IT ALWAYS RAINS AT FUNERALS
By Barry C. Gill
 

It always rains at funerals. Smart guys will tell you it’s just not true. That statistically the chances of rain falling or the sun shining on a casket on any given day are the same. These same smart guys will tell you that the evidence supporting this rain theory is purely anecdotal and can’t stand up to the light of day. But since I’m wet and at a funeral. I’ll go with the anecdotal.

Wet would be an understatement. Here’s a hot news tip. Flannel looks spiffy but water resistance is not a strong point of the material. I’ve got my collar turned up but all that does is create a nice channel for the rainwater to go down my back. A good umbrella would come in handy right now. But all things considered, it doesn’t really matter. 

Looking around I see the rest of the mourners are also unprepared for the rain. Not an umbrella in sight. Everyone is just as wet as I am. Since it rains at almost the same time very afternoon down here you would think that the natives would come prepared. But for whatever reason it does not work that way.

I wonder if I look as miserable as I feel. If I do, it’s probably for the best. You’re supposed to look like being at a graveyard is the last place on earth you want to be. Come to think of it. It will be.

Funerals down South are strange. I know this because I’m from up North and know the difference. Actually, I’m from the Mid-West, St. Louis Missouri to be exact. But to a southerner, anybody who was born in a state without the confederate stars and bars imbedded somewhere in its state flag is from up north. It doesn’t matter that Missouri was a border state with people fighting on both sides of the Civil War. It doesn’t matter that the year is 1964 and the War of Northern Aggression, as they call it down here, has been over for almost one hundred years. The flag is wrong so I’m from up north.

As I was saying, funerals in the South are strange. Or should I say the graveyards are strange. It seems that each gravestone I walk past has hanging over it a Live Oak tree, a silent sentinel, draped with hanging moss, dripping with rain, whose brown and green arms are twisted at odd angles like my dad’s pipe cleaners that I used to play with when I was a kid.

The cane I’ve been using since it happened is useless. With every step I take the end of the cane sinks deeper into soft spongy ground which seems all too ready to absorb another victim. The heat down here is unbearable. Even in September the heat sits on your chest like a heavy man and slowly crushes the air out of your lungs. This burial yard is too primordial for my taste; here nature reigns supreme, adhering to no rules except her own.

Up North the cemeteries are more to my liking. I know because in my line of work you see ‘em all the time. The graveyards are more civilized, well manicured. Straight limbed trees line straight paths, which intersect with straight rows, which slice the graveyards into well ordered sections. You see the hand of man at work everywhere and can almost fool yourself into believing that even in death the human race has things under control.

If I sound morbid, you have to excuse me. The Beaches, as they collectively call the three small coastal towns of Atlantic, Jacksonville and Neptune Beach, located just across the intercoastal waterway from Jacksonville Florida, that Bold New City of the South, as the inhabitants like to call it, may be a beautiful place to live, but my wife and partner is dead so I just don’t see much beauty right now in my surroundings.

Let me introduce myself. The name is Jack Knight, but everybody calls me Garry, which is my middle name. It’s easier that way or at least it used to be, when your wife’s name is Jackie Day. I’m a PI or Private Investigator for those not in the know and as I just mentioned Jackie was my partner. 

Before turning private I was a demolition expert with the Army Rangers in WWII, where me and a bunch of farm boys destroyed a whole lot of enemy positions on the bluffs overlooking Omaha Beach. After that I became a good cop with a gold badge who came out on the bad end of an argument with a junkie in East St. Louis and took a .38 slug in the chest. The surgeon who removed the lead from my lung told me that for my health I should choose a less dangerous occupation in a warmer, dryer climate. Possibly Florida, he said.

What a wet nasty joke. If I had known what was going to happen, I would have stayed in St. Louis. Of course, I never would have met Jackie. But then again she would still be alive. 

I found out when I got down here that the only thing I was good at was what I couldn’t do anymore. So I did the next best thing. I became a PI. Same skills involved and I didn’t have to pass a physical to get the job. 

I hired Jackie Day to answer my phones the same day I got my state PI license and hung out my shingle. But Jackie wanted to do more than take messages and set my appointments. She wanted to learn the business. 

At first I thought she was doing this as a lark. Jackie was rich with a capital "R". Daddy had made his money running bootlegged whiskey in the dry counties of Alabama. Now Daddy was dead and it all belonged to Jackie. The poor spoiled little rich kid was bored. You get the picture. But I was wrong. I soon found out that she was a natural, in more ways than one, so after a couple of months, I married Jackie and made her a partner in the agency.

Having a female partner raised the eyebrows of a few people who ran in my circles because there aren’t a lot of women PI’s, but there aren’t too many Jackie Days either so I don’t really care what anyone thinks. Anyway, those same eyebrows have stopped twitching. She was good at her job. Real good.

The Knight and Day Detective Agency, it makes for a catchy moniker doesn’t it? We tried a couple of phrases, under the agency name on our business cards. The Detective Agency That Never Sleeps was one and We Are On Your Case Knight and Day, was another one, but everything sounded a little bit too cutesy for a couple of hard boiled private eyes like us. So in the end, we went with catchy and dropped the cute. 

