Star-Spangled Rejects (The Heavenly Grille Café Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author's Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Note to Readers

  STAR-SPANGLED REJECTS

  THE HEAVENLY GRILLE CAFÉ: BOOK III

  By

  J.T. Livingston

  Star-Spangled Rejects

  The Heavenly Grille Café Book Three

  Copyright © 2016 by Joyce T. Livingston

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the express permission of the author, except in the case of brief embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents, are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art: Shutterstock/Rachata Sinthopachakul

  Published by Piscataqua Press

  An imprint of RiverRun Bookstore Inc.

  142 Fleet Street | Portsmouth, NH | 03801

  www.riverrunbookstore.com

  www.piscaaquapress.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-939739-22-9

  DEDICATION

  This last book in the Heavenly Grille Café series is dedicated to my nephew, TYLER GENE JONES, who died from a drug overdose, on April 30, 2016. He was only 24 years old and his life was just beginning for him. He chose the wrong friends, and he made some bad decisions—something we all do throughout our life time—but, God’s timing is never our own, and there are no guarantees that our lives will be without trials and tribulations. I know you will be playing your guitar in Heaven, Tyler…maybe even as you sit beside your dad at the Golden Falls.

  For all the young people out there who have fallen prey to the illegal drugs manufactured and sold throughout our country, my prayer for you is that you wake up in time to make a change in your life—before it is too late. For all the parents of the young people who have fallen prey, my prayer for you is that you, too, wake up in time—know who your children’s friends are, and stay involved in their lives. Don’t ever think that it will never happen to you or your family.

  Let’s all wake up before it’s too late. Let’s push for legislation that results in murder charges for anyone convicted of selling illegal drugs that end up killing someone’s child—someone’s spouse—someone’s mother or father. Wake up…

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The first book in The Heavenly Grille Café series began in the summer of 2011 and introduced the reader to three special angels: Maximus, a former Gladiator; Bertie, whose boisterous personality had earned her the proprietary title of Heaven’s naughty angel; and, Doug, a young soldier who died in battle in 1953. These three angels run the Heavenly Grille Café, located in the middle of nowhere, in the small town of Monticello, Florida. The café is famous for the golden halo that seems to float miraculously above it. The first book also introduced us to Amanda Turner, a young girl from Tampa, Florida who found refuge, and a new family, at the Heavenly Grille Café. Amanda returned to Tampa at the end of Book I to pursue a career in law enforcement, and the angels decided to remain in Monticello, FL for the time being.

  Book II of the series began in October 2013 and introduced the reader to a different kind of angel—a four-footed angel. His name was Sam, and he was Amanda’s dog for 10 years before he died. Sam and his human angels at the cafe were on a mission to do what they could do to help those who could not help themselves—bait and fighter dogs. If you have ever wondered whether or not we will be reunited in Heaven with our four-legged companions, then Book II provides some heavenly—albeit fictional—insight to that question.

  Book III of the series begins in January 2016, in a new location—Rome, GA—and introduces the reader and our angels to two characters that are part of a growing section of America’s population: the homeless Veterans who proudly served their country, only to feel rejected and abandoned upon their return from battle. One of the characters is a Vietnam Veteran, while the other one is an Iraq War Veteran—a generation apart—yet, they share so much in common. Book III, like the other two books in the series, is a book of fiction, but it is based on a very real problem that many Veterans face on a daily basis—their struggle with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). One of these two Veterans will be charged for a murder he did not commit. Will the angels be able to save either of these fragile men in time?

  Book III is, also, dedicated to ALL Veterans who have proudly served and protected the United States of America. The poetry throughout Book III was written by MAJ (Retired U.S. Army, Special Forces) Edwin C. Livingston, who proudly served his country from January 24, 1957 until his retirement on June 30, 1977, and knows first-hand, the daily frustration and agony of living with PTSD.

  CHAPTER 1

  Midnight Under the Bridge

  It was almost midnight on Friday, January 22, 2016. The temperature had recently dropped below freezing, but the small group of homeless people that lived beneath the underpass barely noticed. They had all endured colder winters than this one and, God-willing, they would live to endure many more. They were all just thankful that this particular winter was being spent in the warmer climate of Rome, GA instead of previous ones that had been spent farther north.

  There were seven of them on this night—five men and two women—who claimed the area around the underpass as their temporary home. The area was surrounded on all sides with a thick fusion of pine trees, needle palms, and wild azaleas, all of which helped to keep the cold wind from being as intrusive as it would have been without the presence of the native plants and trees.

