Dead Center

by Bill Noel

  After weeks of painful soul searching, and an even more lengthy discussion with Heather, the engagement was called off. Their apartments were less than a block from each other and in Charles’s world they “sort of” lived together. The important thing was it worked for him, and Heather had confided she enjoyed having her own “psychic and physical space,” whatever that meant. The main thing it meant was their relationship thrived, which was more than could be said for many couples.

  What worried me and keeping me awake, was how her eyes lighted up and her voice lilted when she spoke of her brief encounter with Kevin Starr, the alleged agent. She had never made any secret about her ambition to become a star. I had hoped her dreams had been couched with knowledge she might not have the talent. Charles and the rest of us politely had shared her enthusiasm and attended most every performance. The reality was besides her regular appearance at Cal’s open-mic night, and an occasional appearance with the Folly Beach Bluegrass Society that brings together bluegrass performers from the area for its regular Thursday jam session, and according to Charles her singing in the shower, no one else had heard her. None of us dared share our thoughts about her shortcomings. Could the agent, alleged agent, from Heather’s dream destination have heard something we’d missed?

  Chapter Seven

  Mr. Coffee had gurgled the last drop of its namesake into the carafe when a knock on the door jarred me out of a half-awake state. I wet my hands in the sink, pushed my mostly-gray, receding hair back in the same direction, and went to see who had the nerve to pester me this time of day.

  Dude and Pluto stood grinning on the screened-in porch. The last time they had showed up at my door it was in the middle of a thunderstorm and they’d looked like they’d stepped out of the wash cycle at the Laundromat. Today the sky was clear, the temperature cool, and they looked human—human and canine. Dude’s 1970 Chevrolet El Camino was parked crooked in the drive.

  “You be here?” Dude asked with a straight face. Pluto continued to grin.

  Dude was in his typical winter garb of a tie-dyed shirt, a multi-colored jacket that looked like it had spent decades living in a cardboard box under a bridge, faded orange slacks, and bright-white Nike tennis shoes. Pluto, a fifteen-pound Australian terrier, was dressed in a rhinestone-covered, fire-engine red collar. Dude and Pluto looked a lot alike although there was a five foot height discrepancy.

  I didn’t think I needed to answer and waved them in.

  Dude nodded at Pluto. “Water?”

  I pointed at Dude. “Coffee?”

  “Tea?”

  “No.”

  “Coffee okeydokey.”

  Dude and Pluto followed me to the kitchen and two minutes later Pluto was lapping his drink of choice, and Dude was sipping his second choice.

  “What brings you out this chilly morning?” I looked at Dude since I didn’t expect Pluto to answer.

  “To say howdy.”

  There’s a first for everything, although Dude showing up didn’t strike me as a howdy visit. “I’m glad you did,” I waited for him to boogie nearer the real reason.

  “Howdy done,” he said and looked at his look-alike canine. “Pluto be worried. Me, too.”

  “About?”

  “One half sis.”

  “Barbara?”

  “Affirmente.”

  I didn’t know if it was Dude-speak or a foreign language, and without Charles, my Dude-speak translator, I was on my own. I took it as yes.

  “Why worried?”

  Dude looked at the Mr. Coffee. “History lesson be comin’.”

  I took the hint and refilled his mug while he lifted Pluto and set him on his lap. Pluto rested his chin on the table, and I nodded for Dude to continue.

  “Dudester entered world in Altoona, Pee A. Chug-chug town named after Allatoona, an injun. Most peeps think named for Latin word altus, meaning high. Most be wrong.”

  All many of us had known about Dude’s past was he arrived at Folly about a hundred years ago. I will now be able to tell Charles despite rumors, Dude hadn’t immigrated from another planet.

  “Interesting.”

  What else could I have said?

  “Pop worked for Pennsy—that be Pennsylvania Railroad to those not from Pee A. Dudester hatched for twenty-four full-moons when mom died birthing a bro. Boss snowstorm, hospital slick road far away.” He hesitated and looked in his mug.

