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  “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, could be because you called to ask if I knew Russell O’Leary who happens to own the building someone turned black and flat a couple of blocks from your house. Or, could be because you stick your pasty white nose in everything bad happening on Folly. How am I doing?”

  Before I could answer, one of the cardplayers raised his hand and hollered to Al, “How about a couple more beers?”

  Bob, being the customer-friendly, service-oriented bar owner, said, “Marvin, can’t your Afro eyes see the man’s busy fixing food for my young friend here?”

  Bob was white; ninety-five percent of his customers African American. After Bob bought the bar, Al told me the main reason he wanted to stay on was to prevent a race riot in the place where he’d spent most of his work life. The more the regulars learned that Bob didn’t like black people, they realized he didn’t like brown, yellow, white, or any other color people. He was a textbook example of an equal-opportunity offender. He didn’t like anyone, or so it appeared.

  Marvin mumbled something under his breath, then went to the cooler and got the drinks. Bob mumbled something that sounded like, “Thanks, Marvin,” but I had a hard time believing he could’ve said the word thanks.

  Marvin returned to the card game, riot averted, for now. Bob turned back to me.

  “Where was I,” he said. “Oh yeah, you were going to tell me I was right about you nosing in police business.”

  I agreed but wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of hearing it.

  “What do you know about O’Leary?”

  “He’s a heavy-truck mechanic at a shop over here. Decent income, but hard work, long hours. When his dad died a few years back, he inherited the building where you’re snooping where you shouldn’t.”

  Al made his way to the table, set a cheeseburger with a double order of fries in front of me. Before I’d arrived, Bob told him what I’d want, and what he’d want with the extra order of fries. Al also set a glass of wine beside my plate.

  “Set your bony ass down while I tell my good-buddy Chris how brilliant I am.”

  Al lowered himself beside me. “Don’t need to hear it. You say it every day.”

  “Old man, the truth will set you free.”

  Al rolled his eyes, as the sounds of the Four Tops’ hit “Reach Out, I’ll Be There,” reverberated off the walls.

  Bob yelled, “Marvin, you do that?”

  Marvin smiled. “Yes, Master Bob. You needed some good music.”

  “Next time you punch those numbers in the jukebox I’m getting a restraining order to keep you from entering this fine dining, drinking establishment ever again.”

  Marvin’s smile turned to a laugh. “Yes, Master Bob.”

  Bob turned back to Al and me. “Damned radicals.”

  “Bob, how do you know so much about O’Leary?”

  “He walked into my office soon after inheriting the building. Said he knew everything there was to know about fixing a Peterbilt but nothing about owning an apartment building. Wanted to talk about selling. I worked up comps and met to talk to him about the details of selling a multi-unit structure. He pondered it for a couple of weeks before calling to say he and his wife talked it over. They have two teenagers, college-age by now, I guess. Much to my thinning wallet’s dismay, they decided to hold on to the building. Said they wanted it to be a legacy they could leave to their kids, which meant no money for me to leave to my kids.”

  “Bob,” Al said, “you ain’t got no kids.”

  “Hell, Al, get with the program. I was being figurative-speaking-like, making the point that his gain was my loss.”

  “Sounded stupid-like to me,” Al said.

  I agreed with Al. “Bob, is that all you know about O’Leary?”

  “That’s more than you knew when you walked in.”

  “True. So, that’s all?”

  “Nope.”

  “Heavens, Bob. Tell the man what you know. Use plain English while you’re doing it.”

  “Hush, old man. Let me tell the story the way I want.”

  Instead of smacking the fry out of Bob’s mouth, Al smiled, then leaned back in the chair.

  Despite tremendous differences ranging from skin color to socioeconomic background, to kindness to others, Bob and Al had been friends for decades; they’d do anything for each other.

