Two men sit on opposite sides of a scuffed interrogation table, one a police detective, the other a bookseller. The steel table is bolted to the floor, as are the two chairs. The interview room is a windowless cube with a mirrored window set into the wall opposite a single steel door. The walls and tile ceiling are the same dull institutional green.
The detective presses a button on a digital recorder.
“This interview is being recorded in room 2-A at the Davidson County Sheriff’s Office. I am Detective Carson. Also present is Chance Thomas. Mister Thomas, please state your full name and date of birth.”
“Chance Bertram Thomas. October thirtieth, nineteen ninety-three.”
“Mister Thomas, you are here as a witness. You have not been placed under arrest. You are free to leave this interview at any time. You may have an attorney present during this interview. Do you understand these rights?”
“I do.”
“Very well. Mister Thomas, are you acquainted with a man named Whitey Greeley?”
“I am.”
“And how did you meet Greeley?”
“He’s a customer in my shop, as I’m sure you know.”
“It says here you sell books. Thomas and Thomas Booksellers. Who’s the other Thomas?”
“My father. Dead.”
“My condolences. When was the last time you spoke to Greeley?”
“Yesterday.”
“In person?”
“No, over the telephone.”
“And what did you two talk about?”
“He told me the police would be stopping by and would want to question me.”
Detective Carson looks up from his file. Chance Thomas does not flinch from his stare. He is not frightened by this policeman or the claustrophobic room. Both are far more interesting than lurking behind the counter of a dying bookstore.
“What else did Greeley say.”
“Whitey told me to tell the truth. He was very specific about that.”
“Odd advice coming from him. Could you describe your first meeting with Greeley?”
* * *
Whitey Greeley came by his name honestly, which gave him one positive checkmark on Saint Peter’s ledger. Folks might blame Whitey for the many negative entries on his heavenly tally, but the man didn’t care what other folks thought. Didn’t think much of Saint Peter, or heaven for that matter. Whitey was a survivor. He believed what he saw with his own eyes and nothing more. But he did believe in hell on earth. He’d grown up there.
True to his name, Whitey was almost devoid of color; his face pale as ivory, hair silk-fine and silver-blond. Whitey’s eyes were ice gray. Most folks couldn’t meet those eyes for more than a heartbeat before looking away.
My birth name is Chance Thomas, Junior. I dropped the junior after my father died. I had just turned thirty. As an only child and parentless, there didn’t seem to be much point. No one cared what I called myself.
I inherited a backstreet bookstore and the brick building that housed it. My legacy included a degree in English Literature, a bookstore on life-support, the obligatory fat cat on the counter, an upstairs apartment, no wife, no kids.
The first time Whitey Greeley walked into my shop, he had just turned twenty-five. I didn’t know that at the time. All I saw was a pale young man. He walked to the counter with his eyes locked on mine. I remember thinking it was the look a raptor gives a mouse.
Whitey didn’t say a word. Not a comfortable silence, but as I said, I own a failing bookstore. A bit of discomfort is a small price for a new customer. And Whitey soon became a good customer. That first time, though, I admit to being nervous.
“May I help you?”
A pause before he answered, a trait I would grow accustomed to. Whitey never spoke without thinking.
“I’m looking for a book called The Stranger.”
“Ah, a classic. Albert Camus.”
Again, the pause.
“That’s how you say it, like canoe?”
“Exactly.”
Another thing I’d learn about Whitey Greeley. He acquired knowledge without allowing his ego to get in the way. I never saw him shamefaced over a mispronounced word or misunderstood concept. He simply made a mental correction, filed that piece of knowledge in his razor-sharp brain, and moved on.
I hunted up a copy of the requested book. My newest customer paid for his purchase and departed. That was the sum of our first encounter.
You might wonder how a lonely bookstore owner became friends with a man like Greeley. Using loneliness as a starting point, the strangeness of our friendship becomes less strange. I have certain difficulties with human beings. Whitey was not only a new friend. He was my only friend.
One week later to the day, a Thursday, Whitey reappeared. He placed the Camus novel on the counter. Kilgore the cat stirred in its basket, but the man ignored it.
“Good afternoon. What did you think of the book?”
He ignored my question as well.
“The sign says Thomas and Thomas. Is that you?”
