Star-Spangled Rejects

by J. T. Livingston

  Stella stepped forward and was almost unrecognizable to her former group of homeless friends. She cleaned up rather well for an old bag lady; she looked almost presentable. She shuffled around Officer O’Brady and stood directly behind Skipper. She looked each of the men squarely in the eye before stopping at Skipper. She pointed her bony finger at him. “That one—he’s the one who slammed poor Norman’s head against that concrete wall over there, and all because poor Norman had stolen a piece of cake from him. He’s the one!”

  Officer O’Brady moved to the left side of Stella and looked down at the man sitting on the ground. “Stand up!” he ordered.

  Skipper kept his groans to himself as his old bones grimaced beneath the cold ground when he pushed himself to a standing position. He brushed the dirt off his jeans and turned to face Stella and Officer O’Brady. He was almost two inches taller than most of the men there, and he slowly straightened himself to his full height. “Anything you say, Officer,” he replied.

  Thomas O’Brady paled visibly when he saw Skipper, but he was careful not to give any indication of recognition. Instead, he motioned to one of the other officers to cuff Skipper, while he read him his Miranda rights. When he had finished, he instructed the third officer to get everyone’s name and contact information.

  When all that had been accomplished, the three officers led Skipper away, and Stella crawled back inside her makeshift tent—but, not before she grabbed most of the food and coffee from the bags that Doug had dropped on the ground.

  CHAPTER 12

  Changes in the Air

  The morning crowd at the Heavenly Grille Café on the morning of Thursday, January 28, filled every table in the room. There were a few vacant seats available at the counter when Jason opened the door and looked upward when the angel chimes sounded.

  Doug met him and shook hands. He smiled at Jason’s reaction to the chimes. “Those were Bertie’s idea, but with as many people that come in out and of that door, they can become a little distracting and irritating at times.”

  Jason shook his head. “Naw, I kinda like the way they sound.”

  Doug thought that Jason looked uncomfortable in the crowded room, so he placed a hand on his shoulder and ushered him toward the counter section. “Come this way. Joe and Bernard are already here. I’m glad the three of you took me up on the offer to stay in the spare apartment last night.”

  Jason exhaled and shook his head. “Well, it was pretty cold out last night, and I think that after what happened with Skipper, we all needed a temporary change of scenery.” He took a seat next to Joe at the counter. “Morning, fellas.”

  Joe and Bernard stopped eating long enough to shake hands with Jason.

  “I hope we didn’t wake you,” Bernard grinned, “But, we could smell this awesome food from upstairs, and couldn’t wait any longer.”

  “Yeah,” Joe laughed, getting back to the huge bowl of cheese and bacon grits. “You’ve gotta try some of these grits, kid. You’re gonna love ‘em!”

  Jason picked up the cup of hot coffee that Doug had sat before him on the counter, and took a long sip. He turned to glance out the café’s huge front window, to the wooded area across the street. “What about Stella? Has anyone seen her this morning? I can’t believe she wouldn’t take the opportunity to get in out of the cold last night. There was plenty of floor space in the apartment.”

  Doug shook his head. “No, I went over early this morning with some food and coffee, but she was nowhere to be found. I’m guessing, maybe, she didn’t want a confrontation with any of us.”

  Jason sat his cup down and rubbed his face between his palms. He closed his eyes for a minute and sighed. “I can’t believe what she said…I don’t believe what she said. There’s got to be something we can do for Skipper.”

  “Well,” Joe said. “He was missing from the group when we all woke up from Stella’s screaming that night.

  Jason stared at Joe and said, “If you remember, Joe, I was missing from the group that night, too.”

  “But you would never do anything to hurt poor Norman,” Joe denied.

  “And you think Skipper would?” Jason asked.

  “No, of course not,” Bernard chimed in. “None of us believe that Skipper had anything to do with Norman’s death, and especially not over a piece of cake, like Stella said. No…no, Stella is lying, but the question is, why? What does she stand to gain from all this.”

