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

by J. T. Livingston

  “Skipper’s a decent guy,” Jason added. “I admit, I don’t know him all that well, but, I don’t think he’s the type of man who would kill anyone—especially another homeless person.”

  “Well, you and I both know that Mr. Whiting has indeed killed before, don’t we?”

  Jason’s head snapped up and he stared hard at the officer. “That’s true, but we both know that it only happened on a battlefield, too.”

  “I hope you’re right about him,” Thomas said. “I want to believe that, but, I still have to prove it, don’t I…and, Stella Seiber may be the answer to that problem.”

  “Can I call you again—to see what you found out—about Stella?” Jason offered his hand to the officer.

  Thomas shook Jason’s hand and nodded. “You can call me anytime, Mr. Benton. I may not be able to tell you everything that’s going on, but I will tell you whatever I can.”

  “Thank you for that,” Jason sighed.

  Cheryl ran back into the kitchen, holding a framed picture of Jimmy that she had taken during Christmas vacation. “He didn’t take any of his clothes with him! None of his clothes are missing. His toothbrush is still in the bathroom. He didn’t take anything!”

  Skipper had been awake for an hour on Saturday morning, when he heard the intercom announce “CHOW TIME.” He had been re-writing a poem he had started a couple of days ago. It was yet untitled, but read:

  As a six-year old, I still remember

  When our soldiers came home from World War II;

  They survived that hell, but our nation thanked them well

  God bless the Red, White, and Blue.

  I wanted to be a soldier, too.

  The Korean War came along and took our boys again

  Still too young, I watched them go on through;

  They, too, served in hell, but our brave boys did well

  God bless them, and our flag, too.

  I still wanted to be a soldier, too.

  My time finally came with the Vietnam War

  A long-awaited time to fulfill my dreams to go;

  We were marched, from home, straight to Satan’s Dome

  For whatever reason now, we may never know.

  I am now a soldier and still proud to go.

  I felt the presence of an angel on the battlefield

  That would guide my torn, weary body home;

  After ten years of war, we needed no more

  On those fields where the gallant roam.

  I wondered if a soldier could ever go back home.

  Our flag still stands and is proudly flown

  Amongst the dissenters and the brave;

  When the winds diminished, the war was finally finished

  While America turned its back on those who gave.

  I don’t want to be a soldier anymore.

  Skipper lay back down on his bunk and closed his eyes. He had been six years old when he saw his first soldier in uniform walking down the street he lived on in Ogdensburg, New York. He remembered how totally in awe he had been of the young soldier, and he knew in that very instant, that he would one day join the Army and be a solider himself. The happiest times of his life had been the twenty years he had proudly served his country—even though, he still felt that his country had betrayed him and all the other Vietnam Veterans who had left their homes and families to serve and protect the United States of America.

  He opened his eyes when he heard his cell door automatically slide open. He got up and watched the line of men leaving their cells and moving down the hall toward the cafeteria. He had learned during one of his earlier jail sentences why the men always formed individual groups before entering the cafeteria—groups were usually broken down into blacks, Hispanics, Asians, and whites. The groups tended to stick to their own races because of “controlled movement”; once a prisoner got his tray of food, he was required to sit at the next available open table, wherever an open seat was available.

  Skipper could have cared less what group he ate breakfast with—he didn’t like any of them—so it really didn’t matter who he had to sit next to. Unfortunately for him, it did matter to the leaders of the individual groups.

  A hard-muscled black man spat on Skipper as he tried to get in line. It reminded Skipper of all the times he had been spat upon, while in uniform, upon returning from one of his tours in Vietnam. He turned to look at the black man. “That was a mistake.”

  The big black man went by the name of King Daddy. Skipper had heard others refer to him as this and thought that it might, one day, make a good title for another poem. King Daddy was at least fifty years younger than he was, but Skipper didn’t think the age difference would stop the younger man from retaliation; he didn’t look like the type that would take any back-talk from an old, white man.

