Life Everlasting

by Robert Whitlow

  Ted nodded. “That’s when it happened. We’ll talk later.”

  The evening progressed, and Alexia signed a card for a donation beyond what she would have contributed if Ted hadn’t performed. In her case at least, the entertainment had the desired effect.

  When the event ended, several people immediately came over to Ted and began talking to him. Alexia stepped over to Jeffrey.

  “Thank you for the invitation,” she said.

  Jeffrey smiled. “I should thank you for inviting your piano prodigy. He saved us from an embarrassing evening. What’s the name of the church where he works? I forget.”

  “The old Sandy Flats Church on McBee Road.”

  “Let him know I’ll send him a check for his work this evening. After paying Victor Plavich, there’s nothing in the nonprofit’s budget to do anything, but I’ll take care of it myself.”

  Alexia glanced at Ted. He was still occupied with the crowd swirling around him.

  “Uh, okay.”

  “And I’d like him to perform for a party I’m hosting in Santee. We have a big event just before Christmas. People come in from all over the country. He could play some classical music and then take requests.”

  “He doesn’t do that sort of thing,” Alexia responded without thinking.

  Jeffrey raised his eyebrows. “I’ll pay him a lot more than he makes pushing the buttons on an organ.”

  Alexia bristled. “Actually, you’ll have to ask him. I’m not his agent.”

  Jeffrey shrugged and pointed to the growing crowd around Ted. “Maybe you should be.”

  Several minutes later, Ted saw Alexia out of the corner of his eye. She stood relaxed and beautiful, talking to a handsome young man. Ted pulled away from three older women who were all talking to him at once and joined her.

  “It’s time for Elvis to leave the building,” he whispered in her ear.

  Alexia willingly disengaged from her conversation. Ted took her hand and started walking, but before they reached the front door, two people asked Ted to play at weddings and three others begged him to give their children lessons. Finally, they stepped into the fresh air outside.

  “Tough being a star?” Alexia asked.

  Ted didn’t answer, and they walked in silence to the car.

  “You drive,” Ted said. “I’m beat.”

  As she pulled out of the parking deck, Alexia said, “I’m sorry for calling you a star. I know you don’t want to draw attention to yourself.”

  Ted yawned. “It’s okay, but I want to return to who I am. The farther we get away from the hotel, the better I’ll be.”

  “Are you sorry that you played?” Alexia asked in surprise.

  Ted closed his eyes for a moment before responding. “No, but I’m not interested in trying to launch a career. This evening was fine, even though dealing with the people afterward was a strain.”

  They passed a row of older homes illuminated by flickering street lights. The wrought-iron work cast long shadows on the wall of the houses.

  “Does that mean you won’t play for Jeffrey Richardson’s Christmas bash?” Alexia asked. “It’s a huge party with lots of rich folks at one of the country clubs his family developed. He suggested that you play a few classical numbers and then take requests.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep, and you’ll make a lot more money than you will painting my new office. If you hire me as your agent, I’ll get a piece of the pie too.”

  Ted laughed. “Okay, be my agent and decline. In return, I’ll furnish a free can of paint and buy you a piece of pie. What kind do you like?”

  “Peach cobbler with ice cream at Cousin Bert’s. They only serve it on Thursdays.”

  Ted reclined the seat and stretched out his legs. “It’s a deal.”

  13

  Here is the charming evening, the criminal’s friend; it comes like an accomplice, with stealthy tread.

  CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

  Rick Bridges switched the handset to his other ear and spoke to Byron Devereaux’s wife.

  “I’m sorry his father is in the hospital,” Bridges said. “Tell Byron I’ll see him on Monday.”

  Bridges hung up. This turn of events dealt a setback to his plans to locate Henry L. Quinton, a.k.a. Hank Quincy. It would be a week before another Saturday-night gathering at the Beachcomber Club.

  “Who’s driving tonight? You or Byron?” Amy called from the kitchen.