  “After you called to tell me you’d love to come over and buy a cheeseburger, I called a realtor I know over your way to see if he knew anything about Russell. He said rumors were flying that the mechanic turned landlord was in deep financial straits. Late paying bills, months behind on his mortgage, one kid in college, one in trouble with the law.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What more do you want, his social security number and cholesterol level? I suppose you think he torched the building for the insurance.”

  “Maybe.”

  Bob stuffed another fry in his mouth, then said, “Hell, I know I would’ve.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Another below-average temperature the week before Christmas greeted me as I stepped outside for the walk next door for coffee, something to eat, and with luck, a chance to check on Ty. Three construction workers were standing around the large coffee urn—one pouring coffee, two adding sugar and milk to their caffeinated drink. I drew a cup after the workers headed to the exit, then moved to the cabinet holding three large Cinnamon rolls, where Preacher Burl Costello was holding two boxes of prepackaged donuts.

  “Morning Burl, didn’t your chef show up to fix breakfast?”

  As he smiled, his milk-chocolate colored mustache wiggled like a caterpillar inching its way along his upper lip. “And a good morning to you as well, Brother Chris. One of my fantasy dreams is for a chef to take up residence at Hope House. Until then, the bakery in, umm,” he looked at the bottom of the donut package. “Cleveland, Ohio, will have to prepare our morning meals. My skills are limited to burning toast and offering a prayer.”

  I pointed to the shelf where I was eying my breakfast. “Burning toast would be an upgrade in my culinary skills. Don’t suppose you have vacancies since we talked the other day?”

  Burl’s smile transitioned to a frown plus a slow head shake. “Still full. Are some of the residents of the burned building still without somewhere to hang their hats?”

  I glanced around looking for Ty, not seeing him, I said, “Unfortunately yes. Rose Wheeler and her son are the only ones who’ve found accommodations.”

  “Are they the relatives of our outstanding Chief?”

  “She’s Cindy’s sister, Luke, Cindy’s nephew. The others are living in their vehicles or staying at the Holliday Inn.”

  “Brother Chris, I have faith our community will come together to aid the displaced.”

  “I wish I had that much faith.”

  He smiled and patted my arm. “Tis the season of faith, Brother Chris. The season of faith.”

  As if on cue, Ty appeared at my side. He asked if he could help us find something. He had on what looked like the same shirt he’d been wearing the last time I’d seen him. His ponytail shined like it was covered with a layer of oil.

  I introduced Ty to Preacher Burl.

  “Preacher, Ty is one of the displaced residents I was talking about.”

  Burl set the donuts on the table, then put one arm around Ty. “Brother Ty, I’m terribly sorry about your loss of residence.”

  Ty took a step back from Burl. “No biggie, Preacher. I’ve lived in worse places than in my car. Besides, Lost is safe.”

  Burl looked at the young man like he’d look at three-legged deer. “Brother Ty, don’t believe I understand.”

  I wouldn’t have either if I hadn’t known about Lost. “Preacher Burl, Ty is living in his Miata. Lost is the name of his adorable kitten that was in his car during the fire.”

  “Oh,” Burl said, still looking confused. “It’s nice meeting you, Brother Ty. I have faith you’ll find somewhere to live, perhaps
with more living space than your car. Gentlemen, I hate to run but need to get back to the house with breakfast or I’ll have several residents ready to move me to my vehicle.”

  “Preacher,” I said, “will you be at Cal’s Christmas party?”

  “I wouldn’t miss Brother Cal’s event, although I’d be more inclined to be there if that old country singer didn’t feel the need to drag me on stage to join him in a Christmas song.”

  The last two Christmas parties, Cal thought singing a duet with Burl was something the group would enjoy. The bar’s owner said it combined the spirit of the holiday with the religious significance of the sacred event. Burl thought there must be better ways to communicate the message, but went along with Cal.

  “Preacher, that’s the highlight of the event.”

  “Not to me, Brother Chris. Not to me,”

  Burl headed to the register.