Sometimes things don’t end the way you think they should. Take my current situation. Standing in the rain watching the only person who meant anything to me slide six feet under the wet grass was not the ending I imagined when Jackie and I said yes to Big Walter Abernathy. 

If it ends here, on a small plot of ground, in a old cemetery, at the corner of Beach Boulevard and Penman Street, in Jacksonville Beach, then it began in Walter Abernathy’s glass enclosed office located at the intersection of Mary and Main in downtown Jacksonville. 

There was no reason to say no. It seemed safe enough at the time. Architectural drawings for the new downtown center project were missing and Walter Abernathy, the President of River City Architectural Services, thought that they had been stolen. Walter wanted us to provide him with who, where and how to go along with what.

"Have a seat. You’ve come highly recommend. Maggie says you are both miracle workers." Walter Abernathy said, punctuating his short sentences with equally short jabs of his long cigar.

Looking at Big Walter Abernathy was like trying to take in one of those wall length murals that they have at places like bus stations and train terminals. You couldn’t see the complete picture unless you stood back a few feet. This was hard to do with Walter because he liked to be up close and personal with his six feet four, three hundred-pound body. Personal space was not something with which Walter Abernathy was familiar but physical intimidation was.

"And Maggie would be…? Jackie said, as she reached down to her purse and pulled out a stub of pencil and a well used pad of paper.

"Maggie’s my secretary", replied Abernathy. 

Jackie loved to take notes and always told me the devil was in the details. I agreed, but after spending fifteen years as a cop in the city called the Gateway to the West, filling uncounted notepads with other people’s broken dreams and last regrets, I was more than happy enough to let someone besides myself waste a little paper and lead.

"You guys know her as Margaret Wilson. She’s out sick again today. That’s three days in a row. What a mess. I can’t find anything when she’s not here." Abernathy said, as he picked up off the floor a handful of file folders stuffed with architectural drawings and dropped them onto a pile of papers that littered his desk.

I looked over at Jackie and smiled. I had couple of reasons to smile. For starters, I knew that my Jackie, being the type who straightens towels at the local Holiday Inn before checking out, was just dying to alphabetize Abernathy's files and make a bunch of neat little piles of paper out of the one big messy pile in the center of the desk. 

Reason number two for my smile was that I knew Margaret Wilson. We both did. Good enough to have helped put her in jail for three to five. Since it had only been about eighteen months she must have fooled some more old men. This time on the parole board and got out early. Once a scam artist always a scam artist. A slight shake of the head from Jackie let me know that I better keep my mouth closed concerning our relationship with Maggie Wilson. 

Instead I said, "You are right Mr. Abernathy. We know Margaret and I am glad she recommended us so highly. Now what can we do for you?"

"Garry, we need to go visit our old friend Maggie. I doubt very much that she has turned over a new leaf and become Abernathy’s Girl Friday without some ulterior motive. And what’s with her recommending us for this job? We’re not exactly best of friends," said Jackie, as she emptied sand out of her shoe into the trashcan under my desk. 

"That’s the problem with having an office with a ocean view. The stuff gets into everything. I can’t wait till you guys get out of here." Johnny Jupin said with a scowl as he walked through the door.

"Jumpin Johnny, what a surprise, how nice to see your smiling face, although I was hoping not to see it again until the first of the month," said Jackie.

"Have a seat," I said, kicking a metal chair across the linoleum floor.

"Don’t you believe in knocking?" said Jackie.

"Knock? Why should I knock? Have you forgotten? I own the place. Anyway, the door was open," said Johnny.

"How could we forget. You’ve been on our backs for the last two years to move out. We like it here; besides, we have this little thing which keeps us in and you out. At least for another thirty days. Its spelled l-e-a-s-e. Ever hear of it?" I said.

"Come on and give a guy a break, will ya? Property values are exploding all along the beach. I can sell this dump tomorrow, without trying, for three times what I paid for it seven years ago. I gotta sell. Anyway you don’t gotta leave. Why don’t you just buy the place? Everyone knows you’re loaded," said Johnny.

Johnny was right. We could buy the place. Business had not been good but that didn’t matter. Jackie could buy ten of these beach bungalows but she had funny notions about wanting the agency to make it on it’s own without help from her dead daddy. I didn’t tell Johnny this. There was no point. Jackie and I had argued about this before and there was no reason to beat a dead horse. But I was sure thinking it when Jackie changed the subject. 

"Since you’re here maybe you can make yourself useful. I’ve heard a few rumors about the guy we are working for. Like, he is not exactly Mr. Clean. I figured if anyone knew dirt it was you. So what do you know about Walter Abernathy?" 

I could tell Jackie had hit a nerve. Johnny shot up from his chair like he was being chased by an army of voracious sand fleas. "Whoa fella, settle down. What’s the problem?" I said, as I grabbed his arm and pulled him back down in his seat.

 Johnny, his Florida tan having drained away like marsh water at low tide, collapsed into his chair and said, "Abernathy? Big Walter Abernathy? That guy scares the hell out of me. You would do well to stay away from Walter Abernathy."