  “What you say, ‘ole geezer?” King Daddy snarled. “Git yoself in the back of da line, with the rest of yo white trash. You don’t belong to this here group. Go on now, before I shank you.”

  A guard appeared at the front of the group. “Quiet! No talking in line.”

  King Daddy bumped Skipper in the shoulder before he moved forward. “I’ll be watchin’ you.”

  “Hope you enjoy the view,” Skipper whispered as he made his way to the back of the line.

  There was one table set aside for misfits—usually consisting of older men who didn’t fit into their respective groups. Skipper could have cared less which group he sat with, but he found himself sitting at the last available table, surrounded by four other men who aged from sixty years and up.

  He placed his tray on the table and sat down. He stirred the watery oatmeal—it was cold, again—and took a bite. There was no sugar in it, and he didn’t dare pour any of the two cartons of skimmed milk into it; it was watered down enough as it was. His three pieces of toast were cold, so the two squares of margarine they were given didn’t melt on them. He spread the two packages of grape jelly evenly over his toast. He pushed the oatmeal away and peeled an orange; the prisoners were given one piece of fruit with breakfast—nobody said it had to be fresh fruit. The inside of the orange was so dry that there wasn’t even a hint of juice in it, but Skipper ate it anyway.

  An old Mexican named Chico sat across from Skipper and rolled his eyes in both directions to make sure nobody was watching. “If you ain’t gonna eat that oatmeal, I’d be happy to take it off your hands.”

  Skipper nodded his head and the old man pulled the bowl onto his plate. He watched the old man lift the bowl to his thin, cracked lips and drink it down in a matter of seconds. He noticed that the other prisoners, sitting around the tables scattered throughout the room, all stared down at their food—seemingly careful not to make eye contact with him.

  Skipper had finished the cup of diluted coffee and drank both containers of milk, as well as all his toast and the orange—all, within ten minutes. It wasn’t much, but he didn’t need much to sustain himself; he was certainly use to eating much less than this for breakfast. The misfit table was the last table, farthest away from the serving line and the guard who stood watch at the door. Skipper sat on the outside end of the table, with his back to the serving line and the other groups of prisoners. His left hand lay on top of the table, and he held his empty, plastic coffee mug in his right hand.

  He never saw it coming, and he never felt any pain when King Daddy drove the shank deep into the top of his left hand.

  There was very little blood.

  “Stay outta my line, Geezer,” King Daddy whispered as he ripped the shank out of Skipper’s hand, and blood spurt across the table, spraying Chico’s pudgy face.

  CHAPTER 25

  Saturday Morning Cartoons

  Jimmy was awake but kept his eyes closed, and listened to the sounds of—cartoons—playing in the background. Homer and Marge Simpson were shouting at the top of their lungs for their three kids—Homer, Lisa, and Maggie—to get their butts out of bed and get ready for school.

  The wood floor that he had been forced to sleep on w
as cold and hard, and the thin blanket they had thrown over him had done little to keep him warm during the night. If he hadn’t been lying in front of one of the huge fireplaces, Jimmy thought he might have frozen to death. He tried to turn from his curled position onto his back, but the sound of the heavy chain dropping against the wood floor made him stop abruptly.

  “You may as well open your eyes—I know you’re awake.”

  Jimmy recognized David’s voice and actually felt relieved to hear it. Maybe Kirk and Michael had left during the night, leaving David in charge. He pushed himself to a sitting position and saw David sitting on the couch with a heavy, wool blanket wrapped around him. “It’s really cold in here,” he shivered involuntarily.

  “Yeah, I know. Kirk and Mike are checking the furnace. The pilot light probably went out during the night. This place hasn’t been used in a long time.”

  “Where are we?” Jimmy pulled the thin blanket tighter around his shoulders.

