Burning Heat

by David Burnsworth

  I thought about Mutt’s story as I headed back to the island after dropping him off at his house. And then I thought about the Senior Gardner’s fundraiser soiree tonight. The one that the Isle of Palms police chief Bates had tipped me off to. And I knew what I needed to do. A quick stop at my inherited shack for a shower and a change into some nicer clothes and I was on my way.

  The security guard at the entrance to the private resort let me through on the ruse I was going to feed my dog at the Connorses’ place. That was half a truth. I parked my car there and walked.

  The Gardner house was what one would expect of someone with a net worth of a hundred million dollars. At least, one who believed in flaunting what he had. Framed in that context, big and gaudy suited the jerk-off.

  Like all homes on the island built after Hurricane Hugo, it was elevated. Two large white staircases extended from either side of the grandiose front porch, also painted in white. The hue of the home struck me as appropriate—yellow.

  Tony greeted me at the top of the stairs. “Brack! How are ya?”

  “Just came to see how the other half lived,” I said.

  “You remember my wife, Marlene, dontcha?”

  No man who’d ever come across Tony’s second wife Marlene could ever forget her. Six-foot-two in her bare feet, platinum blond curls, she’d had a few alterations. Those alterations preceded her through doorways. Tonight’s low cut ensemble took advantage of everything Tony had paid his hard-earned money for.

  Her crystal-blue eyes took me in and she held out a hand. “How you doin’, Brack?”

  I kept my eyes on hers, except for a quick glance around the room. Several men would need a pry bar to get their own eyes under control.

  “Nice to see you again, Marlene.” I motioned to Tony. “You keeping him in line?”

  She squeaked a giggle.

  Tony patted her bottom. “You got that right.”

  Jim approached holding a tumbler filled with what probably was twenty-year-old scotch. “Brack! Didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

  “Me either. How’s it going?”

  “Typical rich snobs.” He used his drink glass to motion to the crowd. “They’re all afraid of embarrassing themselves. I guess that’s why they invite common folks like me and Tony.”

  “Don’t forget me,” Marlene said.

  “I don’t think anyone ever could,” Jim said. He put an arm across my shoulders. “Let’s talk business.” Guiding me to an open corner of the porch, he faced me. “I’m guessing you weren’t invited to this.”

  “You guess right.”

  A grin crossed his face. “Excellent. I can always hand it to you to keep things interesting. What can I do to help?”

  “I think you might want to stay out of this one.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  I scanned the porch and through the windows into the living room. “Okay. Point out Gardner’s goon squad.”

  Jim took a sip from his drink and looked around. “There’s one by the front door. Tall guy with the open-collared black shirt.”

  Glancing toward the door, I saw a guy a few inches taller than me, flat-top haircut, with a military stare.

  “The other one I know of is in the front room. Looks like he’s talking to Estelle Gardner.”

  Estelle was the senior Gardner’s wife. She always seemed to be primed and ready to be in the society pages. Attractive, thin, and with a reputation of always being in control, she was the treasurer candidate’s perfect model spouse.

  The guard with her was a slightly shorter version of the guy at the door, who thankfully hadn’t seen me yet. Or didn’t know I didn’t belong.

  “You know where the candidate is?” I asked.

  “I think he’s holding court on the upper back deck.”

  “I guess I need to at least thank him for his hospitality, even if I wasn’t invited.”

  Jim chuckled. “I love it. What else can I do?”

  “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to keep the door man busy. See if Tony and Marlene can take care of the inside guy. I’ll try to slip in around Mrs. Gardner.”

  “This is gonna be funny.”

  I laughed. “I need you on the town council.”

  He raised his glass in a toast and went over to talk to Tony and Marlene. After a few seconds, all three turned to me, grinned, and nodded. I watched as Marlene adjusted her dress to drop lower in front, which I hadn’t thought possible. Tony escorted her inside and all eyes went to her. I could have strolled in behind them and never been seen.

  Jim put his hand on the doorman’s shoulder and pointed to the full moon above with his drink. I took the opportunity and walked past both of Gardner’s men, knowing that I gave Tony and Jim something to talk about for the next month.

  What I noticed first about the inside were twelve-foot ceilings, big crown molding, and hardwood floors. The furnishings in the foyer looked like real antebellum pieces.

  My immediate problem was that everyone recognized me. It didn’t help that they all were customers of the Pirate’s Cove. I nodded and waved and worked my way upstairs.

  Gardner was exactly where Jim said he’d be, on the upper deck holding court. And lucky for me his court was not that large. I chose an empty section of wall to lean against and watched him work his audience. Gardner was the image of success: tall, tan, and well-dressed in a silk shirt, linen pants, and loafers, sans socks. He called attention to a very large watch on his wrist by periodically giving his hand a few shakes.

