No Joke

by Bill Noel

  I returned to reality when I heard him say, “Let me leave you with two bits of advice. First, when everything seems to be coming your way, you’re in the wrong lane. And folks, a day without a smile is a day wasted. Thank you.”

  Sincere laughter and applause followed as Wallace bowed twice before reaching down and lifting the container holding his son. He kissed the box and walked back to the table.

  It could have been the poor lighting, but I thought I saw a tear roll down his cheek. Was Wallace a killer, a man grappling with reality, or a grieving father?

  Or, all three?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  It was after midnight before the party at Cal’s broke up. The comics were on a high after their performances. While Sal kept referring to the large venues where they had entertained on numerous occasions, the three seemed exhilarated by the reception they’d received at lowly Cal’s.

  Janice had drifted away after Wallace finished his set.

  Several customers stopped by the table to congratulate the entertainers, which, boosted by several beers, gave them, as Sal had interpreted their comments to mean, “A night to remember.”

  The main thing I remembered as I fell out of bed the next morning was how late I’d stayed at the bar. I also remembered that, in a moment of weakness, I’d agreed to meet Charles for breakfast. Fortunately, showing a glimmer of wisdom, I’d suggested we meet at 9:00, an hour or so later than we usually frequented the Dog.

  My friend was already in the booth when I arrived. He made a weak effort to goad me into feeling guilty about being late, which, of course, I wasn’t.

  Amber was quick with coffee, quick to let me know she knew where we’d spent last night. She asked if I had as much fun as Charles. I told her I didn’t know since I didn’t know how much fun Charles had. She told me comedy wasn’t my forte. I told her I was serious. She said, “Whatever,” before leaving to wait on another table.

  Charles took a sip, rubbed his temples, and said, “Thomas Jefferson said, ‘Beer, if drunk in moderation, softens the temper, cheers the spirit, and promotes health.’ If last night’s an indication, somewhere along the line, moderation must have been thrown out the window. I’m irritated, nowhere near cheered, and feel like I’ve been run over by a bull elephant.”

  He looked like it as well. He had on the Emerson College T-shirt he’d worn at Cal’s, and his hair looked like it’d spent time in a food blender.

  “What’s wrong? Didn’t you have a good time?”

  He continued to rub his temples. “The guys were funnier than I thought they’d be. The wannabes weren’t bad. I thought Franny was as good as Sal. But … oh, never mind.”

  “Charles?”

  He lifted his mug then set it back down. “When the funny men were on stage, I kept thinking of Heather and how much she lived for standing behind that microphone, strumming and singing. I kept thinking about how much I liked … no, how much I loved her, how much I prayed that she could’ve had the life she wanted.” He hesitated and looked toward the door. “Kept thinking about how I failed her, how I couldn’t give her the one thing she wanted with all her heart and soul.” He looked at me with his bloodshot eyes. “Now, she’s gone.”

  I was at a loss for words when Charles looked at the door a second time and smiled.

  I turned to see Cal in the entry.

  Charles waved him over.

  I thought Charles looked bad, although he actually looked like a GQ model compared to Cal. I must’ve missed the memo about wearing the same clothes from yesterday. Cal’s rhinestone-covered coat appeared to have been run over by the same bull elephant that had stomped on Charles. His shirt was so wrinkled it made a mummy’s face look Botoxed.

  Cal put his arm around Amber’s waist and whispered something to her before making his way to the table.

  “What’re you doing up this early?” I asked.

  Cal removed his Stetson, put it on the seat beside him, and to no avail, ran his hand through his unruly hair. “Can’t be up unless you’ve been down,” he said, sounding like a line from a country song.

  Charles asked, “You haven’t been to bed?”

  “Does it show?”

  Instead of screaming yes, I said, “How come?”

  “Was 2:00 when I ran out the last bunch of drunks. I had to do a heap of cyphering to try to get my cash drawer to balance.”

  Charles said, “Did it?”

  “Nope.”

  Charles was on the hunt. “Off by how much?”

  “Two big ones.”

  “Two hundred dollars,” Charles said.

  “That’s what I said?”

  Charles nodded, although it wasn’t what Cal had said. “What happened to it?”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here looking like cow crap. I ain’t got a clue.”

  I said, “Think it was stolen?”

  “Did you miss ain’t got a clue?”

  I was tempted to smile, but Cal was serious.

  Charles said, “What are you going to do?”

  Amber set a mug of coffee in front of Cal.

  “Thank ya darlin’,” Cal said, as only he can without sounding sexist.

  He took a sip then said, “Nothing I can do. No use crying over spilt C notes. Hell, it was a great night. Ain’t ever seen that many customers on a Sunday, and I hate to admit, the Legends weren’t half bad.”

  It was interesting how money disappeared whenever the Legends were around. “Are you going to have them back next Sunday?”

  Cal chuckled. “Before he left, Sal inched up to me, said that he’d have to confab with his business manager. If a mutually prosperous arrangement could be lassoed, the Legends could break free for another gig. To this old cowpoke’s ears, that meant I’d be hard pressed to stop them from doing their thing. They’ve got a business manager like I’ve got a mansion in Beverly Hills.”