  David walked across the room to a small utility closet in the tiny kitchen/bar area. He pulled a heavy, Army-wool blanket from the shelf and brought it to Jimmy. “Here—take this. I would’ve given it to you last night if I knew the furnace was going to shut off.”

  “Thanks,” Jimmy shivered again as he double-wrapped himself in the large blanket. He stood up and sat down on the rock ledge next to the fireplace. “I don’t know what’s going on here, David, but...”

  David held up his hand to silence him. He looked nervously around the room. “They can come back at any time, so trust me—you don’t want to be asking a bunch of questions when they do.”

  “Okay, no questions, but…”

  “What part of no questions don’t you understand, kid? You have no idea what Kirk is capable of doing. Ever since his mother died, he’s become a totally different person. I really thought he was just bringing you and the old woman up here to scare you a little—to make sure you knew that he meant business about keeping your mouths shut.”

  “So…you don’t think he’s just trying to scare us anymore? What else would he do to us?”

  “Don’t you get it, kid?” David paced around the basement area, checking the small staircase that led to the upper level periodically to make sure the others weren’t coming back down. “Kirk is like—I don’t know—paranoid or something. He’s afraid that you and the old woman—knowing what you know—will jeopardize the plans he has for his future.”

  “We both promised not to say anything,” Jimmy began. “I can’t vouch for the old woman, but I’ve kept my mouth shut, and I have no intentions of talking to anyone about what happened. I’m not exactly proud of the part I had in it.”

  David shook his head and walked into the kitchen area. He grabbed two bottles of orange juice from the refrigerator and offered one to Jimmy. He sat down next to him on the hearth. “I don’t think your promises mean anything to him anymore…”

  “Well, well! Isn’t this cozy?” Kirk’s sarcastic tone carried downward from his position at the top of the staircase. “Why don’t you offer him a Danish while you’re at it, David?”

  David jumped up quickly and moved away from Jimmy. “He just woke up. I thought he might be thirsty.”

  Kirk stared back and forth between David and Jimmy. He had not heard any of their conversation, but the sight of the two of them sitting next to each other on the hearth unnerved him. He couldn’t afford for David to become caring and sensitive toward his prisoners. “Yeah, whatever, now get away from him and go check on the old woman.”

  “I checked on her about thirty minutes ago, before Jimmy woke up. She’s sound asleep.” David tried to keep his tone even and sure.

  “Check on her again,” Kirk ordered. “Michael had to drive into town to find a part we need for the furnace.”

  “Sure, okay…” David walked across the room and entered the master suite. He closed the door behind him.

  Kirk walked down the stairs and poured himself a cup of coffee. He actually hated the bitter taste, but thought it made him appear to be more grown-up—more in control of the situation. “There’s another half-bath past the kitchen, Crennan, if you need to take a piss or wipe away your tears.”

  Jimmy almost declined the offer, but had second thoughts. Maybe he could find a weapon of some sort in the bathroom. “Thanks. Over there?” He headed toward the kitchen.

  “Yeah, but leave the door open,” Kirk instructed. “Hey, don’t think that I haven’t noticed that you forgot to bring any clothes with you. Was that on purpose? Did you think it might be a signal for your mom, or something?”

  “No—it wasn’t on purpose,” Jimmy said as he dragged the long chain with him, and walked past Kirk; the half-bath was almost the size of the Crennan’s entire kitchen. He glanced around quickly at the double sink, a corner shower stall, a commode, and two dressing tables; he didn’t see anything that could be used as a weapon. “She won’t even notice that I didn’t take a change of clothes, trust me.” He really did have to use the rest room, so he unzipped his jeans and proceeded to take care of business. When he finished, he dragged the chain to the sink and washed his hands. Plush, monogramed towels lined both sides of the sinks, and he quickly wiped his hands on them—they were dusty, like they had been hanging there for a long time. Another quick glance around the bathroom re-confirmed his initial thought that there was nothing that would be useful as a weapon.