  The detective made a quick decision. “I am.” He would take the opportunity to do some fact-finding and wait until he wasn’t solo to make an arrest.

  Forty-five minutes later, Bridges pulled into the parking lot for the Beachcomber Club. The sandy lot in front of the bar was filled to capacity, and the detective squeezed into a spot next to a pickup truck with one orange door and one green door.

  The Santee police had yet to receive any credible information about the hit-and-run driver who struck his leg and smashed the door of his car. The detective’s right leg remained stiff and had kept him off the racquetball court this week, though the orthopedist who examined the leg assured him full recovery.

  Every Carolina cowboy wore his best footwear Saturday nights. There weren’t any real cowboys along the coast, but boots were a popular honky-tonk fashion statement. Bridges had polished his until they shone. Faded jeans, cleaner than most of the patrons’, a lightweight jacket, and a western-style straw hat that concealed his military haircut completed the ensemble.

  Strapped underneath the detective’s left shoulder rested a smaller version of his standard service revolver. As a detective, Bridges could carry a wide variety of weapons. A set of stainless-steel handcuffs that he didn’t intend to use jingled in his jacket pocket. If the bar required patrons to pass through a metal detector, Rick Bridges would set off more alarms than a knife collector returning from a convention.

  The Beachcomber Club was painted a bright pink with green trim around the door and window frames. Boards painted the same pink as the building permanently sealed the windows. Above the front door, a neon sign with a flashing cocktail glass announced the name of the club. Bridges walked across the parking lot and reached the door at the same time as a large, overweight man escorting two women. Under the light, Bridges could see that one of the women sported a jagged scar across her nose. Both women paused and looked at the detective. The woman with the scar smiled and revealed several prominent gaps in her grin. A bouncer, sitting on a stool by the door, spoke to the man and gave Bridges a quick inspection without comment.

  Inside, a pale, gray haze of smoke hung in the air. Small round tables scattered about the room offered a few vacant seats. On one wall hung an enormous blue marlin. On another, several smaller fish swam in single file toward a row of video poker machines. A light sprinkling of sand covered the floor, giving credence to the Beachcomber name and serving as a line of first defense against sloshing beer. Opposite the poker machines was a small, empty stage. Instead of live music, a jukebox blared a country tune.

  Bridges walked over to the bar. A chunky, middle-aged barmaid with long blonde hair wiped off a spot in front of him.

  “What do you want, sweetheart?” she asked.

  Bridges ordered a beer. When she brought it, he asked, “Is Harry here?”

  “No, the ice machine broke, and he had to go buy some bags of ice. He should be back in a few minutes.”

  “Then maybe you could help me. I’m looking for Hank Quincy. Do you know him?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Are you a cop?”

  Bridges laughed and tilted his hat up. “Do I look like a cop?”

  The woman shrugged. “I don’t want any trouble. Hank can be moody. If you’ve got a problem with him, you take it outside.”

  Bridges smiled. “If there’s a problem, it won’t start with me.”

  He saw the woman scan the room. Her eyes stopped in a corner near the deserted stage. Bridges followed her gaze. Four men slouched around a table with two half-empty pitchers of bee
r in the middle. Two had dark hair, a third had brown, and a fourth was balding.

  “He’s in the corner with his buddies.”

  “Which one is he?”

  “The one with dark hair.”

  “There are two guys with dark hair.”

  “Hank doesn’t have three rings in his right ear. He’s got too much class.”

  Bridges was too far away to distinguish ear decorations.

  A man standing at the other end of the bar called out, “Do I have to pour my own beer?”

  The woman sneered. “No, but I want to see your money on the counter before I pull the tap.”

  When the barmaid left, Bridges took a drink and looked down at the wet ring left on the bar from the mug’s condensation. He could get a close look at the suspect and compare his appearance with the file photo. He might also get additional information. Police-department protocol discouraged solitary action with a potentially dangerous suspect, and attempting to make contact might cross the line, but Bridges rationalized it as an investigative mission.