  “I’m sorry. Was the baby okay?”

  He shook his head. “Never saw sunrise.”

  I didn’t repeat sorry. I shook my head.

  Pluto licked Dude’s hand.

  “Pop rehitched. New momster birthed Barbara when I aged thirty-six full-moons.”

  After what I knew about Dude and what little I had observed about Barbara, I suspected I knew the answer. yet asked anyway. “Were you close?”

  “Close as Saturn to Jupiter.”

  Next to surfing and butchering sentences, astronomy was Dude’s favorite hobby. My knowledge of the science was that there were a bunch of planets, stars, and other stuff up there, but took a leap and guessed Saturn and Jupiter weren’t in the same hood. I motioned for him to continue. Pluto continued to lick his hand.

  “Childhood, she go right, I go left. She be tall, I be Dude. She be pretty, I be Dude.”

  I was beginning to be glad Charles wasn’t here. Otherwise he would have had to know how many pets they had, their names, breeds, and eating habits; who Dude’s friends were, who Barbara dated; what posters were on their bedroom walls; what books they read. That would have been for starters.

  “After childhood?”

  “Me moved to Pittsburgh and hired by dumb dumbs at US Steel. Me took gig and sweated in steel mill too many full moons.” He waved his hand over his head. “Got fed up to here and skedaddled to Laguna Beach, Cee A. Surfin’ be more fun than steel-millin’.”

  This was the longest I’d heard Dude talk and didn’t want to interrupt, but wished he would get to why he was worried about his fractional sister.

  I said, “California to South Carolina?”

  Dude pointed to my back door and then toward the front door. “Got tired of seeing sunset over ocean. Thought sunrise over boss waves be cool. Packed two bourbon boxes of stuff in Chevy Nova—that be before bought luxury wheels drivin’ now—then stomped on gas, and skidded to a halt here day Sonny Bono elected mayor of Palm Springs, Cee A.” He nodded. “You be knowin’ rest.”

  I didn’t know when Sonny had been elected mayor, but did remember hearing that Dude had bought the surf shop in 1988. That I knew, and still had no idea why he was worried about Barbara.

  “What about Barbara?” I hoped to move the story along before another full moon passed.

  Dude took a sip and set Pluto on the floor. “Half-sis be smarter than half-bro. Barb colleged at Penn State and liked name Penn so colleged more and became lawyer from Penn State Law. Got sheepskin and hubby named Karl, with a K. Both got low-pay, long-hours job at big law house in Harrisburg.” He stopped and looked around. “Any eatins?”

  Silly me, how could I have forgotten to offer my uninvited guests a full breakfast.

  “Cereal, no milk. Cheetos. Maybe a stale bagel.”

  Dude smiled. “Cheetos boss.”

  As unlikely as it sounded, he seemed serious so I grabbed a cereal bowl and filled it with the non-Breakfast of Champions and placed it between us on the table.

  Dude grabbed two Cheetos, or as Frito-Lay described them, “playfully mischievous cheesy crunch that add a little lighten-up moment to any day.” Yes, I looked it up; remember, I’m on Folly. He offered Pluto one but the offer was rebuffed. Pluto didn’t need his day lightened.

  Dude shrugged and stuffed two morsels in his mouth. I ate one and waited for the history lesson to continue.

  Dude asked, “Where be in story?”

  “Barb and Karl with a K working for a large law firm.”

  “They dumped grande law store, opened legal lobby shop. Two biggest hirers in H-burg be state of
Pee A, and feds. B and K made tons of lucre sellin’ large corporation BS to lawwriters. Me visited couple of times. Karl be slimy, said if he ever wanted to escape world, would move to Folly. Said he told all his amigos about here. Me be thinkin’ yuck. No way Jose-Karl.”

  Was it possible the story was getting closer to current history? If not, Dude would next be asking what’s for lunch and I’d have to say he’s looking at it. He then moved the story along.

  “Karl then thrown into same wave with Dick Nixon, Spiro Agnew, and innocent O. J.’s lawyer, Beetle Bailey.”