“Yes, the second Thomas. The first was my father. He’s dead. I’m Chance Thomas. Pleased to meet you, Mister…”
“Whitey Greeley.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mister Greeley.”
“Just Whitey.”
He did not offer a handshake, and he did not look away. Those gray eyes were disconcerting. I felt as if I was being tested.
“Whitey then. Please call me Chance. Are you looking for another book?”
Again, he ignored my question. He held his hand over the book on the counter, tapping the cover with a manicured fingernail. Tap-tap-tap. Pause.
“How do you pronounce the guy’s name, the main character?”
“Meursault. French can be difficult. It’s MORE-so, more or less.”
I remember thinking that silly pun would sail right over his head. How wrong I was.
“More so. Not like it’s spelled. I liked the way he killed the Arab. Shooting him five times. If you’re going to shoot someone, make sure they’re dead. But getting caught was stupid.”
“There wouldn’t be much of a story if Meursault hadn’t been arrested.”
Another pause, three more taps.
“The trial was good. The prosecutor didn’t give a damn about the dead man. Meursault showed no remorse. They said he had no soul and that drove them nuts. They sentenced him to death because he didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral. So what? Why shed tears for a dead woman? Typical behavior.”
“You’re a careful reader.”
I regretted the condescension the instant I uttered it. If Whitey took offense, he didn’t show it.
“Meursault’s rant to the chaplain is a fair bit. We’re all condemned to die from the moment we’re born. Not much matters compared to that. People don’t like to think about it, but we live with a death sentence every day. It’s like we know the end of the story before we open the book.”
* * *
“Did Greeley’s comments strike you as odd?”
“I’m a bookseller, Detective. My customers tend to be odd ducks.”
“Then would you say that Greeley’s behavior was strange?”
“No. I would describe him as direct.”
“But you said… how did you put it? Most folks couldn’t meet Greeley’s eyes for more than a heartbeat. What about you, Mister Thomas? Did you have to look away from Greeley?”
“No, Detective. Quite the opposite.”
Carson flips a page in the file, reads something, and closes the folder.
“So, you met Greeley on multiple occasions. He became a regular customer. You yakked about old books.”
“I take it you’re not a reader.”
Carson gives Thomas a sharp look.
“Sports page, mostly. Let’s stick to the subject at hand. The bookstore wasn’t the only place you met Greeley, correct?”
Chance Thomas points to the file folder.
“I’m sure it’s in there.”
Carson smiles. The expression looks alien.
“Why don’t you tell me anyway, just to double-check.”
* * *
Four weeks passed. Whitey arrived each Thursday, but never at the same time. One book per week. Steinbeck followed Camus, then Gabriel García Márquez, Ray Bradbury. Each week’s visit included his pithy comments on the preceding book.
Whitey focused on why characters did what they did. He seemed intrigued by motivation, action, and consequence. Whitey rooted for the underdog but expressed no surprise when they failed. A realist, not a romantic.
It was after lunch that fourth Thursday when I saw Whitey standing on the far side of the street, leaning against a brick wall. A newspaper obscured the lower half of his face, but his eyes were not on the news. I saw him scan the street, left, right, and a hard stare in my direction. Then he dropped the newspaper into a bin and crossed the street.
Whitey and I exchanged our customary greetings. There were no other customers. Not unusual in my shop. By habit, the cat ignored Whitey and he the cat. A copy of Fahrenheit 451 lay on the countertop between us.
“What did you think of Bradbury?”
Tap-tap-tap on the cover.
“This was science fiction when he wrote it. Torching books, controlling information. But it’s not fiction anymore.”
Before I could reply, he asked me a question far removed from our usual conversations.
“How do you spend your time when you’re not selling books?”
A normal question from anyone else, but not from Whitey. The pointed nature of his query made me realize I didn’t have much of an answer.
“I’ve got an apartment upstairs.”
I pointed to the ceiling as if that would explain everything. Whitey’s eyes held mine. He waited.
“The ordinary things people do. Cook dinner, read, have a smoke out on the fire escape.”
“How about a drink?”
“Sure, a glass of wine, sometimes a whiskey.”
“No. How about a drink tomorrow? The Viper on Gallatan. Do you know it?”
“I can find it.”
“Good. Eight o’clock. I’ll see you there.”