  He picked up his beer and started weaving his way across the room. As he approached the corner, he could see that the man sitting across the table had three silver earrings in the upper cartilage of his right ear. That left the dark-haired man with his back to Bridges as the most likely candidate for Hank Quincy. The detective turned sideways to pass between two tables. A woman suddenly stood up and knocked his arm, causing his beer to tip and soak the right side of her dress. It was the woman with the scar carved across her nose. Her male companion jumped to his feet.

  “Watch it!” he said.

  The woman dabbed the wet spot with a paper napkin. “I’m gonna smell like beer the rest of the night!”

  The room grew quiet and all eyes turned in the direction of the table.

  “Excuse me,” Bridges said softly, tipping his hat. “It was an accident. Could I buy you a drink?”

  The woman’s countenance softened. Her male companion’s glare increased.

  “No, move along!” he ordered.

  Bridges complied as the woman directed her ire toward the man.

  “Why’d you go do that?” she demanded. “I was gonna get a free drink out of it!”

  Bridges didn’t hear the man’s response as he reached the table in the corner. The man with the earrings glanced up at him.

  “Don’t come over here spilling your beer, cowboy,” the man said.

  The balding man chuckled. Bridges looked down at the other dark-haired man. From his profile he looked somewhat like Quinton, but not similar enough for a positive identification.

  The detective spoke slowly, making his natural drawl even more pronounced. “That wasn’t intentional. I was wondering if y’all could help me?”

  “What is it?” the balding man asked.

  Bridges looked down at the dark-haired man. “Do you have a car for sale?”

  The man looked up coldly out of the corner of his eye.

  Before he answered, one of his companions replied, “He don’t have a car; he drives a beat-up old van.”

  The dark-haired man turned in his seat. When he did, Bridges knew it was Quinton—older, of course, but with the same narrowly set brown eyes and neat appearance that seemed inappropriate for a mug shot and now out of place at the Beachcomber Bar.

  “I don’t have a car for sale,” Quinton said in a distinct, nasal accent. “Who told you that I did?”

  Bridges stepped back. He’d verified his identification, and it was time to move on.

  “Sorry I bothered you.”

  He quickly retreated to the bar and sat on a high stool. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Quinton had turned sideways to watch him. Bridges took a sip of beer and made a decision. While Quinton was potentially implicated in Deputy Dixon’s death, he was definitely wanted for questioning in the Rhode Island murder. Bridges had located him, and the opportunity to apprehend him couldn’t be squandered. He left the rest of the beer in the mug on the counter and slipped outside to his car. He called the Santee Police Department and asked for two patrol cars. The dispatcher told him it would be ten minutes before the officers would arrive.

  While he waited, Bridges got out and walked up and down the haphazard rows of cars to see if Quinton had driven his van. A license-plate check might reveal additional information. The single light in the parking area didn’t illuminate the back corner of the lot, where several vehicles stood. One of them was a gray van that fit the “beat-up” description. Bridges took out a small notepad and squatted to record the license-plate number. The last two characters were covered in mud. He reached forward and wiped the plate with his fingers.

  His face smashed into the back of the van. Someone grabbed his shirt, jerked back his head, and slammed it into the bumper. Dazed and with blood pouring from his nose, Bridges tried to stand but was thrown to the ground. Someone put a foot on his neck. Two more hands grabbed the detective’s arms and pinned them behind his back. He was lying with his face partly buried in the sandy soil.

  “Get his wallet,” a voice said.

  In a few seconds, another voice said, “It’s too dark. I can’t read it. He was writing something on a pad.”

  “Open the door of the van, so we can see,” the first voice said. “Keep him on the ground.”

  “You should keep out of other people’s business, cowboy,” the person with the foot on his neck said, pressing down harder.

  Bridges gagged. The door of the van opened, and the dome light came on.

  “He was writing down the license plate number. Richard Bridges. Lives in Charleston.”