  “F. Lee Bailey.”

  “That’s what me say. Pay attention.”

  I rolled my eyes and motioned for him to continue.

  He shook his head. “Karl be disbarred.”

  “What happened?”

  “State of Pee A. frowns on lobby guys giving fishing boats to state employees. Go figure.”

  “Was Barbara involved?”

  “No proof. Guilt by wedding ring.”

  “What happened?”

  “D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Crookster hubby wrangled a no-pokey-time sentence and moved to New Jersey. He now be scribing legal briefs and counting sixty full moons til can beg to get back in the Pee A. bar.” He stuffed another Cheeto in his mouth.

  “And Barbara?”

  “He, she had major blowout. Accused her of taking his money. Decided law not her cup of oolong tea, and called Dudester. Can you believe, Barbster asking Dudester for advice? Hit me like salami.”

  “Tsunami?”

  “What me said.”

  I nodded and didn’t tell him it stretched the limits of my imagination as well. Instead, I asked what he told her.

  “Said Folly favorite hangout of Sun God; said judging others frowned on by Folly-folks; said snow be as rare as clocks in Vegas; said good place to hide, especially from history.”

  “And?”

  “She said last reason be boss and blah, blah, blah. Here she be: Barb and Barb’s Books.”

  I knew we must be closer, but I still didn’t know what Dude was fearful of. “Now what are you and Pluto afraid about?”

  “Karl with a K.”

  “Why?”

  Dude lifted Pluto up again, and said, “Barb’s no big jabberer. She, me never dialogued much sproutin’ up.” He stopped and waved his hand around the room. “She got to Dude-land and say not much. Dude know she be fearing something.”

  “Why?”

  “Half-bro intuition. She not say afraid, but that Karl being wantin’ moola back, said get it one way or another. Me be fearing another.” He kissed Pluto on the head and looked at the empty Cheeto bowl. “Me know she fearin’ him. Don’t know her good, but know she no fear fast. Chrisster, me be afraid for half-sis.”

  The thought flashed through my head that the man murdered outside her door could have something to do with her situation. I still wondered why Dude was here.

  “Why tell me?”

  “Pluto and me trust you.” He pointed his forefinger at Pluto, and then at his chest. “You helped before. You be one friend I can tell puerile things to and not be cackled at. Maybe half-sis will talk to you.”

  He lost me at puerile.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Bod found behind half-sis’s door.” He held out his left hand, palm up. “Omen.” He then held out his other hand. “Or related? She be in danger.” He wiggled his left hand. “Or Dude’s imagination gone willy-nilly?” He wiggled his right hand. “You figure it out.”

  “Dude, I don’t—”

  He waved both hands in the air almost knocking Pluto off his lap in the process. “Whoa. Trula say copsters know nothing. Need help.”

  “Trula?”

  “Coptress Bishop. Like faux-sugar except she be like brown sugar and older than faux-sweet.”

  It was interesting that Dude knew Officer Bishops first name, even though Truvia was the sugar substitute and not Trula. Regardless, he knew more than I did about the mysterious officer.

  I frowned. “Did Officer Bishop—Trula—say they needed help?”

  “Not same words. Hinted be clueless.” He nodded. “You figure it out.”

  I was trying to figure out how and why I should figure it out when Dude said, “Gotta skedaddle to shop. One of clerksters won lotto and got handful of Benjys. Bought big-buck board, took day off, and surfin’. Clerkster Two need Dudester.”

  Charles usually translated for me, so I was on my own and assumed one of Dude’s employees had won the lottery and had bought an expensive surf board and had taken the day off to go surfing.

  I hadn’t heard anything about it. “Won the lottery?”

  Dude shook his head. “Not zillion dollar lotto. Few hundred buckeroos.”

  “Oh,” I said, as Dude and Pluto headed out.

  First Burl and now Dude. Both friends, both asking the impossible, both asking me to do something I was unprepared to do. What now?