  Ty watched him go, then said, “He talks funny, doesn’t he? Several customers told me they go to his church. I should give it a try. He has more faith than I have about me finding somewhere to live.”

  I shared more information about First Light, Hope House, then added, “Ty, another reason I came in was to see how you’re doing.”

  “That’s kind of you, Mr. Landrum. I’m doing peachy.” He snapped his fingers. “There was one thing I wanted to mention when I saw you.” He stared at me like he wanted me to say something.

  “Now would be a good time.”

  He nodded. “Remember I told you about Aimee’s fiancée?”

  “Nick something.”

  “Nick Matthews. He came in yesterday. I didn’t see him at first. He was over by the beer cooler. I was stocking the book rack, know where I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “He got a six-pack, then walked close to me. He had this big look on his face. Looked like one of those Cheshire cat grins.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Not a word, but figured the look was like him telling me he burnt the building, a smirk because he did it.”

  “Ty, you’re certain he didn’t say anything?”

  “Certain.”

  I wasn’t aware of laws against smirking but thought he should tell the police his suspicions.

  “Ty, I doubt it’ll do any good but I suggest you tell Chief Lamond the next time she’s in.”

  “I will if you think it’s a good idea but if I was the Chief and some kid told me he was reporting a smirk, I’d nod and forget it.”

  “Ty, she might do that but she’s trying to figure out who set the fire. Anything related, regardless of how small or inconsequential, may help.”

  “If you say so,” he said, sounding as convincing as I had suggesting it. “Better get back to work. Don’t know what I’d do if I lost this job.” He laughed. “I’d hate to have to give up my luxurious living quarters.”

  I was impressed by how well he was taking his uncomfortable situation. I couldn’t handle it as well.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I called Neil after I got home. He’d told me a lot about the man he’d sicked the IRS on, but little about the person who’d threatened him after being bounced from the Charleston bar.

  “Neil, are you at Cal’s?”

  “I go in at four. Why?”

  “I was wondering about something you’d said. Thought I’d drop in if you were working.”

  “You can come tonight, or I could meet you somewhere now. The less time I spend in this room the better.”

  We agreed to meet at St. James Gate, a restaurant on the corner of Center Street and Ashley Avenue that prides itself on being a “proper Irish pub.” From its distinct green and tan exterior to the dark wood and stone interior, the restaurant has the feel of how I pictured an Irish pub.

  I would’ve preferred to sit on the back patio, but the temperature made that impractical, so I chose a table in front of the window facing Center Street. A half-dozen customers were at the bar. Four men sat at a table in the center of the room with two of them staring at laptop computers, most likely salespersons discussing whatever salespersons discuss. A server wearing a green and white T-shirt with a three-leaf clover over his heart was quick to the table. If I drank beer, I would’ve automatically ordered Guinness, the beer of choice in the pub. The server appeared disappointed when I stuck with water. He cheered slightly when I told him I was waiting on someone and might order more when my guest arrives.

  I didn’t wait long. Neil came in the door and headed my way. The server arrived with my water at the same time. Neil did what was expected in the Irish pub when he ordered Guinness and a menu. The server looked at me with an expression that said, “See, that’s what you’re supposed to do,” then went to get Neil’s drink.

  “What’s on your mind, Chris?”

  Nothing like getting to the point, I thought. I told him I was wondering how he was doing, the same thing I’d said to Ty.

  “Okay, I guess. Cal has been kind to give me extra hours, so I have enough money to replace some of the stuff lost in the fire. My car’s a gas guzzler, so I cut back on my job in Charleston. Walking to Cal’s helps save some.”

  “Still living in the Holliday Inn?”

  “Yes, but I’d love to get out of there. They gave me a good rate, but I still can’t afford it. Also, I can’t stand being pent up in the small room. This time of year, it’s even worse. It … never mind.”

  “Worse because of the holidays?”

  “Sort of.”

