Dead Center

by Bill Noel

  Cal shook his head, again. “And I thought Kris couldn’t sing.”

  Charles was undeterred. “The dead guy?”

  “Hold your stallion,” Cal said. “Where was I?”

  “His clothes,” I said.

  “Out of place,” Cal said.

  “That boy could use some strummin’ lessons,” Heather said to no one in particular.

  I wasn’t as good a detective as Charles, but knew she wasn’t referring to the well-dressed stranger with the, heaven forbid, pressed shirt.

  Charles ignored Heather and looked at Cal. “Anything else?”

  Cal looked at the singer and back to Charles. “I was playing in honky-tonk bars before that guy’s daddy was hatched.” He pointed his thumb toward the stage. “Been bartending here for a few years so I can tell what a customer’s thinking before the thoughts reach his mouth.” Cal chuckled. “Can tell you a couple of things about the stranger. First, he got his hackles up when anyone tried to talk to him. Two tried; two failed. The second thing is he wasn’t here to pick-up some lovin’. No he wasn’t.”

  Charles said, “How do you know?”

  “You miss the first part of what I said? Trust me on that one. I know.”

  I knew that wasn’t good enough for Charles. In a rare fit of wisdom, he didn’t pursue it.

  I asked, “What’s your gut tell you about him?”

  He started to say something, hesitated, and instead put up his hand. “I’ll be back.”

  He headed to the stage, encouraged everyone to give a nice round of applause for what’s his name, and asked the second vocalist to make her way to the stage. The smell of frying burgers came from the small kitchen by the bar and reminded me I hadn’t had supper. I’d only had one glass of wine, but figured I could stomach one of Cal’s burgers. The next singer was in her twenties and had performed a couple of other times when I’d been here. Her voice was pleasant, her guitar playing, about fifty times better than her predecessor, although her song selection leaned more toward 1970s soft-rock than the traditional country Cal and most of his patrons preferred.

  Anita, her name I did remember because of her previous performances, began her set with Carly Simon’s “Haven’t Got Time for the Pain,” and Cal headed toward the small kitchen to “rustle up a burger.” Charles added, “Make it three, and a heaping helping of fries.”

  Charles watched Cal say a few words to the group at the next table and head to the kitchen, and turned to Heather. “Remember anything else about the dead guy?”

  “He stared in his beer more than at Cal singing. Something heavy was on his mind.”

  Anita continued on her Carly Simon track with “Anticipation,” and Cal returned with our burgers and fries.

  “While you’re up,” Charles said, “how about another round?”

  Cal tipped his Stetson. “Your wish is my command.”

  Heather put her arm around Charles and said, “Chucky, ain’t this terrific? I’m the headliner.”

  Charles riled when anyone called him anything other than Charles. To him, Chuck or Charlie were overgrown four letter words. No one other than Heather could get away with an occasional Chucky; other offenders would incur the wrath of Charles, and that wasn’t pretty.

  Charles—Chucky—kissed her on the cheek. “Terrific, sweetie, terrific.”

  Cal arrived with our drinks and leaned back in his chair while Anita transitioned into Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle.”

  The bar’s owner shook his head. “Ain’t bad; ain’t country.”

  His review appeared to be over, so I asked, “Remember anything else about the guy?”

  “Had a fondness for Bud Light. That’s it.”

  “How’d he pay?” I asked.

  “Andy Jacksons.”

  Charles waved his hand in Cal’s face. “Don’t suppose you made him show a driver’s license.”

  Cal stared at Charles. “In case his bucks bounced?”

  Charles said, “Trying to figure out who he was.”

  “He was a loner who liked Bud Light, had a pocket full of Jacksons, and was as cold as a cast iron commode in Alaska.”

  I figured we were at the bottom of the well of information about the stranger and time to mosey another direction. Cal was rubbing off on me.

  “Cal, what do you know about the new bookstore?”

  “Been there once. Checking to see if it had songbooks—nary a one.” He paused and looked at the stage. Anita was sliding her guitar back in its case.

  He stood to return to the stage. “Don’t drift off.”

  Since Heather was one singer closer to being in the spotlight, he couldn’t get her to drift off if the building was in flames.