  The old man, known to the group as “Skipper”, stood away from the others and stared at the large golden halo that seemed to miraculously float above the diner across the street. He had watched the building go up in a matter of days, but had not been there whenever the halo had been erected above the diner. A large, flashing marquee stood in the parking lot: THE HEAVENLY GRILLE CAFÉ, OPEN MONDAY – SATURDAY, 7 AM – 11 PM, GOD LOVES YOU & SO DO WE! He took a last drag of the cigarette he was smoking, flicked it, and grinded it firmly into the dirt. He shook his head in wonderment at the floating halo that lit up the entire parking lot and surrounding grounds. Not much surprised him these days, but, the halo certainly did.

  Skipper looked down at the old wristwatch he had worn since he returned home from his final tour in Vietnam, back in April 1970. It was 11:45 PM when the young m
an, who worked at the diner, walked out of the front door carrying two large sacks. Skipper guessed the sacks would be filled with sandwiches, hot coffee, and whatever dessert that might have been served that day. “Right on time,” he muttered beneath his breath. He thought about leaving the group in order to avoid any conversation the young man might try to start with him again, but the temptation of a sandwich and hot cup of coffee left him teetering on the edge of indecision. He had to admit that whoever the cook was at the diner certainly knew his trade, because the food was the best he had tasted in more years than he could remember.

  Three male members of this homeless clan climbed slowly from beneath their cardboard boxes; two senior women emerged from makeshift tents that had been pitched about 50 feet away from the men. Skipper and a young man in his thirties always slept out in the open, in their sleeping bags, at opposite ends from each other. Both men were loners and had no desire to mingle with their fellow, homeless comrades, or with each other.

  Stella Sieber was 82 years old and had been homeless, by choice, for the past 27 years. She came from a small town in Michigan, and had been 55 years old when her abusive, alcoholic husband had died under—what the local police deemed—“mysterious” circumstances. Stella had been on the move ever since then, relocating herself farther south every few months. She was as much a loner as the old man they called Skipper, but she considered herself to be a lot more amiable than was he. “Ain’t it about time for that young fella to be bringing us something to eat?” she snarled at no one in particular.

  Skipper turned to look at the mangy old woman who constantly grated on his last nerve. He turned back toward the café without proffering a response.

  “Cat got your tongue, does he?” Stella crackled after spitting out a large clump of phlegm from her smoke-ridden lungs. She removed the remnant of a cigarette, from her coat pocket, and lit it up. She managed to get two tokes from the cigarette butt before the red ash burned her calloused thumb. She cursed under her breath and threw the butt on the ground behind her, not bothering to grind it out.

  “You should be more careful, Stella,” the middle-aged black woman spoke softly as she moved to stand behind the older, white woman. “The last thing we need is a brush fire to draw attention to us. I like this place…I feel safe here…” Peggy Jensen dropped her head and kicked dirt on Stella’s cigarette butt.

  “Aw, why don’t you just shut up, PJ; ain’t nobody talking to you. Go on back inside your tent,” Stella shouted. She didn’t like mealy-minded women who were afraid to speak up for themselves. She had been one of those women for 37 years, but “mysterious” circumstances had provided her the opportunity she so desperately desired, and she had finally escaped the matrimonial prison in which she had been ensconced.

  PJ kicked at the dirt again and muttered under her breath, “But, I’m so hungry…” She was startled when she felt a firm hand squeeze her left shoulder. She jerked her head around sharply and saw the young man who had joined their group just a couple of weeks ago. PJ thought he was a handsome-enough white man—one that she might have fancied for herself in her younger years. She always had a preference for white men over those of her own race, and this personal preference had driven a solid wedge between her and other family members, who still lived in Selma, Alabama. She had walked away from all of them 5 years ago, but found herself wondering more and more if she shouldn’t have been more placating of their opinions.

  The young white man, known to the group as Jason, looked down at PJ and shook his head. “She’s not worth it; don’t pay any attention to what she says.” His voice was a blended mixture of gruff deepness, yet soothingly mellow at the same time. He wore a black, knitted cap over his dark, short-shaven hair.

  PJ caught a slight glimpse of strong, white teeth beneath his timid grin. That was the most she had ever heard him speak during the short time he had been there. She lowered her head and simply nodded.

  Three men in their sixties ambled slowly and clumsily toward the small campfire at the center of their sheltered hideaway. They could easily have been mistaken for the Three Stooges—Larry, Curly, and Moe—as they comically bumped into one another due to their varying degrees of soberness. Larry was a former real estate broker who had lost everything during the housing bubble crash that ended in 2009; he was 62 years old and his real name was Norman Weissman. Curly was a bald-headed, former college football coach, whose wife had left him for one of his best tight ends; he was 60 years old and his real name was Joe Sanders. Moe was the unofficial leader of this comical trio, and was a retired pharmacist who had grown tired of the rat race, as well as the wife and kids that went along with it, and whom he thought wanted nothing from him except his money. He had left them all his money and walked away one night with just the clothes on his back; he was 67 years old and his real name was Bernard Cartwright.