Mayport is the home of the US Navy and about five thousand sailors who belong to that time honored institution. A lonely swabby can find just about anything he could want in that little town. From the USO located in a small strip mall a few minutes from the naval base, to a strip club located even closer. Mayport had all of the conveniences of home, so to speak. 

Mayport was also the home of Margaret Smith. Maggie lived in a run down trailer park at the end of Mayport Road, right across from the Mayport Ferry. There are no railroad tracks in Mayport but if there were then the Mayport Trailer Park would be on the wrong side of them. Mayport may be small but it sure liked the sound of its name.

Why they call them parks is beyond me. A park is somewhere you go to relax, have fun, play ball with the kids, watch rover chase squirrels up a tree or spread out a sheet on the ground and have a picnic with your girl. Trust me, this is not the park of your dreams, maybe your nightmares, but not your dreams. Looking around you could see that life here was no picnic. Life was hard in this park. Hard and sad.

There were three types of people living here. Those who were still trying to make something decent of their lives, those who had given up trying and those who had never tried at all. Where did Maggie fit in? Had she tried and failed? I don’t know and really don’t care. I’m a private eye, not a social worker.

Jackie and I drove up the gravel road, through the rusted gate marking the entrance of the park and stopped next to a cracker box house with a sign on the porch, hanging by one chain, saying office. Sitting on the porch, nursing a beer, wearing a dirty T-shirt, was a guy who looked as rough as the rest of the park so he was probably the manager. 

Leaning out the window of my 60’ Dodge I asked, "where can I find Maggie Smith?"

"How much is it worth to you young man?" said the manager.

Now this guy is either real old, going blind or just trying to up the ante on his anticipated payoff. "I haven’t been called young man in a long time gramps, save the bull for someone who cares. I’ve got another six of those longnecks you’re holding. Will that work?" I said.

In answer he pointed with his free hand to a lonely trailer sitting at the end of the road surrounded by empty cracked concrete trailer pads. Her trailer was in better shape than a few and worse than most in the park. Some of the best mobile homes had skirting all around, as if they were trying to hide their transitory nature. Not Maggie’s trailer. Hers sat on exposed cinder blocks and like Maggie herself seemed ready to pick up and move on if a better offer came along.

From her front door I could smell the odor of dead fish mixed with the oily scent of diesel fuel, left behind by the Shrimpers as they headed out into open water, hoping to earn enough money to keep families and boat afloat one more year. The bay was only a stone’s throw away. You could see the shrimp boats, with names like Lovely Lady and Debbie Jean lining the docks. If I was a tourist I would call this a scenic picture but I’m not so I won’t.

I was about to pound on the flimsy piece of plywood that the manufacturers of this home on wheels called a door when I thought better of it. I stopped and said to Jackie, "why don’t I go around back and you knock? If I remember correctly, the last time Maggie saw me she spat in my face." 

The last thing I remember hearing as I rounded the corner of the trailer, besides the deafening roar of the explosion that sent me flying through the air, was the sound of Jackie knocking.

The room is dark. The sun had set a few minutes ago. It doesn’t matter cause I’m sitting by the window with my eyes closed anyway just listening to the waves crash upon the shore and tasting, as well as smelling, the salty fragrance of the ocean air. 

"Come on Mr. Knight. Snap out of it. It’s been a month since Jackie Day died. It is time to pay the piper, as they say" 

I knew it was Walter Abernathy talking. I couldn’t see his face but even if I couldn’t hear his voice I would know that it was Walter. When someone is an inch away you don’t have to see the person to know who it is. All you had to do is feel his presence and smell the acrid stink of his cigar to know it’s Big Walter Abernathy.

"Walter’s right. Shape up or ship out." said Johnny Jupin.

"Enough with the cliches already. Let’s get this over with. It’s time for some money to exchange hands." I said, opening my eyes and reaching for the light switch.

Walter pulled out an envelope and put it in my lap. 

"As we agreed upon Mr. Knight, one hundred g’s for taking care of my former secretary. No one steals from Big Walter and gets away with it." Walter said.

"It was a pleasure Big Walter. Sorry about Maggie, but she was a loser with a dead end life that ended at the end of a dead end road. No one will miss her and she served my purpose. She was a nice piece of bait with which to catch my lovely wife. Although the explosion was almost too much, Jackie and Maggie almost took me with them. I guess my demolition skills are a little rusty," I said. 

"Aren’t you going to count it?" said Walter.

 "I don’t think so. We are all men of honor here." I said.

 I took the envelope and handed it to Johnny Jupin. 

"Here you go Johnny, one hundred thousand dollars. The beach house is officially mine," I said.

"Thanks Mr. K., but I feel bad taking this. Jackie was such a nice lady," said Johnny.

"Don’t give it a second thought, Johnny. It was nothing personal. Just business, that’s all. Jackie would understand," I said.

After they left, I reached over, shut off the light, closed my eyes and drank in the sound of the surf and the scent of the ocean air. Living at the beach. It’s to die for. 
 

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Barry C. Gill lives in Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida.