The Eastside of Town: A Novel

By Xlibris US

A readers delight. A story with nostalgia, history, lost love, suspense and a touch of American Graffiti.

Maxine Paetro, New York Times bestselling author


First-time novelist Bob Williams The Eastside of Town is a cracking good mystery and an even more compelling coming-of-age story. Set in Central Florida in the eventful 1960s, this rapidly paced novel uses the biggest issues of the day-Vietnam, Civil Rights, and the Kennedy assassination as a catalyst in the life of youthful protagonist Tommy Smith. Readers with a taste for mystery and fine fiction will love it.

Mary Stanton ( Claudia Bishop ) author of THE BEAUFORT & COMPANY MYSTERIES


Even if you didnt grow up in Central Florida during the 1960s, The Eastside of Town offers a gripping tale of friendship, lost love, coming to terms with coming-of-age...and murder. Bob Williams knows how to tell a tale, but he also knows how to instill a deep sense of place in his writing. Those who remember Orlando as it used to be will enjoy nostalgic references to such favorite old hangouts as Ronnies Restaurant and the Orlando Youth Center. Along the way, Williams does a masterful job of creating characters who seem like old friends and plotting a story that keeps us riveted until the end.

Bob Morris, (Baja Florida, Bahamarama, Jamaica Dead)


Five friends who grew up on the eastside of Orlando who experienced fathers returning from WWII, the mysteries of girls, Friday night lights, prom, integration, civil rights, assassinations of President Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy, and Martin Luther King Jr., the draft, and the Vietnam War are reunited when Jackie, the girl who taught all of them about passion and compassion, is brutally murdered. Tommy Smith convinces his friends they need to find out what happened to Jackie. This may not have been a good idea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499033274

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Bob Williams.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014911918

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4990-3329-8

                 Softcover        978-1-4990-3330-4

                 eBook             978-1-4990-3327-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/01/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Acknowledgments

The Eastside of Town

Chapter One

1963

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

1964

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

1965

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

1966–1967

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

1968

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

1969

Chapter Thirty-eight

To my wife Linda, a person of passion and compassion.

Acknowledgments

My gratitude to Steve Leggett, my good friend, who convinced me that writing is more about process than the finished product. As the first reader of my book, he provided me great insight into character development. I will always remember our discussions at White Wolf Café. I would also like to thank Penny Leggett for her incredible feedback and editing of the first draft. My sisters, Katie Unterfer, Jo Ann Evans, and Cherie Nocks also provided me with invaluable feedback. Special thanks to Missi Feyer and Jodi Peters for typing the various drafts. I would also like to thank Xlibris for the assistance I received in making this book possible. Lastly, a special thanks to my wife, Linda, for her support, assistance, and patience.

The Eastside of Town

Chapter One

No one said life was fair. Maybe it wasn’t even supposed to be fair. That said, no one should die at twenty. I was officially entering my junior year of college at Lenoir-Rhyne College in Hickory, North Carolina. Since I now lived full-time in Hickory, I decided to take one course and continue to work in the campus bookstore for the summer. This would allow me to keep ahead in my classes but to still have an easy summer. In 1968, the Vietnam War had escalated, and it was important to keep up my 2-S status with the draft. Before I even graduated from Colonial High school in Orlando, Florida, in 1966, I stayed with a neighbor to finish out high school. My mother had remarried and moved to Houston, Texas, with her new husband; and when I left for college, I knew that I was going to my new home. I had an apartment off campus, and except for receiving government checks with tuition from my grandmother’s estate, I felt totally independent.

Although the campus seemed dead in June, I still followed my daily routine of checking my campus mailbox. This time it was not empty. It contained a handwritten note asking me to come to the dean’s office. I immediately thought, What have I done? I couldn’t think of any reason why the dean would want to see me. When I reached his office, his assistant handed me a note that the dean had left for me:

To: Tommy Smith

Please call Mrs. Tomlinson in Orlando, Florida.

It is OK to call collect.

