By now, I assumed, hoped, this was the long version of how Lost got his name. I took a sip of coffee and was tempted to pull some of the Danish out of the bag. I didn’t but waited for Ty to continue.
“The next morning, I left my roommates sleeping. I came here, asked if the manager was around. The clerk pointed me his direction, so I asked if he was hiring. Figured it would be the best way to get to know Aimee, Aimee Mason I learned. Suppose you figured out he was hiring.”
I nodded.
“Aimee and me got to talking when we were on overlapping shifts, and—”
“Ty!” someone yelled from the back of the store. “Let Caroline take the register. I need your help unloading boxes.”
Ty sighed. “The rest of the story will have to wait. Sorry, Mr. Landrum.”
“Ty, before you go, do you have a number for your landlord?”
He pulled out his wallet, took out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to me. I unfolded the paper where I found the name Russell O’Leary plus a phone number. I put the number in my phone, returned the paper to Ty, then said we’d talk later.
Sitting at my seldom-used kitchen table, I ate the Danish while thinking about how unaffected Ty was about what was in my mind a horrible situation. I admired his outlook. I also wondered if the number he’d given me was the one the Chief had been using to reach the landlord. Today wasn’t her day off, so I figured it’d be safe to call to give her the number.
“Good morning, one of my less-neurotic friends. You calling to apologize for interrupting one of my few days off?”
I smiled. “If it’ll make you feel better, yes.”
“Apology accepted. You going to say something now that’ll need another apology?”
“Never, Chief. I was talking with Ty Striker a little while ago. He gave me a number for Russell O’Leary. I thought if it was different than the one you had; it may help you get in touch with the landlord.”
She hesitated before speaking. “Just curious, why in holy hell were you asking Ty for the landlord’s number? You want to rent an
apartment or buy a bucket of soot?”
“Chief, you were having trouble reaching him. I wanted to help.”
“Chris, don’t treat me like you’re talking to one of my dodo-brain officers. You’re nosing in police business. Again.”
Nothing would be gained by denying it. She wouldn’t believe me. Neither would I. “Want the number?”
“Don’t need it. I talked to O’Leary yesterday. Neil Wilson gave me a number I didn’t have.”
“What’d you learn from O’Leary?”
“Give me one reason I should answer that question?”
“Because—”
“Never mind. The only acceptable answer is because you’ll pester me up to my eyeballs if I don’t. I need that as much as I need the mayor threatening to fire me unless I start talking and acting like a police chief.”
Mayor Newman had been on her case for as long as she’d been Chief. He knew she wasn’t about to change, but that hadn’t stopped him.
“What’d you learn from O’Leary?”
“Crap on a cucumber, Chris. Do you ever give up?”
See what the mayor meant?
I repeated, “O’Leary?”
“He swore he didn’t know anything about the fire until the next day. Claims he was in Atlanta attending a seminar on buying real estate, getting filthy rich, without having to put any money down, or something like that.”
“How’d he learn about the fire?”
“Claims he got back from Atlanta, drove by the building, where he perceptively noticed it was no longer there.”
“Did you ask if he knew anyone who might’ve had reason to start the fire?”
“Gee, Chris, why didn’t we professional investigators think to ask that.”
Got it.
“What’d he say?”
“Claims he didn’t know anyone.”
“Cindy, why do I have the impression you don’t believe his story?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’ve used the word claims three times sharing his version.”
“Damn, it’s annoying you actually listen to me. Annoying and scary.”
“Well?”
“I asked him the name of the seminar he allegedly attended. He couldn’t remember. I asked when he got to Atlanta. He said a few days before the seminar. If I asked you that kind of question, wouldn’t you name a specific day rather than ‘a few days’? It’s hard to judge someone’s behavior over the phone, but my gut tells me he was lying about some of what he was saying.”
“What next?”
“I’m going to call him later to schedule a face-to-face.”
“Good luck.”
“I’ll need it if I want him to confess to torching his building.”
Chapter Eleven
Cal Ballew took ownership of the bar eight years ago after Gregory Brile, the former owner, did what many people only dream of doing. He killed an attorney. Apparently, doing rather than dreaming has serious consequences. Gregory is in prison. The name of the bar switched from GB’s to Cal’s. The new owner, now in his mid-seventies, had spent most of his adult life traveling around the South, living out of his car, while playing his brand of traditional country music at any venue that would have him. He was performing at GB’s when the owner moved from a comfortable house to a less-comfortable prison cell. Cal reluctantly took over even though he knew as much about owning a bar as a gecko knows about playing Chinese checkers.
Because of his decades on the road with nowhere to go on Christmas, when Cal took over, he was determined to hold an annual Christmas party so others who might share experiences similar to his would feel at home; a place where they could enjoy the spirit, fellowship, and calories of the holiday. His party has grown each year. It was now one of the highlights of the year, not only for those who had nowhere to go but for many of us who loved to share the joyous event with Cal. The singer who treated his patrons to a handful of sets during the week wasn’t getting wealthy with the business but squirreled away money throughout the year so his Christmas party could provide free food and drinks to all comers.