And then he was gone.
* * *
The Viper was easy to miss, a nondescript dive on the far side of the Cumberland River. I drove past it and had to double back. Pulled into a gravel lot decorated with oil stains. I climbed out of my Volvo. Pickups roared up and down the busy street out front. A far remove from the hordes of tourists bar-hopping Music Row.
I considered a retreat to the safety of my apartment, yet part of me rebelled at the thought of another solitary night. Without knowing quite how I found myself crunching across the gravel to the door of the bar.
The Viper fit the bill for a Music City dive bar. A punk-country trio warmed up on a tiny stage overlooking an empty dance floor. Neon-dark bar at the back, tables and booths to the right. A woman sat on a stool inside the door, sporting a straw cowboy hat and a tight tank top.
“Howdy. You got your ID?”
“Really?”
She mimed an exaggerated eye roll and held out her hand. I dug out my driver’s license. She checked it and two-fingered it back.
“Is there a cover charge?”
“Nope.”
“I’m looking for a guy named Whitey Greeley. Do you know him?”
“Yep.”
She slid off her stool and snaked her way through the tables. Without turning her head, she crooked a finger over her shoulder and beckoned. I hurried after her.
She led me to a short flight of stairs cordoned off by a red stanchion rope. Without a word, she unhooked the barrier and waved me through.
Two half-circle booths filled each corner of the raised platform. The booth on the left was empty. On the right sat Whitey Greeley.
“Hello, Chance.”
He stood and offered a handshake. A surprise. I shook the proffered hand, felt the smooth skin of his palm and the firm grip of his fingers. A quick connection broken just as quickly.
“Have a seat.”
A waitress appeared. Whitey smiled, another surprise.
“What are you drinking, Chance?”
“Bourbon, please.”
He turned to the hovering waitress.
“Bring us two of the Heaven’s Door, Nora.”
Nora vanished. I turned to Whitey.
“I didn’t expect the VIP treatment.”
“One of the perks of being the boss.”
“You own this place?”
“The lion’s share.”
The drinks appeared and Nora disappeared. Two bourbons, straight up. Whitey drizzled water into his whiskey, then held the miniature pitcher over my glass. I nodded. The water swirled into the amber liquid. He offered a toast.
“To friends, old and new.”
We touched glasses and sipped. Best bourbon I’d ever tasted. I asked Whitey how he came to own a bar. Without any of his normal reticence, Whitey told me. It was a long story.
Nora and more whiskies appeared and vanished. The band began to play. Whitey’s story ended and mine began. I found myself answering his questions without hesitation, things I’d kept bottled up for years.
Whitey laughed, and surprise brought me out of my rambling.
“We’re at opposite ends of the stick, Chance.”
“What do you mean?”
“You grew up with more security than you knew what to do with, so much it smothered you. Me, I grew up with none. Between us, we just about balance.”
Pondering his words through a mellow haze of whiskey, I realized we were not alone. The tank-topped cowgirl stood beside the booth. Whitey waved and she slid in beside Whitey and opposite me.
“Greta, this is my friend Chance. He sells books. Chance, this is Greta. She mainly causes trouble.”
Greta flashed a crooked smile.
“Pleased to meet you, Chance. Sorry about the book thing.”
“Excuse me?”
“Imminent death of the written word, tough time for booksellers, hence my condolences.”
She reached for Whitey’s glass, raised it.
“Long live the written word.”
The whiskey vanished. Greta smacked the glass to the table. Whitey grinned at me.
“See what I mean?”
I awoke in a tangle of sheets. My head ached and my mouth felt like I’d eaten cotton balls. I tried to remember the journey home, but memory failed me.
A double dose of aspirin and three cups of coffee later, I managed to open the bookstore and feed the cat. I stood behind the counter and tried not to move my head. A few jangled memories began to knit themselves together. One of them included a taxi. I hoped the Volvo survived a night in the Viper parking lot.
That’s when Greta walked in.
The hat and tank top were gone, replaced by a black tee under a denim vest, matching jeans, and a fresh-scrubbed face that looked happy to be alive. She marched straight to the counter as if she were a regular.
“Morning, Chance. How’s the head?”
Her voice was far too loud and many times too cheerful. I winced and she smiled.