  Cal thanked Anita for sharing her version of country, and then said, “Our next crooner’s been with us a few times and is always a favorite with the gals. Make welcome Ed Robinson.”

  Ed smiled at the rousing round of applause he received from the middle-aged couple and another woman at his table. Someone slamming the men’s restroom door at the side of the stage was the only other noise in the room.

  Cal returned to the table and Ed began Conway Twitty’s “Hello Darlin’.”

  “Bookstore,” I said to rechannel Cal’s thinking.

  “Bunch of books, no songbooks. Gal that owns it’d be a looker if she put some meat on her bones and cracked a smile. I tried to welcome her to Folly, and all she did was nod. It was cool outside that morning, but her look was as cold as a frosted frog.” He shook his head. “If she wasn’t Dude’s sis, I’d never go back. She—”

  Charles leaned toward Cal. “How’d you know she was Dude’s half-sister?”

  Cal leaned away from Charles. “Don’t know much about fractions, but Dude told me.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Been a while now. Don’t recall for certain, a few weeks maybe.”

  Charles leaned closer once again. “How come you didn’t tell us?”

  He was peeved because he thought he was the only one who knew about Dude’s half-sister.

  “Figured you’d already knew, beings you’re such a good detective and a friend of Dude.” He smiled when he said detective.

  “Well, umm… sure, I knew,” Charles stammered. “Wondered when you found out.”

  I suspected Charles’s feelings were more hurt because he hadn’t heard it from Dude than not that Cal knew.

  Heather had pushed away from the table and stared at her guitar case. She was focused on her pending performance and had no interest in our conversation.

  “Did Dude say why she was here?” I asked.

  “He surfed-out about seven words that meant she’d split from a bad marriage and needed somewhere to lick her wounds. He told her Folly was a ‘boss hangout’ and she had moved lock, stock, and barrel of books to our fine seaside community.”

  Dude had never met a sentence he couldn’t butcher. He didn’t believe in using ten words, when one would almost do.

  Charles asked, “Moved from where?”

  “Dude didn’t say, or if he did, I didn’t understand.”

  Two other couples drifted in and grabbed tables. A man I hadn’t seen before came in and sat at the bar, and Ed had finishing the late Merle Haggard’s classic “Okie from Muskogee” and was introducing his wife, Gretchen, and two of his friends “out in the audience” who’d travelled “all the way” from Summerville to hear him. It was a whopping thirty-five mile trip. Heather applauded loud enough for the rest of the table; most likely so Ed and his wife and friends would reciprocate at the end of her set. And, Cal headed to the new arrivals to welcome them and take their orders.

  I now knew a bit more about the body and an equal amount new about Barbara. I didn’t need to know more, but I was still curious.

  Chapter Six

  Heather tapped her fingers on the table, looked at her watch, and then glared at Cal who was delivering drinks to a table of recent arrivals. Ed finished his introductions and broke into “I’d Be Better Off (I
n a Pine Box).” Heather frowned and agreed it’s where Ed should be. He was bullying into her stage time. The first two performers had exited, taking their fan base with them, leaving the crowd sparser than when we had arrived.

  Cal returned from playing bartender. Heather put her hand on his arm, gave him her best stage smile, and tilted her head toward Ed. Cal nodded.

  Charles said, “Who’s the newcomer?” He pointed his beer bottle in the direction of the man at the bar.

  “First time I’ve—”

  Ed strummed the last notes of the Doug Stone cover, and Heather yanked Charles away from Cal. “Let Cal go to work.”

  It was her turn and she wasn’t about to let a stage-hogging musician strum another chord. Cal pushed away from the table and headed to the stage. Heather grabbed her guitar and followed.

  Cal said, “Let’s have a big hand for Ed.”

  Three people at Ed’s table and the newcomer at the bar applauded.

  “Now ladies and gentlemen,” Cal’s spine curved toward the mike, his long-gray hair poked out of the sides of his Stetson. “Let’s make welcome one of our regular girl singers, the pretty and talented Miss Heather Lee.”

  Charles stood and applauded, while the two tables of newcomers gave a polite acknowledgment. The man at the bar looked around the room and smiled.

