I'd practically forgotten about the whole thing until days later, when I was going over my bookkeeping for the end of the month. I booted up the computer in my office and started going over all of the daily sales reports from the bar, tallying my deposits and deducting the various expenses that had to be paid: the lease on the building, the liquor license, the beer costs, the electric bill, and so on. It wasn't until I saw the bar's account balance that I realized something was off.
There was actually $10,000 more in the account than the ledgers showed. The mystery man's check had cleared. I hadn't even bothered to record it in my books, but there it was.
“Well, I'll be.”
I sat there, staring at the monitor, unable to form a coherent thought. $10,000 was a lot of money. I could take a vacation. Pay off what was left on my car. Fix the walk-in freezer in the back so that it would stop icing over. I could do just about anything.
But more than the thought of what I'd do with the money, my mind focused on the mystery of the navy SEAL. How had he come by that kind of money? I didn't really know much about military pay grades, but I was pretty sure they didn't pay enough to cover something like this.
The question bothered me for days and days. I kept wondering who this man was, and how he had come by that kind of money. I wondered if he was up to some kind of illegal smuggling operation. It didn't seem to fit his character, but I couldn't think of another explanation. Super rich men didn't just up and join the navy. Did they?
I finally got to the point that I just couldn't stand not knowing. One afternoon while I was getting ready to open the bar, I set aside my work and sat at the computer to look up a phone number for the base. I found a contact number for concerns from the general public, dialed it, and waited until a gruff-sounding man answered the phone.
After he introduced himself, I said, “Hi, umm, this is going to sound kind of strange.”
I heard him sigh into the phone. “Yes?”
“Well, see, it's about one of the men from your base.”
“Can you give me his name?” he asked. I heard noises over the phone, as if he were rustling through a desk for a pen.
“Well, I don't know his name exactly.”
“What is this regarding?” he asked.
“Well...” I bit my lip, trying to figure out how to explain it without sounding like a nutcase. “See, there was a fight at my bar the other day...”
“Ahh. Yes, ma'am. I can assure you, the men involved in that incident have already been disciplined.”
“No, you see...” I sighed, rubbing at my eyes. “One of the men came back, to pay for the damages? And, well, he wrote me a check.”
“All right,” the man said. His tone was growing impatient.
“And, well, it was for $10,000.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Hello?”
“Yes, ma'am,” the man said. “That would be Rick Donaldson.”
My eyes widened. I was surprised the man on the phone would know who I was looking for, just like that. “He...he's one of your men, then?”
“Yes, ma'am. Navy SEAL, Chief Petty Officer. We call him Richy Rick.”
“You mean Richy Rich?” I asked.
“No, ma'am. Close. The boys got the name from the old cartoon.”
I leaned back in my chair, trying to get my head around this. “So...he's in the navy, and he's rich.”
“That's right, ma'am. Listen, if Rick wanted to pay you back for those damages, I suggest you just take the money and be grateful. He does this sort of thing.”
“But...”
“I'm sorry ma'am, but I really have other business to attend to. Have a nice day.”
He hung up the phone, leaving me with more questions than I'd had before. Though my mystery man at least had a name.
Rick Donaldson. I decided to Google him and see what else I could learn.
What I found out about him just blew my mind even more.
* * *
CHAPTER 4:
Over the next few weeks, I couldn't get the story of Rick Donaldson out of my mind. I read dozens of news articles, trying to figure him out. The perspectives on his story changed depending on who was writing the article, but certain facts and details stood out the same across all of them.
Rick was the only son of a rather wealthy industrialist. By all rights, he should have been a businessman himself, preparing to run the family business so he could take over as President and CEO when his father eventually retired. Instead, he'd run away from home and joined the navy. There were several interviews with him where reporters asked what prompted him to leave behind his family and his wealth in order to serve his country. His answers varied, but he always said something about how he wanted to do something more with his life, something that would have a greater impact. It seemed that he'd caught a case of patriotism, and considered it more important than his heritage.
He was also known for using his money to help people in countries all around the world. When the U.S. military invaded Afghanistan, Rick had sent millions in relief funds to help the refugees in that country. When there was a terrorist attack at a U.S embassy, Rick sent money to the widows and families of the deceased to help support them in their time of need. He'd made the news dozens of times over the last ten years for his charitable donations, and whenever he was asked about it, he said it was simply his civic duty.
For a while I kept hoping that he would stop by the bar again, but as the weeks passed, he never did. I figured he probably felt guilty for what had happened the last time he was here. But he remained in my thoughts, and I had the feeling that we would run into each other again, sooner or later.
It was almost two months after the bar fight before Rick and I crossed paths again. A really bad storm passed over the east coast, tearing up trees, flooding the streets, and causing damage to hundreds of homes. Our neighborhood didn't get hit as hard as some did, though there was some flood damage to the bar and we were without power for two days.
I was out the day after the storm with a bunch of the other local business owners on my block. We all tried to help each other out in times of need, from the time a fire gutted several businesses in the strip mall down the street, to the time construction on the main road ruined business for all of us, since so much traffic had been diverted away from our area by the detours. We'd all worked together to make sure that no one went out of business, and after the storm we did the same, working as a team to clear away debris, board up windows, and cut down trees that had toppled during the storm.
The local coffee shop owners brought out thermoses of free coffee to keep all of us warm and refreshed as we worked, and the baker's shop down the corner brought everyone donuts. I was taking a coffee break, leaning against the back of a truck, when I spotted him. Rick and a group of men, presumably all from the navy base, were just up the road from me, hard at work. He was wearing a pair of thick work gloves and heavy black boots. He trudged through the puddles at the edge of the road, working to clear some large branches that were blocking the street. He and his men worked efficiently, no doubt due to the training they'd had in working as a team.
Looking for an excuse to go over and talk to him, I went to refill my coffee, and got several extra cups. I balanced them carefully, something I had a lot of experience with, being a bartender, and walked over to Rick and his men.
“Well,” I said, looking the SEALs over. “If it isn't Richy Rick.”
Several of the other men laughed. No doubt they were well aware of Rick's nickname. Rick smiled bashfully at me and said, “So, you've heard about that.”
“Wasn't exactly hard,” I said. I stepped closer and held out two of the paper coffee cups, one stacked on top of the other's plastic lid. “I thought you boys might like a warm drink.”
“Thank you, ma'am,” Rick said, taking the coffee. He handed the cups to his men, then helped relieve me of the others I was carrying.
“It's Chantelle,” I said. “I didn't expect to see you navy boys out here helping out. I didn't think this was part of your duties.”
“Not our official duty,” Rick said. He sipped at his coffee. “We're off-duty. Just lending a hand.”
“Awfully kind of you.” I took a sip of my coffee, looking him up and down. He didn't look rich. Didn't look like anything but a navy boy. I would have expected to see him in an Italian suit, wearing a gold watch and being driven around by a chauffeur. Not getting himself muddy hauling debris out of the streets.
There was a long silence as we stood there with our coffee. I had trouble making eye contact. He couldn't have known how much I'd been looking up about him over the last few weeks. I wondered if he would find it flattering, or creepy. I decided to avoid mentioning it.