“Yeah, you’re looking green around the gills. I parked your car out back.”
Her words added confusion to my hangover.
“How did you know where I park?”
She shrugged, watched the cat stretch out of its basket and pad towards her.
“Whitey told me. He knows things like that. Hi, fuzzball. Does the cat have a name?”
“It’s Kilgore.”
Greta eyed me while she scratched Kilgore’s head.
“I’m guessing Kilgore Trout, the Vonnegut character.”
My heart skipped a beat. Almost no one got that reference.
“Uh… yeah. Yes.”
She cocked her head and grinned.
“You remember leaving the bar?”
I pinched my nose and shook my head.
“Not completely.”
“Aw, you don’t remember our goodnight kiss?”
I’m sure I looked like an imbecile while I racked my foggy brain. Did I kiss this woman? No. Hell no.
“There wasn’t any kiss, Greta. I’d remember that.”
“Good answer, Chance. Well, gotta run. Here’s your keys.”
My key fob clattered across the counter at the same time Greta leaned forward and planted a kiss on my surprised lips.
Then she was walking to the door.
“See you soon, bookseller.”
As the weeks passed, I felt my life diverging onto parallel tracks, old and new, and me traveling both. Whitey’s world on one side and the powerful inertia of routine on the other.
Alice fell down the rabbit hole, but she still had to eat, drink, and sleep. I had a bookstore to run and a cat to feed. Ordinary things, just as I’d told Whitey; cook dinner, read, an occasional cigar. Except now I wasn’t alone.
Greta sat beside me on the fire escape, bare feet up on the rusty railing, chair tilted against the brick wall behind us. Her long legs disappeared under the hem of an oversized flannel shirt. My shirt. Her laugh faded off across the sultry night air. She answered my question with a question.
“Would it matter if I had?”
Slept with Whitey. That had been my question. Greta ran her hand over my cheek and covered my mouth.
“Keep quiet. Let me enjoy this new side of you, the jealous Chance.”
I bit at her fingers, and she gave me a soft cuff.
“No is the answer you’re looking for, and it’s the truth. Whitey’s not like that. But even if he was, the answer would still be no.”
Not what I expected. Another question to ask.
“Whitey’s not like what? Wait, are you saying he’s gay?”
“Why? Are you interested?”
I grabbed for her hand and tried to bite it again. She yanked it away and gave me a sharp poke in the ribs.
“The whole time I’ve known Whitey, I’ve never once heard him talk about anyone. No girlfriend, boyfriend, nothing. Never heard him mention sex at all. I figured he was asexual and left it at that. My Daddy taught me that people are who they are. Take ‘em or leave ‘em, but don’t bother trying to change them. He said that goes double for friends.”
Add this to the list of things I didn’t understand.
When Whitey stepped into my bookstore, he stuck to the subject at hand. That week’s book, why the characters did what they did. He avoided personal questions in the same way he ignored Kilgore the cat. At the Viper, he seemed a completely different person, expansive, friendly, ready to talk about anything.
I stuttered through my confusion as I tried to explain this to Greta.
“Did Whitey tell you how he grew up?”
“Some of it, yes. It sounded pretty tough.”
“Whatever he told you, the whole story is a lot worse. He survived by adapting. That’s what Whitey does. He reads a situation and then fits himself into it. He’s careful, always in control, even when he’s angry.”
“I’m not sure I’d want to see him pissed off.”
“That’s the thing, Chance. He doesn’t get pissed off. He goes cold as ice. And no, you don’t want to be around when that happens.”
“Has he been like that to you?”
“No, never. But I’ve heard stories. Whitey wasn’t an easy kid to deal with, so he got stuck in the worst foster homes. The last one was run by an abuser. Whitey was maybe sixteen. The old man tried to rape him. Whitey laid into the old bugger with a garden spade. The would-be rapist ended up in intensive care and Whitey disappeared from the system.”
“Sounds like justice to me.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t justified. I said you don’t want to see Whitey angry.”
A month later, I found myself facing Detective Carson across an interrogation table, answering his endless questions. I told that cop the truth about Whitey, but not a word about Greta. Not one word.
* * *
“Mister Thomas, you said you socialized with Greeley at his bar. This went on for some time. Is it fair to say you believe Whitey Greeley is your friend?”