  “Well, she looked like she was all rested and cleaned up,” Joe added. “She didn’t look like she’s been sleeping out in the cold for the past few days. She would need money to stay at a motel, and I don’t think Stella has any money.”

  “I think there’s probably a lot that we don’t know about Stella,” Jason said. “Hell, we don’t know a lot about Skipper either, but I’d be willing to bet my life that he would never do what she said he did. I’m pretty sure he’s more the type who would walk away from trouble first.”

  “Why do you say that, Jason?” Doug asked.

  Jason lifted the coffee cup again and looked Doug directly in the eyes. “Because he’s seen too much death in his life time…because he’s been a part of too much death in his life time.” He shook his head adamantly. “No. Skipper had nothing to do with what happened to Norman. I’m sure of that.”

  “How can we help him?” Joe asked. “We probably don’t have a hundred dollars between us right now.”

  Jason stood up abruptly and turned to leave.

  Doug moved quickly to his side. “Don’t leave, Jason. Please, have something to eat first.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Jason replied.

  Doug pulled a key from his pants pocket and handed it to Jason. “Take this, please. It’s a spare key to the apartment upstairs. I’ve given Joe and Bernard one, too. The three of you are free to stay there until this cold weather passes, or as long as you need to.”

  Jason stared at the key. He wanted to take it, but he did not want to feel obligated or committed to anyone for anything. He reached out reluctantly and took the key. “Thanks. I’ll take it until we have found a way to help Skipper. That might be easier to do with clear minds and warmer hands.”

  “So, where are you going now?” Doug asked.

  Jason sighed and shrugged. “I’m going to try to find Stella. She has the answers—I’m sure of that. I don’t know why she said what she did, but I intend to find out.”

  Doug sighed. He was relieved to know that the three men would have a warm place to sleep for as long as they chose to stay. “Wait here, okay. Let me, at least, get you a couple of biscuits to go. We’ll be waiting for you later today. I hope you can find her.”

  Jason watched Doug rush back into the kitchen. “Oh, I will find her…I will,” he thought.

  On the other side of town, inside their 5,000 square foot mini-mansion, Rae Blankenship was reprimanding their cook about her tasteless food. She pushed her plate away in disgust. “This tastes like cardboard. Where in the world did you learn to cook, Prissy? I swear, the only thing worse than your cooking is your miserable attempt at housekeeping.” She pushed the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon away from her.

  Priscilla Carson had been Ernest Blankenship’s housekeeper for eighteen years. Elizabeth Blankenship had befriended her one cold day in 1998 by offering her a ride home. Elizabeth had seen the old, black woman struggling with two bags of groceries, outside a neighborhood grocery store. This was a couple of years before Ernest Blankenship acquired his first car dealership, and before they could really afford hired help. However, Elizabeth took money from her own meager paycheck to pay Prissy a small salary and a room of her own in their small house. Prissy had been almost sixty then, and she counted her blessings and thanked God that Elizabeth Blankenship had found her when she did. She knew she was too old to still be working, but she had no family and no place to go. When Elizabeth passed away, Ernest assured her that she would have a home with them for as long as she wanted to stay.

  Prissy shuffled to the breakfast
table and removed the plate of uneaten food. “Mr. Ernest can’t be having no salt in his eggs. His blood pressure is way too high, as it is.” She scraped the food off the plate, and into the garbage disposal. “I would be glad to make you something else, Mrs. Blankenship.”

  Rae smoothed her hair and stood up. “Don’t bother. I have errands to run. I’m sure I can find something more edible in town. By the way, please make sure I have fresh sheets on my bed today.”

  “But I just changed them yesterday, ma’am…”

  Rae placed her hands on her hips and looked at the old woman with disgust. “And, you will change them again today, Prissy. Are we clear on that?”

  Prissy began to rinse the dishes before placing them in the dishwasher. “Yes, ma’am. I will change your sheets again today.”