  None of these seven people, excluding Stella, were the stereotypical homeless persons depicted on television and in newspapers. They maintained their appearances as best as they possibly could, and worked odd jobs whenever they could be found. None of them had truly bonded with the others in the group, but they all felt a sense of limited safety and security within their temporary family.

  Joe Sanders belched loudly and squinted his eyes. “Hey, look!” he said as he pointed in the direction of the Heavenly Grille Café. “Here comes our midnight snack.” He stumbled and grinned at Bernard, who caught him by the elbow. “Thanks, Moe,” he winked, acknowledging the group’s constant reference to them as the Three Stooges.

  “Ahhh…think nothing of it, my good Curly!” Bernard winked back at him.

  “I sure hope there’s some more of that buttermilk cake,” Norman yawned. “Guess a cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt any of us none, huh?”

  The group began to spread out when the young man from the diner across the street stepped through the bushes and into the clearing that was their common area.

  Doug was one of the three angels who operated the Heavenly Grille Café. Their assignment was to help as many people as they could, without interfering with destiny in any form or fashion. He grinned at all of them and made his way toward their campfire. He sat the bag that held seven large cups of strong, black coffee on the ground in front of him. Angels have a remarkable sense of hearing and he had listened in to all their conversations, both verbal and unspoken, on his way across the street. “Good evening, everyone,” his deep voice was unassuming and non-confrontational. “I hope you’re all hungry because Max had lots of grilled meatloaf sandwiches left over tonight. There are plenty of home fries, too, and buttermilk cake—enough for everyone to have seconds if they want. There is coffee in the other bag,” he offered as he began passing around the sandwiches and fries. “Do you mind if I sit with all of you for a little while?”

  Nobody acknowledged his question.

  PJ kept her eyes downward as she took the offered food. “Thank you very much,” she whispered shyly and walked over to get a coffee from the other bag.

  Stella gave her a dirty look and deliberately bumped into PJ, causing her to spill some of the hot coffee. “Who said you could go first!” she hissed into PJs ear, low enough so nobody could hear.

  Doug heard but decided not to say anything to Stella. “How are you tonight, Stella? You’re looking beautiful, as always.”

  Stella grabbed the sandwich and fries from Doug’s fingers and looked up at him. “I don’t need your lying sweet talk, pretty boy. Just give me the food and leave me alone, why don’t you? I don’t need to hear any preachin’ from you either, and if that’s part of the deal, then you can just keep your food!”

  Doug smiled back at the old woman. He knew about her “mysterious” secret, and hoped and prayed for her salvation and repentance before it was too late. He held out another piece of wrapped food. “Don’t forget your cake, Stella.”

  Larry, Curly, and Moe moved as one toward Doug. “We’ll be glad to take her share if she doesn’t want it,” Norman, the former real est
ate broker, grinned. “I hope that coffee is decaf…we don’t need anything that will interfere with our beauty sleep, you know!”

  Doug laughed at the good-natured man who he had grown to like so much since the café opened on New Year’s Day. He had never met anyone that was better suited to the homeless life than Norman Weissman. Norman had told him his story more than once—how he had been in the real estate business for 30 years and had made millions of dollars before numerous bad investments had sent his empire crumbling before his very eyes. His partner of 15 years had left him and taken whatever the bank had not pilfered. “Yes, Norman…I definitely have decaf for you!” Doug grinned.

  Norman closed his eyes and sighed when he felt Doug’s firm hand upon his shoulder. The calmness and serenity that came over him every time Doug touched him was beyond anything he had ever before experienced. If Doug’s touch didn’t sober him up, the strong decaf coffee surely would.

  Doug handed sandwiches and fries to Joe and Bernard. “Here you go, gentlemen. How was your day?”

  Curly, AKA: Joe Sanders, shuffled from side to side, mimicking his favorite touchdown dance. “Couldn’t be better, Doug, my boy…couldn’t be better. Tomorrow is going to be a wonderful day; I can feel it in these old bones.” He winked at Doug and made his way to the coffee.

  Bernard Cartwright pulled his knitted cap over his ears and smiled at Doug. “It’s a bit on the cool side tonight. We certainly do appreciate your kindness.”

  Doug touched Bernard’s shoulder. “Would you like to pray, Bernard?” He knew that Bernard had been having second thoughts lately about having abandoned his family five years ago. He had been sensing a quiet need in Bernard since they first met three weeks ago.

  Bernard stiffened under Doug’s touch. He did not feel the same calmness and serenity that Norman had felt. He shook his head. “No…thank you, no. I don’t deserve your prayers…” He took his food and joined his friends who sat cross-legged in front of the campfire. “If we sit like this for too long, fellas,” he joked, “We may never be able to get up again!”