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

by J. T. Livingston

  David Mizen received the phone call from Kirk around ten o’clock. He knew that Kirk had been anxious and nervous since the incident with the homeless man, so he had not been completely surprised when Kirk called to tell him about his plan. David called Michael and told him to come to his house immediately. Michael was a follower and always did what Kirk and David told him to do. He had left the note for his parents, just as David had left one for his. Each had told their respective parents that they were spending the weekend at Kirk’s house since there was nothing else to do in an ice storm. Kirk had left a similar note in his room stating that he was hanging out at David’s house—that he needed some time to cool off and think about things. All three boys knew that their parents would not question the validity of those notes, since they all often spent the weekends at one another’s homes. They had the weekend to devise a plan that would ensure that the truth about what happened the night the homeless man died would never be revealed.

  Kirk pulled up in front of David’s house and found his two friends waiting outside for him, sharing a joint and sliding back and forth on the icy driveway. He honked his horn impatiently and waited for them to jump inside the Land Cruiser—David in the front seat, and Michael in the back. They each had a small back pack that they tossed onto the back floorboard.

  “So, we’re going to the lake house, huh?” Michael grinned. “That’s cool—I always liked that place. I’ve missed going there.”

  Kirk had not been at his father’s secluded lake house since his mother had passed away. It was full of memories of her, and neither he nor his father had wanted to visit or disturb the house in the past four years. It was the one place his step-mother did not know about, and it was the last place his father would ever think to go, so Kirk knew it would be a safe place to carry out his plan. The demons from his many dreams had convinced him over the past several nights that he could not trust the old bag lady not to say anything to the cops, or not to come back demanding more money. He knew he had to find her and ensure her total silence once and for all—he just had not worked out exactly how to make it happen.

  “David told you what we’re going there for, right?” Kirk turned around and stared at Michael.

  Michael nodded. “Yeah, he told me. I have no problem with the plan. You’re right; we can’t take any chances on that old hag changing her story to the cops. Do you have any idea where she’s at?”

  Kirk nodded. “I hired someone to look for her. She lied to me—she never left town like she was supposed to. She’s holed up in a motel on the outskirts of town.”

  “So that’s where we’re going?” David asked. “We’re just gonna grab her and take her to the lake house?”

  “If she’s there, yeah, that’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Kirk snapped. “If she’s not, then we wait for the old bitch to come back. It’s really cold outside today; I doubt she’ll be gone long if she’s not there.”

  The three friends rode in silence on their way to the Roadside Inn. The inn consisted of eight individual, one-story rooms next to a biker’s bar called the Pickled Possum. The rooms were usually rented out by the hour, but Stella had paid a month in advance for room number 8—the room farthest away from the crowded bar.

  Kirk parked at the opposite end, nearer the bar area. He rolled down his window and lit a joint. He took three tokes off it before passing it to David.

  David took two tokes and passed it back to Michael. He exhaled deeply and stared at his best friend. They had known each other since kindergarten and David considered Kirk to be like a brother to him. “I’m sure you’ve thought this through, Kirk, but…”

  “But, what?” Kirk snapped. “What? It has to be done—it’s the only way to make sure that the truth never comes out. I can’t go through the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”

  “Haven’t you forgotten something, Kirk?” David was tense, anticipating what they were about to do.

  “What do you mean?” Kirk smirked. “We take care of the old lady, and our troubles go away. That’s it.”

  Michael laughed from the back seat. “Man, even I know what he’s talking about, Kirk. He means that the old lady isn’t the only one who can tell the cops the truth about what happened.”

  Kirk was quiet for a moment. He knew that David and Michael could be trusted completely; they had both taken turns pushing the old man around, so they had just as much to lose as he did if the truth ever came out. In the midst of all the dreams, all his insecurity about being able to trust the old lady to leave town, he had forgotten that there was, indeed, one other person who knew the truth about what happened that night. “Dammit!” he pounded both hands repeatedly upon the steering wheel.

  “Yeah,” David sighed. “Jimmy Crennan is definitely another loose end, alright.”

  “So, what do we do about him?” Michael asked. “I mean, can you really trust him not to say anything? He’s not one of us.”

  The door to room number 8 opened just then, and Kirk watched the old lady look from side to side before she locked the door behind her. He waited until she zipped her coat—it looked new—and wrapped a scarf around her neck. She pulled on gloves and began walking towards town.

  “No,” Kirk finally responded. “I don’t think we can trust him.”

  “So, what?” David laughed. “You thinking that we grab him and the old lady and take them both to the lake house?”

  Kirk nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

  “Well, the old lady is easy,” Michael inserted. “But, Crennan? Man, he’s a big kid—strong—he won’t be so easy.”

  Kirk looked back at Michael with exasperation. “There’s three of us, you idiot, and only one of him. I think we can handle it.” He waited until the old woman was about a half mile ahead of them before he started the car and rolled slowly out of the parking lot.