  I said, “The tips were enough to keep them coming back?”

  “Not bad, but I’ll tell you one thing, they didn’t come close to covering the tab for the Legends. The buds at Budweiser live for groups like the beer-guzzling Legends. My horse would’ve choked on the roll of cash Wallace pulled out of his pocket to pay for their night of partying.”

  That got Charles’s attention, although not for the reason that struck me. He said, “You have a horse?”

  Cal shook his head. “Charles, you read all those books, so I thought you’d grasp symbolism if I laid some on you. I ain’t got a camel, a chimpanzee, or a horse. Wallace had a roll of cash.”

  Charles said, “Thought the funny guys were broke. Where’d he get a wad of cash?”

  “Do I look like a money tracing, FBI bean counter?”

  “A forensic accountant,” Charles corrected.

  Cal smiled. “See, you do get something out of those books. I don’t have an idea the size of an atom where he got it. It was cash. That green stuff spends pretty good in Cal’s.”

  Charles would be, in Cal vernacular, a great bronc rider. Once he grabs on, there’s no letting go. “He didn’t say—”

  “Charles,” Cal interrupted, “I don’t know.”

  Charles paused and let Cal’s definitive statement soak in before trying another approach. “What else did he say?”

  “Charles, I ain’t Leonard Bernstein, that Watergate reporter. I ain’t got a recorder or one of those photogenic memories.”

  “Carl Bernstein,” Charles corrected, referring to one of the reporters who uncovered the Watergate scandal, further proof that he’d read most of his books.

  “Whoever. The point is, Wallace didn’t share where the money came from. He was too curious to give me the history of his paper money.”

  “Curious about what?” I asked.

  “Remember when Janice came over?”

  I reminded him that I was the one who invited her to the table.

  “After she left, Wallace asked me who she was. I figured, since everyone kept calling her Janice, that wasn’t what he was searching f
or. I told him about her and her hubby and that she’d come in the bar a few times. I’m practicing being as nosy as you, Charles, so I asked him why he wanted to know.”

  Charles smiled and said, “You’re a wise man, Cal. What’d he say?”

  “Wallace said she looked familiar. I told him he could’ve seen her in the bar. He said that wasn’t it. He thought he remembered seeing her somewhere in town.”

  Charles said, “He didn’t say where?”

  “Charles, my memory bank’s overdrawn. He didn’t say where. I didn’t ask. That’s that.”

  My memory bank wasn’t in as poor a shape as Cal’s. Something began to click. Wallace had told me that he’d seen the body of someone, presumably Michael Hardin, near the beach. Janice was irate with Michael because of a bet he claimed she didn’t place, and she owed him money. According to both Cal and Amber, Janice has a quick temper. It didn’t take an Olympic-length leap to think that Wallace, during a period where he and reality had split ways, could have seen Janice near Michael’s body.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Charles said he needed to go back to his apartment to clean. He once told me that he cleans every eight months, whether it needs it or not. I took it as another sign of depression. Cal said he had to get home, needed to “sleep a spell” before opening the bar.

  I wished him well and realized that I didn’t have to be anywhere, or do anything, but wasn’t ready to go home. It turned out to be a gorgeous day. The rain that disrupted Cal’s open-mic comedy night had moved out to sea. It was in the mid-seventies with a few puffy, white clouds filtering the sun. A walk to the end of the Folly Pier would meet my need to avoid going home. On the way to the end of the pier, I stopped twice to take in the view of the beach and the Atlantic, to savor the moment and how fortunate I was to live where thousands of people save money all year to vacation.

  I reached the end of the structure and saw a familiar face seated on one of the wooden benches, looking out at the waves. I almost didn’t recognize Marvin Peters, a.k.a. Pete Marvin, since he wasn’t in stage garb. He looked like thousands of other locals and vacationers in his tan shorts, a short-sleeve Reebok T-shirt, and tennis shoes.

  He stared at me, did a double take before smiling recognition.

  “Great show,” I said as I leaned against the railing near his bench.

  His smile widened. “You think so?”

  I crossed my fingers. “Sure. Thought all of you were great.”

  “I appreciate that, but my timing was off. You’d be surprised how rusty I get after a layoff. Suppose it’s like a pro athlete after off-season.”

  This could be a chance to get a non-PR version of what they’ve been doing.

  “You’ve been off a while?”

  “Wallace and Sal would kill me if they heard me say this.” He looked around like they might be hiding behind the steps to the second level of the pier. “Hell, I don’t care. Until that first night in Cal’s, we hadn’t had a gig in five months.” He chuckled. “I’d say we’re down to our last penny, but that’d make us sound rich.”

  “I’m surprised. You’re so good, I would have figured you’d be booked all the time.”

  A little sucking up couldn’t hurt, and it may keep him talking.

  “I appreciate the smoke you’re puffing up my butt. Stand-up comedy is a young person’s game. Sure, there are a few old farts still making it. For most of us, big shows, big crowds, big paychecks are in the rearview mirror.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, entertaining is what keeps us going, and, umm, if you tell Cal I said this, I’ll hunt you down and feed you to the sharks out there.” He hesitated and pointed out to sea. “We’d play his bar without as much as tips, if he’d let us.” He looked down and back at the ocean. “Sal and I would. Don’t know about Wallace, poor guy.” He looked down again.