I took the note and quickly walked to my apartment. Mrs. Tomlinson was the lady who lived across the street from me in Orlando where I lived before leaving for college. They were always good to my family. Their daughter, Donna, was the proverbial girl next door. Since the day I met Donna in second grade, she seemed to have cast a spell on me. The spell was more like torment. I thought about her constantly, but our paths always seemed to go in a different direction. The thought ran through my mind that maybe she was engaged to Bentley and I was being invited to the wedding. After being away for two years, I was sure a lot of things had happened. I realized I would even be happy for Donna. She and Bentley seemed to be perfect for each other.

I didn’t have a telephone at my apartment, but I knew the Colemans would let me use theirs. I lived in their garage apartment located behind their house. The phone rang at least fifteen times before Mrs. Tomlinson answered and accepted the call. Mrs. Tomlinson, this is Tommy Smith. I got a note from the dean asking me to call you.

Thanks, Tommy. I’m sorry for calling the college. I didn’t have any other way to contact you. Nobody I talked with had a number.

That’s my fault. I haven’t been very good about staying in touch with people.

I’ve got some bad news.

My heart started racing, and I found myself gripping the phone so tight that it hurt my hand.

Your friend Jackie Donovan is dead.

I just kept staring at the wall in front of me. Finally, Mrs. Tomlinson said, Tommy, are you OK?

I’m just shocked. How did she die?

She was murdered.

Who would murder Jackie?

The police don’t know. They are calling it the Red Ribbon murder because a red ribbon was around her neck when she was found. Something similar happened to another young girl. The police are saying the person who did this is some type of serial killer. It has been on the front page of the paper.

Is there going to be a funeral?

Yes, it’s going to be at Good Shepherd Catholic Church on Saturday at 2:00 p.m. Tommy, Jackie’s mother called me looking for you. She knows how close you were to Jackie. She wanted you to be a pallbearer, and she also asked if you could get five other guys to act as pallbearers. She said there really weren’t any other men in the family she felt comfortable asking. If you need to call your friends, you can charge the calls to my phone.

Thanks.

You are more than welcome to stay with us.

Thanks. I’ll probably come straight to the funeral. I will need a place to stay Saturday night.

You can stay as long as you want. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this. I know you and Jackie were very close.

After hanging up, I walked up the stairs to my apartment and fell on the bed. I could not hold back the tears. I was sobbing and had difficulty catching my breath. I don’t even think I cried this much at my father’s funeral. I went to the bathroom to wash my face. Once I returned to the bedroom, the crying started again.

I had known Jackie since second grade. She was unique, one of a kind. Today people would refer to her as a free spirit. She really did not care what other people thought. She was not part of the in crowd and seemed to be proud of the fact. She would stand up to anybody if she felt they were trying to hurt someone. I often told her she was the most passionate and compassionate person I had ever known. This would always bring a smile to her face.

Jackie was very pretty. She was a petite five feet two inches tall with auburn hair and a tint of peroxide in the front. She wore her hair in a ponytail most of the time. When she did wear her hair down, she looked much softer. Like me, Jackie had some tough times. I guess that is why we got along so well. I could tell her anything. She was like my counselor and confessor. We spent many times in our secret meeting place where we would talk about everything. She had definite opinions about a lot of things and, unlike me, was quick to take action. When she became angry, she would easily drop a few choice words that would startle people. I always knew that I loved Jackie. Maybe not in a romantic sort of way—at least I don’t think it was like that.

As I closed my eyes, I could see Jackie wearing the white dress she would occasionally wear. It was a summer dress that went to her ankles. With her hair down and her dark Italian skin that she inherited from her mother, she was beautiful. As I held the vision in my head, I realized the last words she spoke to me after we graduated from high school. I was leaving for college, and she was staying in Orlando. She said, Please don’t forget about me.

Suddenly I had a sick feeling in my stomach. I had never sent a letter or called. I’m sure she thought I had forgotten her. Although I frequently thought about her, I never once contacted her. I wasn’t even sure what happened to her after high school. I realized that I had done the same thing with my other friends. With a sense of guilt, I now would be contacting my friends to be pallbearers.