  Since I was outdoors, I thought it a good opportunity to grab a quick smoke. I pulled out a Dominican I’d started earlier in the day and saved. It occurred to me that I was probably the only attendee of this soiree that saved and relit his cigars. That’s because, well, they cost ten bucks a pop.

  I lit up with my uncle’s Zippo and snapped it shut, which got Gardner’s attention. He cut himself off in mid-sentence and stared at me. His security detail would be in for a thrashing later, I was sure.

  The group who’d been listening to Gardner blow smoke turned, one by one, to watch me. I exhaled a mouthful of Dominican.

  “How you fine folks doing this evening,” I said.

  Jesse Tinsdale, the wife of state senator Doug Tinsdale, said, “Hey, Brack! Sorry to hear about your bar. Any idea when you’ll be open again?”

  My eyes didn’t leave Gardner’s. I said, “Thanks, Jesse. We’re still open and serving food. Just can’t sell alcohol. But don’t worry, we’ll be back to a hundred percent in no time.”

  Josh Frist, a trust-fund baby in the body of a middle-aged man, said, “I can’t wait. Yours is the only decent bar on the island.”

  Knowing him as I did, his reference to decent meant bar with the most women in swimwear.

  “Thanks, Josh.”

  No one said anything else. But silence seemed to make the group uncomfortable, and one by one they slipped away to freshen their drinks. Soon, it was just Gardner and me.

  He said, “What are you doing in my house?”

  “Crashing your party.”

  “This is trespassing.”

  I pushed off the wall and stood straight. “I’ve got a question for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why were you dumb enough to burn up Willa Mae on your own property? And why do anything this close to the primary?”

  Before Gardner could respond, the security guard who’d been manning the steps downstairs stepped onto the deck. “Is there a problem here?”

  Gardner said, “I don’t know. Is there a problem here? Or are you going to leave quietly?”

  The desire to deck both of them told me it was time to leave.

  “No problem,” I said. “Just know that I’m connecting enough dots to make the rest of your life difficult.”

  The security guard said, “Come on, let’s go.”

  As I turned to go inside I said, “There’s proof her baby was Jon-Jon’s.”

  “I don’t know wha
t you’re talking about,” Gardner said. “Get out.”

  A stiff hand rested on my shoulder, nudging me along. I shrugged it off and walked down the stairs and out the front door.

  Jim and Tony started to approach but I shook my head no. They’d already done enough. I didn’t want them mixed up in this any more. The risk was too great.

  My exchange with Gardner had fired my pulse up. I needed to calm down and decided a cruise through downtown with the windows down might do the trick. I took the new bridge across the Cooper River and wound my way around the Market and then Broad Street. The last time I’d tried this I got chased. Just thinking about that made me check my rearview mirror. A late-model white Cadillac with chrome wheels and a big chrome grill stayed a few car lengths behind but seemed to make the same turns I did. On a hunch, my next two turns were as random as rolling dice.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said to no one but myself.

  The saying, “If you play the other man’s game, you’ll always come up short,” came to mind. So, thanks to the hours I spent with Brother Thomas and Mutt, I was able to lead my tail onto my adopted turf. Driving down a side street in the projects, I reviewed my options. I could maybe outrun the Caddy, but only if there were more turns than straight-aways. Another option was to stop and shoot it out. Tempting, but not advisable. After all, I didn’t have a gun.

  We approached a stoplight that had just turned red. A plan formed, one that could be expensive if I was wrong. I slowed to a stop at the light behind a car already waiting.

  My tail also stopped—immediately behind me, no car between us. That seemed odd but to my advantage. Especially since all four doors on the Cadillac opened simultaneously and four men stepped out. They didn’t look friendly, either. Big, serious, and armed. And I’d seen two of them before.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I threw the rental into reverse and floored it. My rear bumper crunched into the grill of the Caddy. Through the back window, I saw all four men get close-lined by their own doors. With my foot still on the gas, I pushed the car and my targets backwards. With no one behind the wheel of the Caddy it swerved and bounced over the curb, dragging the four men with it. It stopped when it ran out of sidewalk and hit a building. I pinned the car in with mine, threw the rental car into park, and jumped out.

  The stoplight changed and the car in front of me took off, its driver no doubt afraid of the crazy white man in the Korean sedan. Probably a good thing. I’d rather not have any witnesses for what would happen next.

  The Cadillac was a mess. Steam spewed out of the crushed radiator. Groans from the men got my attention. The first one I came to, the driver, had managed to get on his hands and knees. So I picked up his pistol from the ground and smashed it across the back of his head. The man who’d been sitting behind him was pinned under his door and unconscious. He’d been the one guarding the front door at Gardner’s. I slid across the hood, Dukes of Hazzard style, and found the front passenger crawling from the car. This one had escorted me out of the house earlier. A quick check revealed the other rear passenger was breathing, but otherwise still. With three down, I focused my attention on the one still moving—a pitiful sight. He dragged his legs lifelessly behind, using his elbows to move. One hand was crushed.

