I didn’t take notice of a slightly built older man who sidled up next to me, long neck Budweiser in hand.
He said, “Hey man, this seat taken?”
His voice sounded friendly and the accent familiar but I was in no mood for the company of strangers. I’d share my troubles with the bartender if so inclined — that was in their job description, wasn’t it? in any case, I wasn’t so inclined. I wasn’t seeking words of pity or sympathy.
The man was wearing a sweat stained Yankees cap pulled down over his brow. Rugged canvas jeans, beat up leather jacket. Dingy white tee underneath, motorcycle boots. Hell’s Angels, Lite.
Not really looking at him, I said, “Help yourself. You from up North?”
“Jersey. Down here on my bike, headed for Florida. Heard this island was pretty cool. Thought I’d check it out on the way down.”
“It is a great place. Just don’t tell your friends. We have enough re-located Yankees here.”
“Like you. That ain’t no Carolina accent.”
I didn’t want to encourage conversation but I didn’t want to be rude either. Maybe I could use a little human touch. I said, “I’m from all over. Spent a lot of time in New Jersey not long ago. Bayville, Toms River.”
“How ‘bout that? I’m from Freehold. Got a place up in Colts Neck these days.”
I extended a hand to a fellow Jerseyite. “Riley King. Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, mutual.”
He smiled, revealing perfect teeth. He had a prominent jaw with an under bite. Strong nose, a few days gray-white growth. He was wearing dark Ray-Bans so I couldn’t see what color his eyes were. And from his grip, I revised my first assessment of his size. This old dude was strong.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Riley King. I’ve heard of you. You were a big time detective up my way. Busted some bad hombres in your time. Retired down here now?”
“I still work, keep busy. You retired?”
“I kind of make my own schedule, but I’ll never retire. I love what I do. You retire, next step is death is how I look at it.”
“I guess I’m in the same boat.”
He looked at his big-ass watch. Rolex, worth a few grand. Most people today don’t wear watches, just use their phones to tell time. “Well, Mr. Riley King, I gotta split. Not much daylight left and I want to make Savannah before it gets too late. Got a room reserved there at a place in the old quarter, down by the river.”
There was something about the way he said that last phrase that resonated. But I was still wallowing in my troubles and happy to be rid of the interruption. I said, “Nice to meet you. Ride safe. Gets mighty dark here. They don’t believe in street lights.”
He shot me an amiable grin and walked away, kind of bow-legged. I went back to not watching the baseball highlights and sipping my drink. Ginn was due soon. About five minutes later, he tapped me on the shoulder.
“Here he be. Black Moses himself,” he said in that big bass voice of his.
He made me smile. “Isaac Hayes, live album from Vegas. Early seventies. That was Don King introducing him, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You know your shit, King. Stone musta given you some fine music education.”
“I was into Isaac Hayes way before Shaft made him a big star. Loved those long story songs. Like the way he did By the Time I Get to Phoenix.”
“Hot Buttered Soul. 1969. Dig it. Hey, talking ‘bout music, did you catch that dude was here a couple minutes ago? Takes a lot to impress ole Moses, but I almost asked for an autograph. As it was, I just said hello like he was nothing special.”
“Oh. Who was it? Jimmy Buffett’s doing a boomer development over in Hardeeville. Mellencamp has a house on the island, or so I’ve heard.”
“You gonna be sorry you missed him. Came in on his motorcycle. Solo. The Boss himself. Springsteen.”