It was easy to decide who to call. The father of one of my friends referred to the four of us as the Gruesome Foursome. We grew up together and attended the same schools, played every sport that involved a ball, and our parents understood there was a good likelihood that an additional plate might be needed for dinner. We were always together and developed nicknames for one another that were not always complimentary.

Doug Brantley was the guy who would literally turn the heads of girls when he walked by them. He was five feet ten inches tall and had blond hair that almost looked white. The color was enhanced by his practice of pouring lemon juice on his hair when we went surfing. He had deep blue eyes and biceps that always made it look like his shirt was about to rip. Despite his great looks, Doug was terrified to talk to girls.

Ray McBride had the nickname Stingray. He received the name because of his ferocious play on the football field at Colonial High School. Although Stingray was only five nine, he was muscular and had absolutely no fear when it came to hitting people. This was a practice he followed both on and off the field. There were many occasions when I was thankful to have him as a friend.

Ken Young was the ladies’ man of our group. He was six feet tall, and even while we were in high school, he looked like he had five o’clock shadow most of the time. He was always the designated man to go through the drive-through window at Tom and Jerry’s to buy beer. Ken was a smooth talker with the ladies. One rainy day at high school, he placed his London Fog jacket over a puddle for the new girl to step on. He obtained the nickname Glue. He received the name from our coach when we played high school football. It was not meant as a compliment.

Jimmy Smith was not a member of the Gruesome Foursome. He was more like the fifth Beatle who was adopted. Jimmy was the first black student to attend Colonial High School. Because of a set of unusual circumstances, we drew him into our circle. Because of the civil rights movement, he was given the nickname of Doc. This was the abbreviated name for Dr. Martin Luther King.

Charging my phone calls to the Tomlinsons worked without a hitch. The only friend I talked with was Doc. I was, however, able to talk with the parents of the Gruesome Foursome. They indicated that they would share the information to wear a coat and tie and to be at the church by one.

I tried to take a nap before I left for Orlando, realizing I was going to drive through the night. As I lay in bed, it didn’t take long to realize sleep wasn’t coming. I packed a small bag and threw it in the back seat of the DeSoto. Just before I pulled out, I realized I didn’t have my one and only blue sport coat. I ran back upstairs to get it and noticed my wallet sitting on the coffee table. Ever since I heard the news about Jackie, I seemed to have difficulty focusing on anything.

The radio is always on when I drive. After flipping through the channels and getting the latest hog report and the cost of tobacco, I turned off the radio and started thinking about my life. I am again driving back home having experienced the death of my president and his brother, watching the streets being set on fire during the civil rights movement, watching the news accounts of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, and now witnessing my country being torn apart by an unpopular war. I never thought, however, I would be a pallbearer at Jackie’s funeral. Maybe I should have known a day like today would occur. I graduated from high school on June 6, 1966, or 6-6-66. Maybe that was an omen.

Surprisingly, I was alert as I got closer to Orlando. Stopping for a bathroom break and a second cup of coffee helped. I tuned in the Orlando radio station 95.5. On Highway 50, the song I Wish It Would Rain by the Temptations began to play. I was beginning to think this day was scripted for me.

Passing by Colonial Steak and Shake, I am reminded of the wonderful memories associated with our hangout. This was the hang out for the eastside of town. There I said it again. The eastside of town. I guess many of us were burdened by an inferiority complex because we were from the eastside.

During the mid- to late fifties, construction of subdivisions took place in east Orlando. The property was leveled, and water management was not exactly a priority during construction. We had rows of three-bedroom homes pop up. The homes were quickly filled with families from the north who painted their houses pink and placed flamingo sculptures in their yards. There was Azalea Park, New Azalea Park, Monterey, and Englewood subdivisions. None of the homes and schools were air-conditioned. I guess we were pretty tough. We were striving to be part of the growing middle class after WWII, although to some we continued to be viewed as living in the sticks. Farther east in Bithlo, crosses being burned in the woods was the number one sport.