“Yes, he is.”
Carson nods, opens the file.
“I’m going to show you some photographs. I want you to take your time. Have a good look.”
The detective removes three photographs from the file folder. He places the photos in front of Chance Thomas. Pixelated images stare up from the scarred tabletop. Three different faces, frozen and lifeless. Dead men with empty eyes. Or eye. One of the corpses is missing half his face.
“Take a good look, Mister Thomas. This is how Greeley treats his friends.”
Chance Thomas shakes his head.
“I need a verbal answer, Mister Thomas.”
“You didn’t ask me a question, Detective. You made a statement.”
Detective Carson reaches across the table, taps a forefinger on the first dead face.
“Reese Green.”
Tap.
“Taylor Small.”
Tap.
“Clarence Craig, or what’s left of him. These boys were Hillbilly Mafia. Your pal Greeley killed them.”
“If you’re sure Whitey killed these men, why haven’t you arrested him?”
Carson leans back in his chair.
“We’re working on that, Mister Thomas. Real hard. You can count on that. That’s why you’re here. We’re asking for your help in solving three homicides. In return, we can offer you immunity and protection. What do you say to that?”
“I say no, Detective.”
The detective scratches his chin. Chance Thomas glances toward the mirror behind the detective’s head.
“Okay, Mister Thomas, how about we put our cards on the table? What does Greeley have on you?”
“I don’t know what you mean. Whitey Greeley is my friend. We talk about books. You have no idea how rare and important that is.”
“Is that worth more than your life?”
“My life isn’t worth much without it, Detective. I’m just coming to realize that. And I’m not in any danger.”
“That remains to be seen, Mister Thomas.”
* * *
Detective Carson’s words resonated with me long after our interview, but not in the way I believe he intended. Instead of turning me against Whitey Greeley, the cop’s warning brought the last few months into sharper relief.
I weighed my old life against the new, examined aspects of my existence I’d never thought to question. My name, for example. Chance is a popular surname with southern families, going all the way back to England. My grandfather was a Chance, so it followed I would be as well. Family traditions run deep down here.
In my case, the appellation proved wildly inaccurate. I never took a chance in my life. Not as a child, nor at university, and certainly not in my career. Looking back, I guess my parents should have named me Constantine. Or maybe Rut.
But not anymore. As the two tracks of my life diverged, old and new, I realized I was no longer simply a passenger along for the ride. Somehow, Chance Thomas had found himself in the driver’s seat. I took a hard look at my new life, and I liked what I saw.
Then Whitey Greeley vanished.
A Thursday evening at the Viper. I sat at the bar. Greta stood behind it. Whitey had failed to appear at the bookstore that day. Worry pushed me to the club and that’s where Greta gave me the news.
“I don’t know where he went. I manage the bar, not Whitey. No one controls that man. Why are you so worried? Trust me, he’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”
Her reassurance didn’t sink in.
“C’mon, Chance, why the long face? I’m still here.”
“Yeah, and I wonder why.”
Regretted the words the second they left my stupid mouth. Greta pushed herself up from the bar where she’d been leaning.
“You want to be careful, Chance. That’s the sort of question makes a girl pull on her boots and take a walk.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”
“Not gonna forget, but I am going to answer your question on the condition you never ask it again.”
Even a fool like me knows the first step to climbing out of a hole is to stop digging. I nodded and kept my big mouth shut.
“Well, for starters, you’re easy on the eyes and pretty good in the sack. You’re honest to a fault, and I don’t have to shovel away a mountain of macho bullshit to find you. That, and you’re a damn good listener. Not a bad package, taken as a whole. Why can’t you accept the fact that I like you? A lot.”
“I can. And I’m crazy about you, Greta.”
That brought out her crooked grin. She leaned back in, and my world slid sideways.
“Now that there’s the right sort of thing to say to a girl. I could get used to hearing that.”
“As long as it’s coming from me?”
“Yeah, long as it’s coming from you. You’re getting the hang of this, honey.”
* * *
Old habits die hard, but after that night, I did my best to accept some of the good things coming my way. I still wondered how I’d gotten so lucky with Greta, but I kept my wondering to myself. Learning to cope with this new life took some practice.
Whitey’s absence still gnawed at me. With Whitey gone, the cops seemed to lose interest. I’d like to say I forgot all about Detective Carson, but that’d be a lie. The cop’s insinuations slithered around in the back of my brain.
Maybe if I’d had more practice being a friend, Whitey’s disappearing act wouldn’t have hit me so hard. At bottom, it was simple. I missed my friend. I didn’t know if he was alive, dead, or standing on the North Pole. Not knowing left the door open for doubt.
I tried reminding myself that it was me sitting in the driver’s seat. That was all well and good, but the old Chance hadn’t gone far. He proved a mouthy backseat driver.
Two sides of a coin and me living both. Tied to both. Greta on one side. Nothing but good there. But flip the coin and it came up blank. My friend gone, and in his stead the detective’s poisonous words and so many questions.
Did Whitey Greeley kill those three rednecks? And if he did, what did that mean? More importantly, would I ever see him again? The answer to that last question came sooner than I expected.
* * *
Another long Thursday in the bookstore with no sign of Whitey. Even Kilgore seemed more perturbed than usual. I kept the shop open past closing time, just in case. After an hour of nothing, I gave up, flipped the sign, and locked the door.
I’d let the cupboards and fridge go empty, so my choices were eat out, go shopping, or both. With nothing else to do, I opted for both.
The evening had gone full dark by the time I eased the Volvo into the alley behind my building. Darker still back there, with only one overhead above my back doorway. I pulled into my parking spot, killed the engine, and stepped out of the car.
Out of nowhere, a familiar voice.
“Hello, Chance.”
I always thought it a cliché when an author writes about hearts leaping into throats. Not anymore. That’s exactly what happened when I heard Whitey’s voice. Had to grab the open driver’s door to keep my balance.
“Jesus, you scared the shit outta me.”
Whitey Greeley stood just outside the cone of light.
“I checked in with Greta and she said you were worried. Figured I better stop by and put you at ease.”
“Yeah, by giving me a fucking heart attack? Give me a hand with these groceries and we’ll have a drink upstairs.”
“Can’t do it, Chance. Better we’re not seen together.”
“Better for who?”
“You, mostly. And Greta. That’s why I’m here. I wanted you to know you’re safe, both of you. You won’t see me for a bit, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be seeing you.”
I felt my fear turn to anger.
“If this is your idea of reassuring, it’s piss poor.”
That got a laugh out of Whitey, but no apology.
“The cops leaving you alone?”
My anger bounced off him. Typical. Then I felt a wave of relief. I was happy to see Whitey, even if he’d scared the shit out of me.
“I think it’s fair to say I’m not their favorite citizen, but they seem to have lost interest.”
“Good. I better get. Keep an eye on Greta, will you? She’s a troublemaker.”
His shadow shifted further into the darkness before I could speak.
“Wait, I’ve got something for you. It’s in the car.”
I bent into the Volvo, popped the glovebox, and grabbed a package. Then four quick steps, out of the incriminating light and into the shadows.
Whitney smiled at the brown paper wrapping.
“Let me guess. It’s a toaster.”
A good line. I realized that Whitey had done exactly what he meant to do. My worry had vanished.
“Yeah, I figured you might have forgotten to pack one. Go ahead, open it.”
Standing there in the darkness, Whitey slit the paper open with his thumb and pulled out a hardcover book. He turned it toward the light and squinted at the title.
“One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. What’s it about.”
“Lots of things, but mostly friendship under harsh conditions.”
“You’re a man of surprises, Chance. Thank you. I’m lucky to have you as a friend.”
“Not as lucky as I am.”
There was a pause of several heartbeats.
“Anything you need to ask me, Chance?”
I’d learned a thing or two about questions and answers. There was only one answer I needed.
“Will I be seeing you again?”
Whitey held out his hand. We shook and he smiled.
“Count on it.”
Then he was gone.
It’s been two months since I last saw Whitey. I’d like to say my worry has vanished, but that would be a lie. Faded into the background, maybe.
Being with Greta does wonders for keeping the old Chance in check. She does wonders for the new Chance as well. I try my damnedest to do wonders for her.
Business has picked up of late. No telling why, but I’m learning not to question good fortune.
These days, I keep a couple of books wrapped and ready. I never leave the shop without them. You never know when I might run into an old friend.
12/09/2024
10:53:50 AM