Star-Spangled Rejects (The Heavenly Grille Café Book 3)

by J. T. Livingston

  “If you talk to him again, Andrew, please tell him that he is more than welcome. It’s probably not necessary, but you might want to remind him again how important it is to keep the angels’ secret. He should not even tell Miss Izzie the truth about them.”

  “You don’t have to worry about Amos saying anything. That is one secret he will carry to his grave, and I’m pretty sure Miss Amanda will, too.”

  “Oh, I don’t worry about Amanda keeping the secret. She may want to tell that new husband of hers, Tyler Foster, the truth one day, but, she won’t. She will leave it up to Max. If Max feels it is safe to disclose their true identities to anyone, I trust his decision to do so.”

  There was a moment of silence between the two men. Just as Andrew was about to leave, he turned and asked something that had been on his mind. “It’s really none of my business, Mr. Martin, but, just how long have you and Mr. Max known each other?”

  Martin threw back his head and clapped his hands. “It might be easier to figure out how long we HAVEN’T known each other, Andrew! As a matter of fact—and, not many people know this—but, Max and I fought in the Colosseum together.”

  “No! No way! You were a gladiator, Mr. Martin?” Andrew was more than a little surprised.

  Martin stood erect and lifted his head high. “Don’t let my scrawny build fool you, dear boy. The Emperor certainly did not expect me to survive very long, but with Max’s help, I lasted much longer than anyone ever thought I would.”

  Andrew shook his head. “I can’t believe it—you and Mr. Max—gladiators.” His mood sobered when he continued. “I can’t begin to imagine what life for the two of you must have been like.”

  Martin draped an arm over the younger man’s broad shoulders and laughed. “Come on, Andrew. I need to take a break. I’ll walk back with you and tell you about mine and Max’s days together. I don’t get to tell the story often.”

  During the next couple of hours, Martin educated Andrew on what life was like for him and Max in ancient Rome. He described a few of the different categories of Gladiators: the andabatae, who fought with helmets that had no eye-holes; the bestiarius who fought against beasts; the cestus who was a boxer or fist-fighter; the crupellarii who were slave gladiators equipped with a continuous shell of iron; the equites who were usually equipped with horses and heavy armor; the tertiaries who often served as a substitute if an advertised gladiator was unable to fight; and, the velites who were referred to as skirmishers and fought on foot, holding a spear with an attached thong for throwing.

  “I never realized there were so many different kinds of gladiators,” Andrew mused. “What kind exactly were the two of you?”

  “I usually fell into the tertiaries category,” Martin explained. “In some of the games, there were often three men matched against one another. The first two would battle, one would die, and the winner would be required to fight the third man. I was usually that third man, which is probably the only thing that kept me living as long as I did. The winner was usually so tired by the time he got to me, and I was very quick on my feet, so it made it easy for me to win. The times they used me as a substitute, though, were the times I did not think I would survive to see another fight.”

  “What about Mr. Max? He’s so big and strong. Was he always that way?”

  Martin nodded profusely. “Oh, my, yes! Max was even bigger and stronger as a gladiator than he is as an angel on earth—if you can imagine that. Maximus was a bestiary; he fought only against the meanest and hungriest animals they could find.”

  “If y’all were in such different categories, how did you become such good friends?”

  “We actually met when we were both ordered to bury the mound of dead bodies left over from two days of entertainment for the elite Romans. The regular slaves usually carried out this task, but for some reason, Max had earned the ire of one of the lanistas—today, you would probably refer to him as a pimp for the slave gladiators. This man pointed out Max and me to be the ones to bury thirty of our comrades. I had almost lost my own fight that day and could hardly drag myself to a standing position. The lanista was ready to strike me dead, I believe, when Maximus pulled me up and marched me alongside him. We did our best to look out for the other from that point on.”

