Page 122 of The High Tide Club
“My husband’s out,” the woman said. “What do you want? Not anothercharity donation, I hope. You people are bleeding us broke with all these silent auctions and wine dinners.”
“I’m actually looking for Mickey Beaman,” Brooke said.
“Why?” The cashier looked over Brooke’s shoulder, regarding Lizzie and Felicia, who were loitering near the door, with growing suspicion.
“Well, uh…,” Brooke stammered, caught off guard by the woman’s hostility.
“We’re trying to find somebody who lived at Good Shepherd at the same time as a relative,” said Lizzie, stepping into the fray. “We just came from there, and a man in the development office suggested we talk to Mr. Beaman.”
The woman rolled her eyes and turned toward a partially open door behind her. “Dad!” she hollered. “Dad! Some people wanna talk to you out here.”
She waited a moment. “I’m warning you, once you get him talking about that place, he’ll never shut up.”
The door opened, and an old man shuffled out of the back room. His thinning gray hair was combed across his balding head. He wore a Budweiser-logoed golf shirt stretched tightly over a massive stomach.
“These ladies want to ask you some stuff about one of your Good Shepherd cronies,” the woman said.
Mickey Beaman’s eyes lit up at the mention of his alma mater. “What do you want to know?” he asked, leaning against the counter.
“Not here,” his daughter-in-law said. She pushed a button and they heard a buzz, and then a door opened between the store and the cash stand. “Take them back to the stockroom.”
***
A small card table and four folding chairs were shoved up against an ancient refrigerator in the stockroom, delineating what passed as Mr. B’s break room.
“You ladies have a seat,” Beaman said with a gallant gesture toward the table.
“Mr. Beaman,” Lizzie started.
“It’s Mickey. Nobody calls me Mr. Beaman anymore,” he insisted. “Now,what can I tell you about Good Shepherd? Have you been out to see the new museum? Did you see the video? That’s me at the three-minute mark, talking about the values that were instilled in boys like me.”
“That museum is very impressive,” Lizzie said. “We only got to spend a few minutes there today, so we missed out on the video. I guess we’ll check it out the next time.”
“You do that,” Mickey urged. “Jimmy Yaz—that’s Jimmy Yazbek, he was three years younger than me—lived in the Blatner Cottage. His son is a big-deal cameraman on one of those TV shows, I forget the name of the show, but Jimmy Junior made that video. For free.”
“Speaking of your classmates, we’re trying to help a relative of ours, C. D. Anthony, put together some information about his early life, both at St. Joseph’s and at Good Shepherd,” Brooke said.
Mickey’s brow furrowed. “Say the name again?”
“C. D. Anthony. The nuns called him Charlie, but when we were at Good Shepherd just now, we saw a photo showing all the boys who lived in your cottage. He was listed as Buck Anthony,” Lizzie said. “Does that name ring a bell?”
“Buck? Oh yeah. I knew Buck Anthony. Like you say, we were both at St. Joseph’s, and then when we turned six, we were sent to Good Shepherd. I think I was maybe older than him. I’m seventy-nine, you know. Still drive, although Yvonne out there, she’s trying to get my son to make me stop. What can I tell you about old Buck? He was a hell-raiser as a kid, that’s for sure. He was always small for his age, but you didn’t want to cross him. The guy had a temper and a wicked undercut. We used to box, you know. I don’t think they teach boxing to boys these days, which is a shame. Boxing is a great life lesson.”
“It sure is,” Lizzie said, trying to steer Mickey back toward the topic at hand. “Do you remember ever hearing about how Buck came to live at St. Joseph’s?”
“Somebody left him in a church was what I always heard,” Mickey said promptly. “Not like me. My mom passed when I was two, and my dad was a traveling salesman. My grandma did what she could, but she was too old to raise a kid like me. And then my dad got killed in the war, Iwo Jima, so then Iwas a real orphan. But my grandma would come see me, when she could, take me out for my birthday, stuff like that. I don’t think hardly anybody ever came to see Buck, which maybe explains why he sort of had a chip on his shoulder, excuse the expression.”
“By any chance, do you remember a woman named Josephine Bettendorf, who might have visited him while he was living at St. Joseph’s?” Brooke asked.
“Bettendorf? The family the cottage is named after? At Good Shepherd?”
“Yes,” Brooke said. “C. D.—I mean, Buck—says he remembers her coming every Christmas while he lived at St. Joseph’s. He says she brought all the kids gifts, but he got special ones. Like a toy truck.”
“You want a drink?” Mickey asked suddenly. He stood and opened the refrigerator door. “We get all kinds of samples, for free. The sales reps are always trying to get us to order whatever’s new in their lines.” He held up a can. “Red Bull? The SCAD kids all love Red Bull. Or lemme see, how about a Peach Sunset Tea? Or maybe some Chocolate Mint wine? What will you have? It’s on the house. Just don’t tell Yvonne.”
“No, thanks,” Brooke said. “We were talking about the Christmas visits? From Josephine Bettendorf?”
“I wouldn’t mind trying that wine,” Lizzie spoke up. “Strictly for research.”