I guess we did have some hang-ups as we entered high school. We seldom cruised through the Winter Park Steak and Shake. It felt more comfortable going to the Colonial Steak and Shake. Winter Park kids had better cars. I was embarrassed driving the family ’56 DeSoto through the Winter Park Steak and Shake. The Orlando Youth Center was our hangout as opposed the Winter Park Youth Center and the Britney Club. Boone High School, one of the established high schools in Orlando, shared a west boundary with our school. They were our first rival in sports. I’ll never forget the day we beat them in football. The headlines read Fumble-ridden Boone Falls Victim. It was like they had a bad night.

Approaching the church, I pass the iconic La Cantina restaurant. My mother had been a waitress there for years. Many a prom night started there.

As I pull the old De Soto into the parking lot, sweat was pouring off my forehead. Stopping for gas, I changed into a shirt and tie, and it felt like my back was stuck to the seat. Two cars down, I could see Ray McBride, Stingray, getting out of his car wearing his Marine Corps dress blue uniform. As I approached him, he said, Smith, this isn’t fucking right.

I realized that although I never had a nickname in our group, I was generally called by my last name. I also realized that Stingray’s vocabulary had been enhanced by the Marine Corps.

No, it isn’t right. It isn’t right at all.

Did you get all the pallbearers?

Yeah, the Gruesome Foursome plus the Doc. I’ve got to get one more guy.

You mean Jimmy Smith, the black guy?

Wow, after four years of high school, you’re just now noticing that Doc is black?

Don’t be a smartass. You know what I mean. Is it OK for him to be in the Catholic Church?

Of course. It’s the one place we can sit together.

As Stingray and I entered the front door of the church, I immediately felt the air-conditioning. Turning to the right, I saw Doug, Glue, and Doc standing together next to the wall. Doug was not wearing a coat. His short-sleeve white shirt appeared ready to bust open. He was wearing a tie that appeared to be choking him. Doc and Glue were both wearing dark suits. As I got closer, I noticed no one was laughing or making some wise crack, which was unusual for our group. As Stingray and I got close, Doug grabbed us in a tight huddle. We had our arms around each other, and we all had our heads looking down toward the floor. We looked like we were about to call a football play. As soon as Doug noticed that Doc was not part of the huddle, he grabbed him with his strong arm and brought him into the circle. There were five guys standing together in a circle with arms around each other. We really did not know how to share our grief with each other. We solved the problem by saying nothing. As we stayed in the huddle, I could feel the tears forming in my eyes. I also heard someone sniffle. Finally, Doug said, Man, I pulled her out of the pool.

Stingray added, She was like one of the guys. This was a true statement. Jackie said she liked hanging out with the guys because there was less drama. Doc said, She taught me a lot about myself and to stand up for what you believe.

She was one of a kind, replied Glue.

We stayed in the same position for a couple of minutes, and then we all dropped our arms. One of the funeral directors came up and asked if we were the pallbearers. He placed a boutonniere on the jacket of everyone except Stingray and Doug. It didn’t seem to bother them that they wouldn’t be wearing a boutonniere. It would look strange to have a guy wearing a Marine Corps dress blue uniform with a flower on his jacket. He was upset that we were missing a pallbearer.

As people started to enter the church, I noticed the tall skinny guy who was Jackie’s neighbor enter the church. I knew that his first name was Mark and that he was a band member when we were in high school. As I introduced myself, I learned that his last name was Lee. He quickly agreed to be the sixth pallbearer. The fact he was wearing a coat and tie was a bonus. The funeral director pinned on the boutonniere and gave us our instructions. Stingray was still worried about his role as a pallbearer, so he pulled me to the side.

What exactly did he say we needed to do?

The casket is closed. We just roll it down to the front of the church and then sit on the front row. Then, when the service is over, we roll the casket out and place it in the back of the hearse. We then take the casket out when we get to the cemetery.

What about the wine?

You’re not Catholic. You can’t have the bread and wine.

Why not?