  That’s the kind of comment Charles would be all over. I liked to think I wasn’t quite as pushy.

  “Neil, when we were talking the other day, you said one of your customers in Charleston threatened you after you, umm, evicted him.”

  “Nothing unusual. It happens more than you might think. Alcohol does strange things to folks.”

  The gods of irony arrived the same time the server arrived with Neil’s alcoholic drink. The server asked if we were ready to order. Neil said the beer was all he needed for now, so I ordered a soft drink instead of food. I didn’t know if Neil wasn’t hungry or didn’t have money for lunch.

  “Neil, didn’t you say the man you threw out threatened you?”

  “Yeah.” He chuckled. “They all do.”

  “Could he have started the fire for revenge?”

  “I suppose so, but he didn’t know where I lived.”

  “Could he have followed you home?”

  Neil smiled. “Not that night. I don’t think he was in any condition to find his nose, much less my apartment.”

  “Seen him since then?”

  “Once or twice. He’s a regular.”

  “He give you more trouble?”

  “He made a couple of smart-ass comments, nothing more.”

  “No more threats?”

  “Not really. I don’t think he started the fire. If anyone did because of me, it was the guy who owns the plant where I worked.”

  “Do you have a reason to think that anything other than because he’d be angry?”

  “He’s got a temper. I remember several times where he yelled at an employee, or when he pounded his fist on a wall.”

  “Have you seen him since you turned him in?”

  Neil took a sip of beer, looked out the window, then said, “No.”

  “He never directly threatened you?”

  “No.”

  Other than two people who may have a beef with him, Neil didn’t know anything to tie them to the fire, which brings me back to something he’d said, or more accurately, hadn’t said about this time of year being worse than other times.

  “Neil, what did you mean when you said this time of year was bad?”

  He took another sip as he resumed staring out the window. I was afraid I’d irritated him.

  He finally turned to me. “My dad died three days before Christmas. I was seventeen.”

  “Neil, I’m sorry. What happened?”

  “Cancer. He’d been sick for months. We knew his time was short, but he t
old mom and me he wanted to be here one more Christmas. He didn’t make it.”

  “That would be a good reason to be depressed this time of year. Again, I’m sorry.”

  He slowly shook his head. “There’s more.”

  The server returned and asked if Neil wanted another beer. He nodded but didn’t say anything. I told the server I was fine.

  Neil watched him leave, then said, “I was married once.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “She was the most wonderful person I ever knew. Married five years, five wonderful years.”

  Do I ask what happened? The server was back before I decided.

  Neil took a long draw on the beer, then said, “Three years ago, Lisa, that was her name, went to visit her parents. They lived thirty miles from our house. Her car was T-boned by a drunk driver. Killed her instantly.”

  “Neil, I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Was Christmas Eve. Know what happened to the damned drunk?”

  I shook my head.

  “Airbag broke his little finger. Lisa dies and he gets his damned pinkie broke.”

  Not knowing what to say, I shook my head.

  He took a sip, looked out the window, hopped out of the chair, and headed to the restroom. It was becoming clear why this time of the year was rough on Neil. It was also clear I was running out of ways to say sorry.

  Neil returned, gave me a feeble smile, then said, “Know what I did the next Christmas?”

  I was afraid to guess. “What?”

  “Got arrested. Aggravated assault.”

  “What happened?”

  “Sitting in a bar, feeling sorry for myself. Christmas Eve, a year to the day I lost Lisa.” He held up his beer. “Drinking way too many of these. A guy sitting next to me started ragging on the gal bartender. Bitching about her being slow. I blew a gasket. Before I knew it, we were exchanging blows, then I was being hauled away by what must’ve been a dozen cops. Chris, ain’t nothing good about spending Christmas in jail.”

  “Neil, no wonder this is a bad time of year.”

  “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t.” He hesitated, then added, “You’re the only person I’ve told all this to. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share it with anyone.”