  Heather moved to the antique mike, tipped her wide-brimmed straw hat she wore to each appearance, gave the audience an aw-shucks smile, and broke into the country classic “Crazy.” In addition to making a living as a massage therapist and singing for tips, Heather claimed to talk to ghosts, was handy with a divining rod, and, as she said, could spot a demonic apparition a mile away. Her weakness as a psychic was her voice which fell far short of channeling Patsy Cline. Regardless, nothing could stop her from trying. Her endearing smile, unending enthusiasm, and overblown desire combined to make up for her lack of vocal skills.

  Charles knew better than to let Heather see him doing anything other than paying rapt attention when she was performing. Cal hadn’t answered his question about the man at the bar, so Charles faced the bandstand and leaned closer to Cal.

  “Who is he?” Charles said out of the corner of his mouth.

  I looked at the man sipping a Budweiser . I didn’t see Charles fascination other than it was someone he didn’t know. The stranger looked to be in his forties, had short-cropped hair, and one of those three day old beards that was too short to be intentional yet too long to have been shaved. He wore jeans and a North Face jacket over a plaid shirt. Nothing unusual for February on Folly.

  Cal said, “Don’t know.”

  And Charles had waited all this time for that.

  Charles gave him a look that screamed, “Why not?”

  Cal shrugged and said he had to tend to his paying customers. He headed to the bar to see if the person Charles had been so interested in needed another beer, and Charles turned his attention back to his main-squeeze who had transitioned to “I Fall to Pieces.”

  Cal’s closing time in winter was as predictable as a puppy. Most nights, he closed as soon as the last customer left; often before eight o’clock. On open-mic nights he stayed later. Participants brought their own fans, and the quality of the performances, brought out the beer in higher quantities. It was approaching ten and Cal was moving slower by the minute. He looked at his watch and wiggled his index finger at Heather. It didn’t take a degree in music management to know what it meant.

  Our table, one other couple, and the man at the bar remained. Heather finished “I Fall to Pieces,” put her hand over her heart, and said she was going to close with “Sweet Dreams,” Patsy’s most popular song and the one that was released after her death.

  Heather said Patsy like they’d been best buds. A psychic thing, I suppose.

  The couple waved at Cal for their check, the man at the bar was writing on a business card, and Heather was performed a passable version of the country standard.

  It had been a long day and I was anxious to get home, but knew Heather, like most performers, needed all the positive reinforcement she could get once she left the stage. She finished her set, and Cal returned to the mike. “Fine job, Heather. Fine job,” and then he thanked everyone for coming. He also reminded them he was open every night and he’d be performing “a set or two,” Friday and Saturday.

  Heather started to the table when the man at the bar waved her over. She set her guitar case beside Charles and moved to the bar. The stranger shook her hand and pointed to the adjacent stool.

  Heather and the man were in deep conversation. Charles glared, Cal cleaned tables, and I yawned.

  Charles continued to glare. “He better not be flirtin’.”

  “She can take care of herself. Perhaps he’s a new fan.”

  “Smarmy sleazebag’d be more like it.”

  Charles pushed his chair back and I was afraid he was going to save his damsel in distress—whether she was in distress or not. The smarmy sleazebag patted Heather on the shoulder and headed to the exit.

  Heather returned to the table with a bigger smile than she had shared with her adoring audience from the stage and waved the business card in the air in front of her. “Guess what? Guess what?”

  Something told me whatever it was wasn’t as good as Heather thought.

  Charles, through gritted teeth, said, “What?”

  “That’s Kevin. He’s a music agent. Holy moly, he’s from Nashville.”

  Heather handed the card to Charles, and I looked over his shoulder as he read: Kevin Starr, Starr Management. That’s all that was on the front of the card—no address, no phone number. Charles turned it over and stared at a handwritten phone number beginning with 615.

  Heather squealed, “That’s Music City.”

  “What’d he want?” Charles asked not sharing a glimmer of her excitement.

  She ignored his lack of enthusiasm. “Said he liked my singing. Said if I ever get to Nashville to give him a call. Hinted he’d like to represent me. Oh, Chucky, isn’t it fantastic?”