  The half-baked plan he had concocted earlier that morning was actually going to happen. All he had to do now, was to ensure that nothing—or no one—interfered with that plan.

  “It will work,” he thought. “It has to work…”

  CHAPTER 19

  Skipper ‘s Private Agony

  It was almost noon and the Heavenly Grille was packed to the brim. People were sitting inside their heated cars, outside, waiting for a table to become available. Bertie was in her element, serving up hot breakfasts for those whose homes were still without power. Doug stayed busy keeping their coffee cups filled, and bussing the tables.

  Cheryl and Jimmy still sat at the counter alongside Jason. Joe and Bernard had given up their seats a half-hour earlier and left the restaurant to renew their search for Stella. Max had provided plenty of food and hot coffee for them to take with them, on what had turned into a daily search for the woman who had condemned Skipper to what might be a life behind bars.

  Cheryl looked around the crowded café and shook her head. “Okay, I am officially beginning to feel guilty for taking up space on this stool for so long. Just look at all those people in the parking lot, waiting to come inside. We should be getting back home.” She pushed off the stool and reached for her jacket that was draped on the stool.

  Jason beat her to it and helped her put it on. “Yeah, I can’t believe we’ve been sitting here for so long. It seems like only a few minutes, but it’s been hours.” He turned Cheryl around to face him and stared down into the same green eyes that had captivated him so many years ago. “The roads are better now, but there will probably still be some icy paths, so be careful driving home, okay?”

  Jimmy looked at both of them—his parents! “You’re not coming home with us? Why? I mean…we all still have so much to talk about, right?”

  Jason moved toward Jimmy and held him at arm’s length; a huge grin spread across his face and he nodded. “You’re right, Jimmy. We do still have a lot to talk about. I mean, I certainly don’t know where we go from here, but what I do know is that you both are very important to me. I want to get to know you both, but…”


  “We can talk about all that later—maybe, back at the house,” Cheryl interrupted. “I could come pick you up later this evening and you could have dinner with us…no, wait, I’m sorry. I’m scheduled to work tonight.”

  “He could still come to the house,” Jimmy grinned. “He could hang out with me until you get home.”

  “I’m working until midnight, kiddo.”

  “Then he could spend the night again!” Jimmy grinned.

  Jason pulled Jimmy—his son—in for a quick hug. “Let’s play it by ear, okay. There’s someone I need to go see today, and I’m not sure how long it will take for me to get there and back here again. I have your home number, Jimmy. I’ll call you when I get back later today, okay?”

  “That sounds like a plan,” Cheryl agreed. “Come on, Jimmy. Jason has things to do, and I need your help with a few things at home. I’m taking advantage of no school today and using your muscle to get some things moved around.” She turned back toward Jason and smiled up at him. “I know this is a lot of information for you to absorb in such a short time, Jason. You are certainly under no obligation to even keep in touch with either of us if you don’t want to. We are not here to cramp your life style in any way, and we didn’t tell you the truth because we needed or expected anything from you in return.” She took another deep breath and looked at her son. “I just thought…well, since the opportunity did present itself so unexpectedly…I just thought it was the right thing to do—for you—and Jimmy. You each have the right to know about the other one. I don’t expect to fit into that equation, so please don’t think…”

  Jason bent down and silenced her with a kiss. He had not planned to do that and the act took him as off guard as it had Cheryl. “You talk too much,” he whispered.

  Jimmy jumped into the air with both fists raised in victory. “YESSSS!” he shouted.

  A guard stopped by the old man’s cell and stared at the long form lying so still beneath the solitary blanket. He stared hard to see if the old man was breathing, and sighed when he finally heard a soft snore. His good friend, Tom O’Brady, had asked him to keep an eye on the old man; Tom had confided that he thought Skipper had gotten a raw deal and was going to be used as a scapegoat for closing a murder case on another homeless person.

  Skipper had his back to his caged door, but had sensed someone there—someone staring at him. He continued to feign sleep for a couple more minutes, but when it was obvious that the person was still there, he pulled the cover off him and turned over on his other side. A young guard, probably in his mid-to-late thirties, was standing there, staring at him. He was holding a folded blanket. “Something I can do for you, officer?” Skipper threw his long legs over the side of the cot and sat up. He was fully clothed in a prison jumpsuit. He walked slowly forward and stopped at his cell door.

  “My name is Pete. I promised Officer O’Brady that I would do what I could to keep an eye on you. He seems to think you’re pretty special.”

  “He seems like a decent enough guy—for a cop,” Skipper offered a half-grin. “They returned us all to our cells after breakfast this morning; said there was an ice storm last night, so there would be no work details today. Has that changed?’

  Pete shook his head. “No, it’s still too cold for anyone to be outside. There are power outages all over town.”

  “But not here in the Floyd County jail,” Skipper stood up. “Did you need something—Pete?”