It’s just a rule. You’re not Catholic.

As we stood in the narthex of the church, I could see the priest somewhat frazzled with the last-minute details of the funeral. The ushers were bringing in more chairs. The church was full of former students. Jackie was not that popular, but it is not every day that a school has a student murdered by a possible serial killer. There seemed to be more girls than boys. As the start time for the funeral approached, the church was beginning to get very quiet. The girls were already passing tissues to each other. Jackie’s mother and stepfather were standing close to us in the front of the church. The priest was consoling them and also going over the procedures for the funeral. There were other adults standing behind them, and I assumed they were relatives. I knew Jackie was an only child.

Then the casket was rolled out by the funeral parlor staff. I felt shortness of breath, and the lump in my throat made it hard to swallow. Jackie’s parents and family members stood behind the casket as we took our positions on each side of the casket. The casket was on some type of stand that had wheels. We just needed to roll the casket to the front of the church. The priest offered a prayer, and his assistant started swinging the metal container that had some type of incense.

The service included singing and a homily by the priest about being called home. Although he was trying to give us a message of hope, I couldn’t help but think I would never talk to Jackie again. Jackie’s friend Vicki was the only young person to speak at the funeral. At this point, things began to fall apart for many of us. Vicki mentioned friendship, Jackie’s free spirit, and how much we were going to miss her. She dropped several names including mine when talking about Jackie. She said that Tommy Smith had always been there for Jackie. At first I was comforted, and then I felt shame when I realized I had not talked with her in two years. I looked down the aisle to see my fellow pallbearers with tears running down their cheeks. A few of them placed their face in their hands in an attempt to cover up the tears. I joined them, and Glue slipped me his handkerchief. She was too young. We had been through so much together. This was not supposed to happen.

At the cemetery, we again experienced a roller-coaster ride of emotions. Staring at the casket, I felt that I had lost a part of myself. I knew my memories of Jackie were buried deep and would never leave.

At the end of service at the cemetery, the five of us gave our condolences to the family. Mrs. Donovan asked me to come by her house before I left town. She said she had something she wanted to give me.

As we returned to the church parking lot, I suggested that since we hadn’t seen each other in a long time maybe we could get together that evening. Everyone was in agreement, and we began to kick around a few ideas. I finally said, Let’s go to Ronnie’s Restaurant? We could all have some pickles, sauerkraut, a deli sandwich, and a few beers. That’s a great idea, said Jimmy, but Doug was the only one who was twenty-one.

Yeah, Ray shouted, I can go get my ass shot off, but I can’t buy a fucking beer.

But Ken looks thirty-five, I said. Ray can flash his Marine Corps ID, and I have a great fake ID too.

Ray said, Since you and Doc have the same last name, maybe he can use your ID.

Doc said, Always picking on the black guy.

We all felt it was worth a try. As we began to break up and go to our cars, we agreed to meet at Ronnie’s at seven.

I had two things I needed to get done before then. First, get out of my shirt and tie and into my cutoffs and T-shirt. I knew I needed to check in with Donna’s parents. Mrs. Tomlinson had called me about Jackie. She naturally invited me to stay at their house. I was really not all that crazy about seeing Donna again. I guess it was one of those approach-avoidance things I learned about in my psychology class. I figured I would spend tonight at their house, and if I stayed in Orlando longer, I would invite myself to Glue’s house.

I was glad to see that Mrs. Tomlinson was the only person at home. Once we chatted for a few minutes, I changed my clothes in Donna’s brother’s room and headed out in the trusty DeSoto to my next destination.

I drove down Lake Barton Dr. and pulled into the 7-11 store. For some reason, I felt like a high school kid about to buy a condom at the drugstore. I walked to the counter and quickly picked out a cigar to purchase. I wasn’t sure what to buy other than it couldn’t be one of those little skinny things that looks like a cigarette. The reason I felt awkward was that I’m not a smoker. After having grown up in a house full of smoke, I really didn’t even like to be around it.

I placed my purchase in my pocket and made my way toward the high school. At the back entrance to