I’d told Charles I’d meet him at Cal’s but hadn’t set a time. I was surprised he wasn’t there when I arrived so he could tell me I was late. What was there brought a smile to my face. Four, seven-foot-tall artificial Christmas trees anchored the corners of the room. Multiple strands of colorful lights were attached to each non-moving vertical surface, more dangled from the ceiling. The bar spent most of the year looking tired, to put it kindly, but perked up come December. There were a dozen tables, plus a handful of barstools in front of the wooden bar on the side of the room. A twelve-by-twenty-foot laminate dance floor abutted a small stage in front of the room. The rest of the floor was covered with fraying indoor/outdoor carpet.
Seasonal sounds of Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” were coming from the antique Wurlitzer jukebox parked on a corner of the stage. Crosby’s mellow voice competed with the country voice of Cal who was standing behind the bar drying a glass with a red, white, and blue bar towel. The owner was six-foot-three, toothpick thin with a spine that curved forward from bending down to a microphone plus living out of the back seat of his car for decades. Long, gray hair poked out from around the Stetson that’d traveled with him for more than forty years. In deference to the season, a strand of battery-operated, colorful lights was strung around the hat’s crown. If Santa was anorexic, didn’t have a beard, didn’t wear a red suit, and didn’t ride around the world transported by reindeer, Cal could be his double. I suspect Cal had a better singing voice, although I’d never heard Santa sing.
“Well if it isn’t one of Santa’s wise men,” Cal said, mixing Christmas stories. He waved his hand around the room. “What do you think of this year’s decorations?”
I thought they were overboard, but the same as last year. That wouldn’t have been the correct answer, so I said, “Incredible, Cal, incredible.”
“So you noticed the extra lights I’ve strung from the ceiling?”
Not really. I repeated, “Incredible.”
Cal looked to see if anyone was nearby. No one was. “Truth be told, Neil did all the light stringing. This old broken-down body and ladders don’t mix.”
“Cal, it doesn’t matter who decorated, it looks great. Would Neil happen to be here?”
He moved his head in the direction of the small kitchen. “In back, fixin’ burgers for that table of guys by the wall, the ones looking like undertakers dressed in those suits. Must be a convention at the Tides.”
Gene Autry began singing one of probably a thousand performers’ versions of “Jingle Bells,” as Cal handed me a glass of Cabernet, one I hadn’t requested. He had my number.
“Chris, know what Charles told me about that song?”
Of course, I didn’t, so I shook my head before taking a sip.
“Some cat wrote it back in eighteen-hundred-something as a Thanksgiving song. Can you believe that?”
If there was some archaic bit of trivia involved, I’d believe it. I limited my response to, “Who would’ve guessed?”
Neil walked out of the kitchen carrying a tray holding three hamburgers, two orders of fries, with an order of onion rings vying for space.
Neil said, “Hey, Chris.”
Cal pointed to the table of men who ordered the burgers. Neil took the hint and headed their way.
Cal watched him move around two other tables. “You know about the fire at Neil’s place, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“Of course, you do, pard. You know everything bad that happens here.”
I wouldn’t have put it that way.
“How’s Neil taking it?”
“Not as good as he wants everyone to think. He comes across as a big ole bruiser, living up to his part-time bouncer job downtown.”
Neil could play that role well. He was six-three or four, in his late forties, looks like a former football player whose muscle turned to fat after his playing days ended.
I remembered him coming across the way Cal described him earlier this year when he was a suspect in the bookie’s murder. In fact, it was Cal who’d told me about a temper tantrum Neil had during a confrontation with the bookie.
I said, “That’s the image he portrays.”
“Dig deeper, pard, you’ll find a big teddy bear. The boy’s torn up about the fire, not just because it left him without a bed, but he feels horrible about the others who lost everything.” Cal watched Neil as he left the food at the table and headed our way. “Don’t tell him I said anything, okay, pard?”
“Deal.”
Neil grabbed the colorful bar towel from Cal’s shoulder, wiped his hands off, then shook my hand. “Good to see you, Chris.”
“You too. I was sorry to hear about your apartment. I was there when firefighters were finishing up.”
A new customer arrived and took a seat at the far end of the bar. Cal left to see what the newcomer wanted.
“Everything is gone but my old jalopy, plus some clothes I had in the trunk.”
“Where were you when it happened?”
“Working. With the parade going on, it was a big day here. I normally wouldn’t have been here for lunch on Saturday, but Cal asked me to come in. I need all the hours I can get.”
“I’m glad you weren’t in your apartment. Any idea what started it?”
“I hear rumors it was arson. Got a couple of ideas, but nothing to back them up.”
“What—”
Charles magically appeared behind me before I could get Neil to share his ideas.
“Hey, Neil, Chris, sorry I’m late.”
“Late for what?” Neil said.
Excellent question, I thought.
“Meeting Chris. Figured I’d beat him like I always do.”
“Neil,” Cal said from behind the bar. “My buddy over there wants a cheeseburger. Let’s don’t keep him waiting.”
“I’d better get cookin’,” he said as he smiled at his boss.
“Did I miss anything?” Charles said as Neil headed to the kitchen.
Cal handed Charles a Budweiser, another correct assumption by the bartender. He and I headed to a vacant table. The only other customers were the man at the bar plus the three undertaker look-alikes.