  Chapter Eight

  After my American Heart Association disapproved breakfast, and a headache caused by hunger and Dude’s visit, I headed to the Lost Dog Cafe for a substantial lunch. It was a little after the traditional lunch rush and two tables were vacant and another had a sole occupant, Charles. He wasn’t hard to spot. He wore a long-sleeve T-shirt with a large C on the front with an orange camel stepping through it.

  I shook my head and slid in the other side of the booth. He had a good start on a quesadilla, and his ever-present cane was on the seat beside him along with a stack of paperback books. A discussion about his shirt would do nothing to sooth my headache. I was saved when Amber appeared carrying a Ball jar of water, and asked if I was ready to order. I resisted asking for a dozen ibuprofen and ordered a chicken salad croissant.

  Amber patted me on the shoulder. “Almost healthy.”

  “I’ll get over it.”

  She chuckled and headed to the kitchen.

  Charles looked up from his food. “You look like someone stepped on your pet pelican.”

  I translated it to mean he didn’t think I looked good. “A headache and I’ve been talking to Dude.”

  “Redundant.”

  I smiled. “True.”

  “What were you doing at the surf shop?”

  “Wasn’t. He came to the house.”

  Charles set his fork down, wiped a crumb off his straggly face, and stared at me. He knew a home visit by Dude was as common as a submarine surfacing at the Folly pier.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  I shared Dude’s concerns and that he wanted me to look into it. Charles, the wannabe detective, perked up.

  “Hard to believe, but Dude could be right.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been in Barb’s several times. Don’t suppose that’s a surprise.”

  “Hardly, besides I already knew it.” Book collectors of a feather flock together.

  “She doesn’t know much about books. I thought it was weird for someone with a bookstore. Anyway, I traded her some of mine for some I didn’t have. Two for one. It beat having to pay real money.”

  I was shocked that she had books Charles didn’t have and he would trade away any of his collection. I still didn’t hear anything to reinforce Dude’s concern.

  “Why do you think Dude’s right?”

  “Barb’s not a big talker, not a big smiler either. Took a whole passel of Charles’s charm to get much out of her. Of course, I did.”

  “What’d you learn?”

  “Did you know she’s a lawyer?”

  “She’d mentioned it.”

  He huffed. “You didn’t think it was important enough to tell me?”

  “Nope.”

  He huffed again. “Anyway, she’s articulate once she starts talking. No doubt she and Dude got their talking skills from different mothers.” He glanced at his lunch. “She came here to get away from her ex and for a new start on life. She said she’d talked to Dude four or five times in the past twelve years before he’d encouraged her to come here. I asked
her if she was going to open a law business on Folly and she said no. She was kaput with the law. She said it better than that. It’s what she meant. I innocently asked if she ever heard from her ex.”

  It was unlikely his question was innocent.

  “The second I said it, she tensed up like a fiddle string. Our pleasant conversation, that had finally gotten started, skidded into a brick wall.” He clapped his hands. “Smack!”

  Amber arrived with my almost healthy lunch and asked if we needed anything else. We said no and she moved to the next table. I took a bite and nodded for Charles to continue.

  “Was Pluto with him?” asked Charles, the master of awkward transitions.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Back to Barbara?”

  “Right. She didn’t say anything about the ex. She got all nervous. Her eyes shifted around the room, she stood up straighter, either it was a shadow or the veins in her neck looked like they were going to pop. She was afraid. I didn’t think anything of it when— ”

  “Hey, Charles,” interrupted a man standing in the spot Amber had vacated moments earlier.

  “Hey, Russ,” Charles said. The newcomer was in his mid-50s, six-foot tall, stocky, with a full head of dyed brown hair graying in the temples, and a well-groomed, full beard.

  “Didn’t meant to interrupt, wanted to say hi.”

  I’d often wondered what the phrase didn’t mean to interrupt meant. Of course he meant to. He wasn’t walking by and for some unconscious reason, his mouth started talking—interrupting.

  “No problem,” Charles said. “Have you met my best friend Chris?”