  “Why poor guy?”

  His brow wrinkled. “We’ve been together a long time. When Sal first thought his brother was having Alzheimer’s problems, he talked us into coming with him. He’s a good guy, wanted to do what he could to help his brother. Hell, it’s not like we had anything else to do, so we said why not. Wallace, sometimes, has trouble with what’s real. He came, but he didn’t like us butting in Theo’s world, and hates us bumming off him. When we discovered that Theo’s mind was okay, his problem was his hearing, Wallace flipped. He said we needed to move on and make some money.”

  Now that Pete had opened the door, I figured that I’d better slip through before it slams shut.

  “Curious. I was thinking about Wallace’s confusing things. Did he say anything about seeing the dead body on the beach?”

  “I’ve been hanging with Wallace for years. A long time ago, he had trouble with prescription drugs. He had a bad leg break from a car wreck, got hooked on pain pills. He worked his way out of it. God knows, it wasn’t easy. I don’t know if it had anything to do with that or not, but his memory started slipping. He slips back in time, now more than ever.”

  I wondered if he’d forgotten my question about Wallace seeing a body. I didn’t want to stop him from sharing. Charles would kick me out of the nosy club, but I was determined to wait.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Wallace is a good friend; he’d do anything for the rest of us. Some days, I’m not certain that he knows what decade he’s in. Other times, he’s as lucid as an astronaut.” He smiled. “About now, I reckon that you’re wondering where I’m going with this story, if I’m going to get to your question about the dead guy.”

  I returned his smile. “It crossed my mind.”

  “I’m saying this because Wallace told me about the body. He could’ve been remembering something from thirty years ago as easily as what had happened the day he said it.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Said he was walking on the beach. Instead of walking near the water, he decided to move closer to the dune’s fences that are up by the line of whatever those tall things are.”

  “Sea oats,” I said.

  “If you say so. Anyway, he was up there, saw a clump of dead guy, that’s how he said it, clump. Said he was sure the guy was dead because of how his head was twisted.”

  “He say anything else?”

  “He mumbled something about a person nearby.”

  “Did he say anything else about the person?”

  “Don’t recall.”

  Wallace had to be talking about Michael Hardin, not something he dredged from ancient history.

  “Pete, I found the body. Wallace’s description was spot on. Did he say anything that led you to believe that what he was talking about took place in the past, not the day before he told you?”

  “No.”

  This is where it was going to get tricky. I knew what his answer was going to be.

  “You know that Wallace had told a couple of people that he killed the man.”

  Pete looked out to sea and gave a tentative nod.

  “Could he have?”

  I was prepared for an outburst and a robust denial.

  Pete continued to look out to sea. “It’s possible.”

  That stopped me. I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.

  I tiptoed on. “Why?”

  “Remember what I said about us being broke?”

  I nodded.

  He turned back to me. “Did you notice our new stage outfits?”

  “Yes.”

  “Theo’s been paying for everything since we got here. He’s been super generous. Wallace bought the outfits. Don’t know where he got the money. He also bought our drinks after the show.”

  “You think he killed the bookie to rob him?”

  “Wallace would never have hurt the guy, never would hurt anybody, unless the man put up a fight. Even then, he only would’ve tried to stop him. Wallace is a good man, a good friend.”

  “Did Wallace say anything about what he found? Tell me again what he said about a person b
eing nearby.”

  “Just what I told you. A woman was nearby.”

  “You didn’t say it was a woman.”

  He shrugged. “That’s what he said.”

  That reminded me how Cal said that Wallace had asked him about Janice when he met her at open-mic night.

  “Did Wallace say anything about a woman named Janice? She was at our table at Cal’s.”

  “I remember someone introducing a gal. I don’t remember her name. Wallace didn’t mention anyone by name after that. He was excited that so many people enjoyed the show. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. Wallace asked Cal about her, and I thought she might’ve been mentioned.”

  Pete smiled. “In his younger days, Wallace prided himself on being able to woo the young ladies from the audience into, umm, more intimate venues. He forgets that he’s not the stud he used to be. It doesn’t surprise me that he was asking about a chick. He must’ve forgotten by the time we got back to Theo’s.”

  “Would you be willing to tell the police what you told me about Wallace and the body?”

  He shook his head. “The police have already talked to Wallace. He told us he confessed to killing the man. I suppose they checked it out and didn’t believe him since he’s still on the free side of prison bars.”

  I don’t know what Wallace had told Pete about his confession, but I knew he told the police that he killed the bookie with a candlestick in the library. Pete’s version made more sense. I wasn’t in a position to push him.

  “Remember anything else he said?”

  “Chris, I wasn’t avoiding your question about talking to the police. Okay, I guess I was. You must understand, Wallace gets confused. When he was telling me about the body, he could have been talking about something from his memory that he thought he saw forty years ago. I don’t want to get my friend in trouble over something that may not have happened in this century. Something that may not have ever happened. Memory is a strange thing, often wrong. You understand, don’t you?”