Turn Three: The Third Bear Whitman Adventure

By Brett M. Wiscons

The month of May in Indianapolis is synonymous with racing. Only now, it's also known for murder. That could be a stain the sport won't soon be able to wash off. One of IndyCar's most promising up-and-coming drivers dies during a practice round accident. But maybe it wasn't an accident after all? Bear Whitman is coaxed – against his will – out of semi-retirement to take the case. And he's as sarcastic and clever as he's ever been.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781631926556

Book preview

ONE

If it weren’t for the people in my life for whom I was responsible, I wouldn’t have made it to my next birthday. And that was the truth.

Every Tuesday, for the past twelve months, I’d been going to that building in Sarasota. It wasn’t much to look at, one level of beige brick almost no windows, but what happened inside made me a more productive member of society. On that Tuesday, the nineteenth of May, I took my normal seat facing the exit – sixth chair from the right and in front of the wall clock. It was hot as Hades in the room, and no amount of free, watered-down lemonade was going to quench my thirst. Still, I took a slug and listened to a twenty-three-year-old mother of three named Robin spill her guts and her tears to the rest of us. All three kids had a different daddy. She, herself, had daddy issues. She couldn’t hold a job because she didn’t have reliable transportation. It was a vicious cycle. As she droned on, I started to zone out and thought of my existence before I had become a father for a second time. Thankfully, both of my children could say they had the same daddy. I may not be perfect, few are, but I was giving it the old college try.

Jen and I flew down to Florida after my last case involving the Mayor of Chicago and his missing daughter. We never left. I suppose Murphy’s Law solved the case, but much more than that was accomplished. I had a watershed moment and kicked my ultimate vice for good. At least for the last 372 days, I did.

It’s a different world when you walk through it soberly. Your senses are heightened. You allow emotions to envelop you, rather than trying to push them away. Your wife looks more beautiful. Your food tastes more flavorful. Your kids, well your kids can still drive you crazy, but you appreciate them for who and what they are – little, tiny flecks of your soul. I got snapped back into reality.

Barry, care to share? said the sun-kissed, brown haired leader of our little group. Her name was April.

I’d been attending meetings for long enough without sharing my story. But here goes nothing, I thought. Sure, April, I stood up and summoned a bit of courage to proceed. Hi, my name is Barry and I’m an alcoholic.

In unison, the group of twelve said, Hi, Barry.

Let’s see…where do I begin? Well, I guess I first started drinking when I was seven. A couple people turned their heads in shock, or was it awe? I continued. I don’t mean drinking regularly. I had my first sip of beer at Wrigley Field with my dad at that age. I nearly vomited. I didn’t care for the taste of it. Like many other kids, I experimented at high school parties and enjoyed the way it made me feel. Sometimes I got philosophical, sometimes I felt like I could lift a car. Most of the time, though, it made me somber and contemplative. You hear the term happy drunk thrown around a lot, but I wouldn’t necessarily say that I fell into that category. Yeah, I suppose it would start out that way, but it usually ended with me drinking everything put in front of me, and due to my size, it took a lot to get me inebriated. So, when most of the other party-goers would pass out, I’d go around and finish half-drunk beers and mixed cocktails. I was a real winner. That got a few laughs.

Barry, April said, tell us about where you are now in your walk with sobriety, if you don’t mind.

Sure. Well, I’m sober now for just a few ticks over a year and that’s the longest stretch I’ve ever done by far. The first couple weeks are brutal, but once you get past day fifteen, sixteen, it gets a hair easier. Believe me, it’s still tough – I associate Sarasota and Longboat Key with many a wild, boisterous night where I’d pass out on the beach like a drunken stumblebum, so it was a gamble coming down here with the clan. A lot of folks in the area know me, even though we don’t live here year-round. Drinks are offered on numerous occasions and you can only give the excuse of getting over a bug so many times before you start losing friends. So maybe those people weren’t friends from the start. However, there is something about the calming serenity of the Gulf waters that helps me cope, cliché as it sounds. I also have started to run more, do yoga and attend my daughter’s dance class to keep my mind off things. In addition to that, I’ve taken up knitting. Crickets. But I can assure you my time as a standup comic has come and gone.

The nice thing about these meetings is that they were in the round and while still a bit unnerving, I didn’t feel as though I was in front of a class giving a presentation. I’d never been good at public speaking. I noticed a raven-haired woman in our circle that had never before been in a meeting. I would have remembered her. My memory is both a blessing and a curse. She was dressed in a beige, form-fitting dress – too flashy for this venue. Her necklace was a prominent gold cross which fell succinctly between her ample bosom. Her hair was pulled up in a tight bun and she wore dark-rimmed glasses. I guessed she was in her early forties and possibly a socialite real estate agent. The old habit of sizing people up had stuck even after I retired. She must have been seated when I arrived, because I didn’t get the full scope of her assets until after the meeting when I was on my way out and she stood, but it was quite obvious she was tall – perhaps broaching six feet in height. She didn’t say a word, barely even made eye contact. Mostly kept looking down at her designer wrist watch and fidgeting in her old, metal folding chair.

April announced, That’s all the time we have for today. Thank you, everyone. Remember, work the program and keep your mind focused on the big picture. Take it day by day and know you’re not alone. Now, all together. She raised her hands like a conductor in the philharmonic.

The anonymous joined in with April and said, Idle hands do the devil’s work! With that, we were dismissed until the following Tuesday. It was two ticks past two o’clock in the afternoon. I joined the others and we began our exodus to the viciously hot parking lot contained within the Oak Park Business Center.

I opened the door to the lot and the humidity covered me like a blanket. I fished for my keys in my top-left cargo shorts pocket. I bade adieu to my fellow addicts and wished them pleasantries and the hope for another week of sobriety. I approached my van, the White Squall. It was off in the distance, maybe forty yards away. Or was it a mirage? I squinted my eyes in that direction. I parked away from the door and other people because I enjoyed my alone time and space. I located and then attempted to place my Wayfarers over my burning eyes. I did not see nor hear what happened next.

When I ploddingly opened my eyes, I was, at that moment, certain I’d tumbled so hard and fast off the wagon and with such a ferocity that I was, indeed, dead. There was no other justification. But then I made out the shadow of a female form standing about six feet in front of me and I realized I was very much alive and lying on my back. I tried to speak, but my tongue felt heavy and uninspired to move. I attempted to depart from my current position, but my hands were tethered up over my head. I hurt all over – like one big bone bruise. Aside from the glare of a vague light to my left and a television monitor that read, THE CONRAD HILTON WELCOMES YOU TO INDIANAPOLIS! START YOUR ENGINES! it was dark in the room. I was unsure if it was still Tuesday, if I was Bear Whitman or if this was Purgatory. At that point, I could have easily been Bear Whitman in