  Andrew cleared his throat. “This might not be an appropriate question, Mr. Martin, but…how exactly did the two of you die? You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to, just tell me to quit being nosey and mind my own business…”

  Martin sighed and stopped walking. “No, I don’t mind answering your questions, Andrew. It’s just that it’s been a long, long time since anyone has asked me about these things. It truly does seem like it was a life time ago. There was so much pain and agony, but somehow, Maximus and I found moments of light and hope. We both shared a strong belief and faith in God, and that’s probably what got us through that time—that, and having each other to fall back on. No, I don’t mind your questions.” He took a deep breath before continuing, “Actually, I died first. In fact, I guess you could say that I died in Max’s place.”

  “I don’t understand,” Andrew spoke softly.

  “Well, Max was supposed to open the day’s events. He usually did that—opened the events—unless the showings were not as impressive as the Emperor expected them to be; in those cases, he would always save Max’s performance for last. But, on the day I died, Max became extremely ill—probably with what we know as pneumonia these days. He was unable to perform, so I was brought in to substitute. The trouble was, that Max was supposed to be the finale performance that day, and I had already fought two battles of my own; I barely scraped by winning the last one. My lanista ordered me to fill in as a substitute for Maximus. Mind you now, I had absolutely no experience fighting animals like Max did. They threw me in the ring and I immediately tripped over my own two feet. The audience roared with laughter. All I had to fight the animals with was a lone spear. Maximus usually killed the animals with his bare hands; needless to say, I did not possess the physical strength and fortitude to do that, so they, also, provided me with a knife. I never got the chance to use the knife. They released not only one lion for me to fight, but two lions. Trust me, dear friend, I never stood a chance, but I gave it all I had to give. One lion attacked me from the front, and the other pounced from the rear.”

  “What a horrible way to die…” Andrew was quiet and solemn.

  Martin decided to lighten the mood. “Oh, goodness, yes—those creatures ripped me to shreds, but, with me weighing in at only one-hundred thirty pounds, they barely got enough to whet their appetites. My lanista rushed into the ring to help secure the beasts, and, as fate would have it, those lions turned on him and completed their meal.” Martin clapped his hands and smiled. “Forgive me, I should not be clapping over the death of any man, but, lanistas were NOT very charitable or honorable people. They cared only for themselves and treated all gladiators as nothing more than garbage. Needless to say, you won’t find any of them sharing Heaven with us! Oh, dear, I shall have to ask God for forgiveness, again, for the feelings I continue to have toward that man.”

  “Wow, that is some story, Mr. Martin. I have to admit, I’ve always wondered what your past was—you know, just common curiosity on my part—but, I still cannot imagine you as a gladiator, no, sirree.”

  “Well, Andrew, whatever you do, do not repeat that story to Bertie. She has asked me dozens of times to tell her my story, or tried to get it out of Max, but Max always tells her that it is my story to tell. I will tell her one of these days, but not yet. Quite frankly, I enjoy teasing her, knowing that I know something that she is so curious about!”

  “What about Mr. Max? How did his end come about?”

  Martin grasped his hands behind his back and continued on their walk. “Maximus was the best gladiator of our time. He could have been placed into any category and been the best, but the lanistas kept him as a bestiarius for another ten years. He had earned retirement and was only one fight awa
y from that happening; however, his lanista wanted to impress the crowd, so he surprised Max by turning four lions loose on him. He usually only had to fight two at a time; once, he had to fight three, but this last time, it was four. He had killed three of them, but was bleeding profusely from a bite to his stomach. The smell of his blood gave the fourth lion what it needed to claim victory. They stalked each other and just as Max lifted his knife, blood gushed from his wound and he glanced down. The remaining lion took advantage and went in for the kill. He grabbed Max by the throat and dragged him around the arena like a rag doll. Naturally, the crowd loved it. The more they clapped and roared encouragement, the more the lion shook Max’s body. They had to kill the lion in order to get it to release its hold on Max.”

  A tear escaped from Andrew’s eye. He wiped it away. “I didn’t think there was supposed to be any tears in Heaven, but I just feel so bad for Mr. Max. I had no idea…”

  Martin wiped Andrew’s cheek. “You think that was a tear of sadness, Andrew, but it wasn’t. Just because we are in Heaven does not mean that we do not feel empathy for whatever someone has had to endure in their life time.”