  Ernest Blankenship entered the kitchen from the back staircase and inhaled the aroma of the cooked bacon. “My, something sure smells good, Prissy!” He nodded at Rae. “Good morning, dear.”

  Rae looked at him for a long minute. She didn’t want to discuss their private business in front of Prissy, but she was more than eager to find out why he had slept in one of the guest rooms, for the third consecutive night. “Good morning, Ernest. I trust you slept well?”

  Ernest looked at her, smiled, and lifted his brows. “Why, yes, I did—I slept like a baby. Thank you for asking.” He sat down at the large table in the kitchen; he much preferred to eat in the kitchen than in the huge formal dining room. He and Elizabeth had always shared breakfast together in the kitchen with Prissy. He opened up the newspaper and accepted the mug of hot coffee Prissy offered. Ernest glanced toward his wife. “You’re all dressed up, dear. Going somewhere, are we?”

  Rae looked stunning in her black leggings and long, gold silk shirt. A black belt accentuated her still, tiny waist. Her long auburn hair was up in a tidy bun and her green eyes sparkled. If only her balding, fat husband knew what errand she really had to run—but, no, she had made every effort to keep her many affairs discreet and brief. “I have several errands to run, so I will be out most of the day. Will I see you for dinner tonight?”

  Ernest looked up at her and secretly chided himself again for having married so quickly after Elizabeth passed away. If he had it all to do over again, he would have handled things so differently; but, he had made a commitment to this woman, and he would keep it. He knew he would have to get over the feelings of disappointment he was currently experiencing and do whatever he could to make the most of this marriage. He did not believe in divorce. He stood up and walked over to his wife. He took her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Yes, of course, you will.” He looked over at Prissy and smiled. “Maybe Prissy can make us an extra-special dinner tonight.”

  Prissy grinned and nodded.

  Rae stiffened against her husband’s soft and flabby stomach. “Why don’t I have something special catered in for us tonight? There’s a fabulous new five-star restaurant downtown that I’ve been dying to try.”

  “Would you rather I take you out to dinner?” Ernest offered.

  Rae shook her head and looked up at him, a coy smile on her lips. “Oh, no…I’ll have it catered. Maybe we could even have the meal…in our room tonight, in front of the fire place?”

  Skipper lay stretched out on the single cot in his cell. His left knee was bent and the palms of his hands cupped the back of his neck. His eyes were closed when he heard heavy footsteps approaching. He sighed when the steps stopped at his cell. He had a fairly good idea who it was before he cocked open one eye. He rolled his head to the left and said, “I’d invite you in, but the place is a mess.” He rolled his head back to the center and stared at the ceiling. When it was obvious that his visitor wasn’t going to leave, he sat up on the cot and pushed himself to a standing position.

  “Good morning, Skipper,” Officer O’Brady smiled and removed his hat. “I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing, and to let you know that we ran your fingerprints early this morning.”

  “Let me guess,” Skipper stretched and walked over to his cell door. “You found out everything you ever wanted to know about me, but were afraid to ask.”

  Thomas O’Brady grabbed a hold of the bars and stared directly into Skipper’s face. “I did, yes. For instance, I know that your real name is Gordon Whiting and that you come from a small town in upstate New York.”

  “I was born there, yes,” Skipper grinned. “But, I don’t consider it home by any means. I left there when I was seventeen and have only been back twice since then.”

  “We talked to your brother, too.”

  Skipper stiffened. “There was no need to drag him into any of this. Besides, the last I heard, he’s not well, so let’s just leave him out of this, alright?”

  “That’s your call, Skipper. He did ask me to tell you that he has been worried about you, and that he was glad to hear that you’re still alive.”

  Skipper was quiet for a moment. “I haven’t checked in with him in almost a year now. Did he sound okay to you?”

  Thomas nodded. “He did, yes. His voice was strong, and he sounded very relieved to know that you were okay.”