  Pete glanced down at the blanket he held. “We have several generators in case the power goes out here. Step back, please.” He waited until Skipper had returned to his cot before speaking into the walkie-talkie he held. “Unlock 17.” He waited until he heard the lock unclick, before he slid open the barred door. He dropped the blanket onto the floor. “Warden’s orders—the older inmates get an extra blanket today.” He slid the door back and spoke into the walkie-talkie again. “Close 17.”

  Skipper heard the lock engage once again and walked to pick up the blanket. “Thanks. I guess I do fall into that category.”

  Pete looked back at Skipper as he turned to leave. “We got a call earlier this morning. You have a visitor coming in around two o’clock.”

  “Really?” Skipper was surprised. “I can’t imagine who that might be.”

  Pete took out a note pad and glanced at it. “Jason Benton. Officer O’Brady said you approved him to be added to your visitor’s list. Try to stay warm.”

  “Are you kidding?” Skipper shrugged. “This place feels like a sauna compared to what I’m used to. Thanks for the extra blanket.”

  Pete returned the shrug. “Just doing my job.”

  Skipper watched the young man walk away and shivered as a sudden feeling of melancholy washed over him. He sat back down on his cot and reached under the thin mattress for his old weathered note book. He pressed his back against the cold, concrete wall and wrapped the extra blanket around his legs. He opened the notebook and flipped through the pages—pages that told stories of a life that only a select group of men and women could ever relate to. Each poem had been written about a specific event, or a specific person—events and people that Skipper would never forget—no matter how many years separated him from them. There would never be enough time to elapse that would allow him the luxury to forget. He looked at the titles of some of the poems: “The Eagle Never Even Cried”—written to reflect the lack of respect and appreciation the Vietnam Veterans experienced upon their return from war; “Bastard Son”—written to reflect his own status of feeling like America’s bastard son; “I Remember When You Fell”—written in honor of one of his platoon leaders who was killed on the battlefield; “Queen of Battle”—written to reflect the Army’s Queen, the Infantry; “Dead Survivors”—written to reflect the guilt the survivors felt for having survived when so many others had not; “Angels on the Battlefield”—written to reflect the hope that even the atheists felt when they lay upon the ground and looked up into the cloud formations above them, convinced that the images they saw were angels sent to watch over and protect them; and, so many more titles.

  Skipper continued to flip through the notebook, and stopped at one that reflected his general mood every day since his last day of battle. It confirmed his belief that life was a journey for everyone; a journey that ended way too soon for some, or tolerated way too long for others. Life’s journey was full of uncertainty—of not knowing if each day would be the last—the uncertainty of not knowing when, or how, we will die. It was titled, “The Script’s Final Page”.

  With graying hair and a wrinkled brow

  I realize that yesterday is no part of now;

  One must view life as a theatrical stage

  Where the script is near written, except one final page.

  Friends become fewer while the graveyards flourish

  It seems death is a fuel that life needs to nourish;

  Death in itself is not an evil tone

  The evil is when one must die all alone.

  I feel no serenity in the views I once cherished

  Only the agony of truth that unity has perished;

  The depth of one’s thoughts becomes deeper with age

  With their meaning all written on the script’s final page.

  The time that we borrow to keep up life’s pace

  Must all be repaid at the end of our race;

  Life’s not a gift, it’s a chore we must heed

  Our conscience must guide us until our soul’s finally freed.

  Most of us beg forgiveness for mistakes that we make

  And feel fully justified when we wrongfully take;

  Together we shall all meet at the center of stage

  When the truth is all written on the script’s final page.

  Skipper closed the notebook and pulled the extra blanket up and wrapped it around his shoulders. He closed his eyes and allowed a solitary tear to roll down his weathered cheek. He would never understand—no matter how many years he continued to walk this earth—why he survived four
tours in Vietnam, and so many others did not. He had never been a religious person, so he had never questioned a God he wasn’t sure really existed; however, if it was true that God had saved his life for some special purpose, he still had not discovered what that reason might have been. He did not feel like he had accomplished anything in this lifetime. His bitterness about the war and how America had treated the Vietnam Veterans had festered like a slow-growing cancer inside him all these years. He had never been able to let go of that bitterness and resentment.

  “So how about it, God?” he looked upward toward the cracked and peeling ceiling. “Why have you saved me to continue living in this hell on earth? What purpose did you have in mind for me? You must be pretty disappointed. I’ve made it seventy-six years on my own, and I don’t need you now, so how about it…get out of my head and let me just die in peace. Peace—that’s all I ask of you—if you even exist. I just want to die in peace…”

  Skipper lay on his back and stretched out his full length upon the cot. He tucked the notebook under the flat pillow and sighed. He closed his eyes and whispered, “Forget it…you might exist for some people, but…not for me.”

  He fell into a long, deep sleep and allowed the nightmares to, once again, march in—dreams of piercing bullets and exploding bombs, screaming soldiers, scattered body parts, innocent women and children killed—because the next thing Skipper heard was Officer Pete at his cell door.