  “He came to hear you?” Charles said.

  “No, silly goose. He’s been at the Tides since Friday meeting with record execs from New York, something about them being on a retreat, recharging their batteries, or something. He said he was sick of listening to them brag on themselves and found Cal’s. He’s heading out in the morning. Lucky he was here and heard me. Ain’t it great?”

  Charles nodded. He didn’t say how great he thought it was. “Have you heard of his agency?”

  “No. That don’t mean a bunch. I haven’t heard of most of them; never been to Nashville. He represents some of the biggest stars out there.”

  “He name any?” I asked.

  “Don’t think so. If he did, I was too excited to remember.”

  “That’s great, Heather,” I said. Not because I thought it was, but Charles wasn’t sharing in her joy. “He say anything else?”

  She rubbed her chin and looked at the bar where they had been sitting. “No, I gave him my number and got his card. He said he had to leave early in the morning and needed to get back to the hotel.”

  Charles sat ram-straight. “You gave him your number?”

  “Why sure, Chucky. He said he might call if he had any news I’d need to know about.” She paused and put her hand over her heart. “He said there might be some paying—yep, paying—gigs he could get for me.”

  I wondered what news or gigs that could be. I kept my mouth closed.

  Charles looked around the room and caught Cal’s eye. “Mosey over a sec.”

  Cal flipped the bar towel over his shoulder. It knocked his Stetson sideways. “Dang. That always works when bartenders do in the movies.” He straightened his hat and walked over to us. “What’cha need?”

  Charles handed the card to Cal. “Ever hear of this guy or his agency?”

  Cal squinted at the card. “Can’t say I have. There are more agents in Nashville than turds in a zoo.” He shook his head. “Smell as good too.”


  During Cal’s years on the road, he had been exposed to numerous corrupt and sleazy promoters, managers, and agents and had been taken advantage of by several of them. He was not a fan of anyone who made a living off performers’ talents, yet had become a good judge of people and I would trust his take on Starr.

  “What do you think of him?” I nodded toward where the agent had been seated.

  “Nice enough. He was polite, didn’t say much, no red flags. He was a lot more pleasant than that dead guy.”

  I didn’t take it as a ringing endorsement. At least Cal didn’t label him as being anything but what he claimed to be. I hoped Heather didn’t get her hopes too high. I was no judge of talent, yet suspected Heather didn’t have enough to hold a paying singing job on Folly, much less in the country music capitol of the galaxy.

  Charles waved the card over his head. “What’s with no address? Doesn’t he have an office? How’s that possible for a big-time agency?”

  “Got an answer for that one,” Cal said. “Many Nashville agencies don’t list addresses or they only list a PO Box. If their location got out, they’d have a stream of unwanted wannabes flitting through their doors. Everyone’s a star, or thinks so.”

  “See Chucky, Kevin’s smart. And he’s gonna call.”

  There went not getting her hopes too high. Cal headed to the back room to start turning lights off, I headed home, and Charles and Heather left for their apartments walking hand in hand.

  I’m usually quick to fall asleep. Not tonight. The conversation about Heather and Nashville weighed on my mind. I had known Heather for years and thought the world of her. She may have been flighty and off-kilter in most of the country, although on Folly she fit in like the candy coating on a Skittle, and often dressed as colorfully. She was the first person Charles had dated in three decades. Their needs were minimal, they would do anything for anyone, they both loved animals, and could find good in almost anyone, a trait the rest of us could learn from.

  Heather lived in a small apartment in a dilapidated former bed-and-breakfast and had been across the hall from Charles’s Aunt Melinda’s during the short time she had been with us. They had become co-conspirators in trying to get Charles to propose to the singing, psyching, massage therapist. Before Melinda left to entertain God with her charm, wit, and enthusiasm, she’d convinced Charles to pop the question. He did, and at the time, had meant it. Then reality set in. He had been a lifelong bachelor, and had one serious romantic relationship in all that time. He had told me two mice had moved out of his apartment because it was too small, so there was no way within the laws of physics for Heather to share it with him; and, he was as addicted to his residence with wall-to-wall books as he was to oxygen.