  “Did you tell him that you arrested me?”

  “I did. He seemed very surprised.”

  “Yeah, well…like I said, leave him out of this.”

  Officer O’Brady had his own quiet moment before clearing his throat. “For the record, Skipper. I don’t believe you are guilty of what Mrs. Sieber has accused you of, but, unless you talk to me, or to someone else, there’s no way to clear you of this crime.”

  “It’s her word against mine, right?” Skipper grinned. “Two homeless people—who are you going to believe?”

  Thomas shook his head. “It’s not that easy. She puts you at the scene, Skipper. She identified you as the person who forcefully pushed Norman Weissman against a concrete wall, for stealing your food.”

  “She’s lying,” Skipper snapped. “Don’t tell me you believe anything she said. I don’t know why she’s lying, but she is; for some reason, she’s decided to mark me.”

  “Who do you think is responsible for Mr. Weissman’s death? Do you think it was Stella?”

  Skipper’s laugh was more of a crackle. “Really? Is that the best you can come up with—Stella?”

  The officer shook his head. “No, of course not. The old woman barely has the physical strength to push herself up, much less, push a man the size of Norman against a concrete wall hard enough to crack his skull.”

  “You have no physical evidence connecting me to Norman’s death,” Skipper stated matter-of-factly. “You can keep me locked up in here as long as you want, but no jury is going to convict me without more evidence to go on than some old bag lady’s warped testimony. I’ll take my chances in court.”

  “Do you have an attorney?”

  “Nope. I’ll let the wonderful city of Rome and its judicial system appoint one for me.”

  “Oh, before I forget about it, one of the officers will be bringing your notebook to you later today, the one with your poems in it.”

  “That’s great, thanks.”

  Thomas started to leave, but stopped and looked back at Skipper. “We’ve talked to everyone who stayed at the camp site with you—except for one person—Peggy Jensen. Her doctor said her short-term memory is gone—could be temporary, or could be permanent, so there’s no need to interview her until that situation improves. Is there anyone who can vouch for you, Skipper…anyone who can verify that you weren’t at the camp ground when this all went down?”

  Skipper turned and walked back to his cot and sat down. “Seems to me that there are three people who know, for sure, the truth of what happened that night—me, Stella, and Norman. Norman’s dead, and I’m locked up in here, so if I were a betting man, I would say that your best bet would be to talk to Stella again—find out why she’s lying—or who she’s lying for might be a better way to approach things.”

  “Oh, I intend to do that,” Officer
O’Brady said. “I actually went back to the camp site early this morning, before my shift started, but nobody was there. It looks like everyone has cleared out for good.”

  Skipper lay back down on his cot and stretched out again. “Well, I can’t say that I blame them. I was a hop, skip, and jump away from moving on myself.” He closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He was more worried about his predicament than he dared to let on. “I sure didn’t think a jail cell would be my final stopping point…my final chapter.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The Week After

  During the next week, Kirk Blankenship had tracked down Stella and given her the five hundred dollars he had promised her. She, in turn, promised him that she would leave town that very night. She lied; instead, the stubborn streak in her won out. She was determined that no punk kid was going to run her out of town. She took his money, paid in advance for a month at a skank motel on the outskirts of town, and proceeded to continue living her life the way she chose to—not the way some rich, punky teenager told her to live it. She felt no remorse for the lies she told the police, and later provided them with a video-taped recording of what she had seen. She had managed to stay under their radar since the night she led the police to the camp site.

  Joe Sanders had used the café’s phone to call his oldest daughter, who was almost nine months pregnant with his first grandchild. He had not been sure what kind of reception he would receive, especially since he had not made any contact with his family since he had left home four years ago. His daughter, Mandy, cried when she heard her father’s voice, and Joe cried along with her. She begged him to come home so that her child would grow up knowing his grandfather. Joe had promised her that he would find a way to be there for the baby’s birth.