  “I didn’t know there was a difference,” Andrew smiled.

  Martin shrugged. “Eh…it’s a thin line, I’m sure. That’s enough of rehashing the past. Look! We’re at your home and I do believe I see your mother waving to us from the porch.”

  Andrew looked toward his mansion and waved back at his mother. He took Martin’s hand and said, “Thank you for sharing your story with me.”

  Martin nodded. “The pleasure was all mine, Andrew, but remember what I said!”

  Andrew laughed and hugged Martin farewell. “I won’t forget, Mr. Martin—Bertie won’t hear it from me!”

  “For there is not a just man on earth who does good and does not sin.” Ecclesiastes 7:10 (NKJV)

  CHAPTER 11

  Mid-Week Surprises

  The next couple of days were fairly uneventful for everyone. The angels continued to help and pray for those in need; Cheryl and Jimmy ate at least one meal daily at the Heavenly Grille, hoping to run into Jason Benton; PJ awoke from her coma with short-term memory loss; Kirk Blankenship checked the paper every day to see if the police had any updates on the murder of the homeless man, Norman Weissman; Officer O’Brady somehow managed to come across Skipper every day during his routine beat, and did his best to engage the older man in conversation; Jason was in a mellow mood and did his best to avoid his fellow, homeless comrades and Doug whenever food was delivered to the group; Joe Sanders and Bernard Cartwright had become closer friends since Norman’s death, and talked with each other about the possibility of returning to their families one day; Ernest Blankenship did his best to avoid any contact or conversation with his wife, Rae, while feeling the distance between him and his son growing wider every day; and, Stella continued to work up the courage to do what the young punk had ordered her to do.

  Jason’s sour mood was lifting, so he was among the four remaining homeless men who sat around their camp fire, trying to keep warm, and waiting for Doug to deliver their late-night meal and coffee. Joe and Bernard sat shoulder-to-shoulder on one side of the fire, while Jason and Skipper sat on the other side, careful to keep at least ten feet between them.

  Jason used a long limb to stir the fire. He shivered involuntarily and said, “This feels like the coldest night we’ve had in January.” He rubbed his bare hands together, trying to maintain circulation in them.

  Skipper took a long drag off his cigarette, tossed it into the flames, and stood up. He didn’t say anything to anyone as he walked over to his duffel bag and rummaged inside for something. He walked back over to the group and tossed a pair of gloves at Jason’s feet. “They’re old, but should be better than nothing, I guess.”

  Jason picked up the gloves and stood up. He handed the gloves back to Skipper. “No thanks, I’m good.”

  Skipper exhaled deeply and stood staring at the younger Veteran. “They’re just an old pair of gloves, kid. I don’t need them. I have another pair. Take them. Your hands are turning blue.”

  Jason wanted to say no; it was hard for him to accept help of any kind from anyone. It had not always been that way for him—only since the incident with Dante, had he began to distance himself from humanity. He chewed at his lower lip and stared Skipper in the eye. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to get them back to you…”

  Skipper shook his head and sat back down. “Forget it, kid. I expect I’ll be long gone by then.”

  Jason put the gloves on and rubbed his hands together before sitting back down in front of the fire.

  “So, you’re planning on leaving our merry band, are you?” Bernard addressed Skipper. “It seems like our numbers are dwindling at quite a rapid pace.”

  Skipper nodded. “That’s the plan. I might give it another couple of weeks before I move on.”

  “Well,” Joe said. “We hate to see you leave, Skipper, but we certainly understand the need to move on. I’ve been thinking more and more about that myself lately.”

  “Really?” Bernard asked. “Does that mean that you are considering what we’ve been talking about the last few days? Returning home to your family?”