  Kirk had thrown more wood on the fire while Jimmy had been in the bathroom. He glanced up when David exited the master suite. “Is she still alive?”

  “She’s breathing,” David replied, “But the cut on her arm looks like it might be getting infected. I took the bandage off to look at it; it’s all red and puffy.”

  Kirk had not intended on hurting anyone with his knife the night before—he only meant to scare his two prisoners—but, the old woman had freaked out when she saw it and lunged at him. He had attempted to push her away from him, and cut her on her forearm when David and Michael jumped in to drag her off him. “Serves the old bitch right,” he murmured.

  “Where’s the kid? You didn’t…” David whispered feverishly just before Jimmy walked out from the half-bath.

  Kirk stared at David and shook his head. “I’m beginning to think I’ve had you pegged all wrong. I thought you had more balls than this. What are you going to do when it comes time to do what has to be done? Tell me, David!”

  David pursed his lips together and clenched his teeth. “I’ve told you before that I will do whatever it takes—whatever you feel we need to do.”

  “Well, if that’s true, then I suggest you stop trying to be best friends with Jimmy-Boy here, and quit worrying about that old hag in there. Trust me, if she could have gotten that knife away from me last night, none of us might be here this morning. That old woman is crazy as hell.”

  “I don’t think she’s crazy,” Jimmy injected, as he stepped from the bathroom into the kitchen area. “I think she’s just scared, that’s all.”

  “Nobody asked you!” Kirk yelled. “Now, go sit back down and finish watching your damn cartoons!”

  Thomas O’Brady couldn’t get Jimmy Crennan or Stella Seiber off his mind. He had tossed and turned the night before, and finally went to sleep on the couch so that Dottie might get some much-needed rest. By ten o’clock, he had fed and dressed his twin Tasmanian devils and had them busy building a super hero out of their Lego blocks; he figured that would give him at least an hour to go over his notes. He had called in a missing person report on Jimmy Crennan the night before, but he had kept the new information about Stella to himself. He wanted to personally check out the Roadway Inn to see if she was, indeed, living there. He had called his sister-in-law and pleaded with her to babysit the boys for a few hours while he checked out a lead on his case.

  Thomas glanced at his watch. His sister-in-law should be arriving at any moment and he needed to check on his wife.

  Dottie beat him to it. She had pulled on a robe and was standing behind him when he p
laced his notes on the coffee table and stood up. “Good morning, handsome. Thank you so much for the vegetable soup you brought home last night. I don’t know what they put in it, but it must have contained a miracle cure, because I feel more like myself this morning than I have in over a week. Where did you find vegetable soup so late at night?”

  Thomas walked behind the couch and embraced the love of his life. He kissed the top of her head and held her at an arm’s distance to get a better look at her. “Well, I do believe I see some color in those beautiful cheeks.” He kissed her cheek and led her to the sofa. “Have a seat, Babe. The boys are playing with their blocks and Belinda is on her way over to watch them for a few hours—I hope you’re not mad that I called her again.”

  “You’re supposed to be off work this weekend, Thomas,” Dottie sighed. “If you’re not careful and don’t slow down a little, you’re going to be the one laid up for a week.” She sat down on the couch. “So, where did you find that delicious soup?”

  “Oh, it’s a new café that opened up at the edge of town, by the overpass. I think it’s called the Heavenly Grille Café. I’ll have to take you and the boys there when you get well. The food is the best I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Better than mine?” Dottie teased. She knew better than anyone how much her husband loved and appreciated a good meal.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger!” Thomas teased back. “Seriously, though, you’ve got to try it, and you’ve got to meet the waitress who works there. Her name is Bertie and she is really something.”

  “Oh, should I be jealous?”

  Thomas laughed out loud. “I’ll let you be the judge of that when you meet her.” He began gathering up his notes and placing them in his satchel. “I promise—I won’t be gone long. I should be home by two o’clock, at the latest.”