  Someone leaned close to the detective’s ear. “Why did you want the license-plate number?”

  Bridges moaned.

  “Check him,” said the voice near his ear.

  A hand reached around his side and felt the lump under his left arm.

  “He’s carrying a gun!”

  “Get it!” the nearby voice commanded.

  The hands holding his arms tightened their grip as he was rolled onto his side. Dirt, sweat, and mud stung his eyes. He gasped for air. His gun was pulled from its holster. Another hand felt inside his jacket.

  One of the men swore. “Handcuffs! He must be a cop!”

  “What are we going to do?”

  There was a moment of silence. Bridges tried to spit some of the filth from his mouth.

  “Cuff him and put him in the back. We’ll take care of him somewhere else.”

  Someone clamped the handcuffs on him. He was half-kicked, half-shoved into the back of the van, where he landed on some tools. His head stung as it struck something metal. A dirty shirt quickly enveloped his head and covered his face. He heard the front two doors of the van open and close. The engine started. The driver backed up and turned around. As he started to move forward, the man in the front passenger seat cried out.

  “Cop cars! He must have called them!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the man behind the wheel responded. “I’ll ease past them.”

  The van moved forward. The vehicle turned to the left. Lights flashed. Sirens wailed.

  “He’s blocked me!” the driver yelled.

  Pandemonium hit the inside of the van. Bridges heard the front and back doors fly open. He could hear the shouts of the police as they chased the men through the darkness. He tried to sit up but felt dizzy and slumped back onto the floor. The shirt around his face was soaked in blood, making it harder and harder to breathe. He heard a single gunshot, and his heart sank. He desperately hoped it wasn’t his gun being used against a fellow officer. His stomach lurched.

  He lay still. Slowly, his head began to clear enough so that he could sit up. Restrained by the handcuffs behind his back, Bridges couldn’t reach up to dislodge the shirt. He scooted to the back of the van and attempted to stand up. He could still hear the sounds of the chase, and the blue lights of the patrol cars flashed through the cloth of the shirt. Suddenly, a bright light shone directly at him.


  “Don’t move!” a deep male voice commanded. “Put your hands over your head and stand up slowly.”

  The detective shook his head. “I’m Bridges,” he managed in a muffled voice. “Help me.”

  He tried to stand but collapsed into unconsciousness.

  Returning from Charleston, Alexia and Ted passed the Beachcomber Club. The blue lights of several police cars flashed in the parking lot, and the siren of an ambulance wailed as it pulled out. Alexia slowed down as the ambulance sped away.

  “That’s a rough place,” Alexia commented. “I won’t try to book you there. I doubt they’d appreciate Debussy.”

  Ted had dozed off until the commotion swirling around the club roused him. He yawned and looked out the window.

  “I wonder what happened.”

  “Probably a fight.”

  When they reached the church, Alexia parked in front of the parsonage.

  “You were great tonight,” Alexia said. “But I respect your desire to maintain a low profile. The next time we go to a charity concert I promise not to volunteer you.”

  Ted smiled. “The evening certainly turned out different than if you’d let me lure you to the sanctuary.”

  “Oh, and I’ll resign as your agent if you think that will help.”

  “Not necessary. Are you going to come to church in the morning?”

  Alexia nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll see you then. Maybe we can go to lunch.”

  Ted opened the car door. Alexia put her hand on his arm. At her touch he leaned over, and they briefly kissed.

  “I had a wonderful evening,” Alexia said. “Are you going to practice any more tonight?”

  Ted laughed. “Do I need to?”

  Alexia kissed him again, a little more strongly.

  “No. You’ve had enough Chopin for one evening. You need something else to think about as you go to sleep.”

  14

  The eyes of the LORD are everywhere, keeping watch on the wicked and the good.

  PROVERBS 15:3

  Rick Bridges struggled toward consciousness like a swimmer seeking the surface. He almost reached air and light before darkness dragged him down again.