  Joe grinned and nodded. “Yeah, I’m thinking that might be the best thing for me to do. Hell, I’ll be 61 years old in a few months, and I miss my kids. I talked to my former next door neighbor a few weeks ago, and he told me that my daughter was pregnant with my first grandchild. Besides, how long can we keep living like this before…” His voice cracked and he shook his head.

  “Before we end up like Norman?” Jason asked. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it, Joe?”

  Joe nodded. “Let’s not forget PJ either.”

  Jason sighed. “Yeah, she finally woke up, but she doesn’t remember any of us. She doesn’t remember Norman, or that she was hit by a car. It’s funny how that works—short-term memory loss. I mean, how can you not remember something that happened two days ago, but you can remember certain days from thirty or forty years ago?”

  “It’s different with everyone who suffers from it,” Bernard explained. “Since PJ’s loss is due to head trauma, it could be days, weeks, or months before her memories return to her. There’s also the chance that she might never fully remember everything. The brain is a fairly resilient organ, but damage recovery will vary among individuals.”

  Skipper had lit another cigarette and was half-way listening to the group’s conversation. He had no vested interest in PJ, but he wished her no ill-will either, and hoped for a full recovery for her. He leaned back on his elbows and stared at Bernard. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about. What were you in your other life, a doctor or something?”

  “Not exactly,” Bernard shrugged. “I am a retired pharmacist and have discussed psychopharmaceutic drugs with many patients. Drugs like Ritalin for people who suffered from deficit hyperactivity disorder, and, Aricept and Exelon, which are believed to help some Alzheimer patients with their short-term memory loss. I could go on, but I don’t want to bore all of you. That was a long time ago…in another life time.”

  Joe was grinning from ear to ear. “Well, I’ll be dang—what do you know; this old, former football coach has been keeping company with someone like you. Why haven’t you ever told me what you did in the past, Moe?”

  Bernard smiled back at the man who had, indeed, become a good friend to him. “Maybe because you never asked, my friend.”

  “Well, suck my toes and give me goosebumps!” Joe laughed out loud. “A pharmacist? Really?”

  “Really,” Bernard nodded.

  “I guess all we need now is a bag of marshmallows and someone to lead us in singing Kumbaya,” Skipper managed a grin of his own.

  “Oh, I love marshmallows!” Joe laughed. “Which reminds me…who has a watch? Isn’t it time for our friend Doug?”

  Skipper glanced down at the old wristwatch that had embraced his weathered wrist for so many decades. “Should be a
ny time now.”

  The next events occurred simultaneously.

  Doug walked through the front clearing, wearing a grin and carrying three bags of food and coffee. “Hey, fellas…” was all he got out. He stopped short and stared toward the clearing closest to the concrete overpass.

  The four men around the campfire ceased their conversations and three of them turned to see what had captured Doug’s attention. Three uniformed policemen, guns drawn, were storming toward them. One of them was Officer Thomas O’Brady, who had taken a friend’s night shift so that the younger cop could be with his wife who was giving birth to their first child.

  “Nobody move!” Officer O’Brady shouted his order.

  Skipper had his back to whoever had come up behind them, but he immediately recognized O’Brady’s voice. He began to push himself up from his sitting position.

  “I said, NOBODY move!” the officer shouted again.

  Skipper sat back down.

  The two other officers quickly made their way to the men sitting around the campfire. They motioned for Doug to merge with them.

  Doug moved forward and sat the bags of food on the ground. “What’s going on, officers?”

  “Quiet!” one of the officers ordered. “No talking.” He looked toward Officer O’Brady and said, “Bring her over here.”

  The group was so caught off guard by the arrival of the police that none of them noticed the old woman who had followed behind the officers.

  Doug saw her first. “Stella! Stella, are you okay? What’s going on?”

  One of the officers kicked Doug behind his knee caps which caused him to fall to the ground. “I said, NO TALKING! We’ll ask the questions.” He motioned for Officer O’Brady to bring Stella closer. “Okay, ma’am, don’t be afraid. Come closer and tell us if any of these men is the one you say killed Norman Weissman.”