  I said, “Stop.”

  “Screw you,” he said through gasps.

  “Why’d he send you after me?”

  He grunted and didn’t answer.

  In war, we were allowed some leeway when interrogating a known terrorist. And I was pretty good at getting intel. I moved and stood in the path of the man. “We can do this easy or easier.”

  He swung a fist at my legs.

  “I guess you want it easier.” I stomped on his good arm and felt his bone break.

  The man howled and groaned and I used the time to check the other goons. They were still lying where they’d fallen. And still out cold.

  “What were you supposed to do with me?”

  Through gasps, he said, “When I heal, I’m coming after you and your whole family.” He coughed. “Friends, too.”

  A siren howled in the distance. I reached down and pulled the man’s wallet out of his back pocket and flipped through it. He had pictures of a pretty woman and two cute kids. I said, “If you want to come back and settle this man to man, that’s fine.” I knelt, and dropped the photo in front of him. “But if you touch anyone close to me, your kids will lose a father.”

  The siren wail got closer. I kicked the man in the head and he collapsed. Then I dove into the rental car and sped away.

  At an IHOP in North Charleston, the farthest place I could think to go without actually leaving town, I sipped coffee dispensed from a bottomless carafe. The two phone calls I’d made requesting an impromptu meeting had me waiting for the other attendees.

  I didn’t have to wait long. Within an hour, both Darcy and Detective Warrez sat across from me in the booth. I wanted to kiss, well, both of them. Apparently neither felt the same toward me.

  Detective Warrez said, “Charleston P.D. issued an A.P.B. for a white male approximately thirty to forty years old driving a silver sedan with a crashed-in trunk. Know anything about this, Brack?”

  I said, “You guys want something to eat? I was thinking of ordering pancakes.”

  The waitress came to the table and poured coffee for Darcy and the detective. They didn’t order anything else. I asked about the specials and chose a short stack, bacon, and scrambled eggs.

  After the waitress left, I said, “They work for Jonathan Langston Gardner, Senior. He sent them after me after I crashed his party.”

  “Why would he send them after you like that?”

  Sitting back, I raised my arms, clasped my fingers together and rested my hands behind my head. “He’s an idiot, I guess. What are the goons saying?”

  Detective Warrez said, “They’re not talking. Someone else made the partial identification of you and your car. No plate number, though.”

  “Good,” I said, “but I’m going to have to ditch the car now.”

  Darcy asked, “What do you think they wanted?”

  “I’m not sure. Gardner is going to be upset his boys were unsuccessful. He was stupid to send two of them I could identify.”

  “This close to the primary,” Darcy said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I asked him about Willa Mae,” I said. “He threw me out.”

  Warrez asked, “Did you have to beat them up so bad?”

  “It was better than killing them.” I looked at Darcy. “Why don’t you tell her what happens when you let guys like this slide.”

  She turned to the detective. “You get shot.”

  The next morning, Mutt answered my knock at his open door, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, wearing shorts and no shirt. “Opie! Come on in.”

  All the windows were open but there was little ventilation, which made his wardrobe choices, or lack thereof, sensible.

  He asked, “Wanna root beer?”

  “Sure.”

  He rummaged in his fridge, ultimately finding the right can. “This was left from when my daughter came to visit over Christmas.”

  I held the cold can to my head for a few seconds, then opened it and chugged.

  My friend said, “I heard some dudes in a Cadillac had to be hauled off in an ambulance last night. Word is you ran them over.”

  “That about sums it up.” Feeling a little tired, I took a seat on his couch.

  Mutt took a drag off his Kool. “You make me so proud, Opie.”

  Shaft played on his TV. I said, “You studying up for our next adventure?”

  “What you talkin’—” He stopped himself and seemed to get my joke. “You real funny. I suppose when you need to brush up, you pull out James Bond or sumpin’ like that. That ain’t real.” He pointed to the TV with his cigarette. “Not like this.”

  While I would have loved to engage in a discussion on the reality of James Bond clobbering Shaft, I didn’
t have the time. “We need to get rid of my rental. The police are looking for it. Any ideas?”

  “Why not just turn it back in?”

  “It’s got a few new scratches on it and I don’t want to have to explain how I got them.”

  The rental agency didn’t deserve the total loss on the rental car, which they’d have to take because I’d signed up for full coverage, but I had more important things to worry about. Like catching a killer.

  Snapping his fingers, he said, “I know a guy who runs a place. Takes cars on the down low. No questions.”

  “How much?”

  “Nothin’. He strips them for parts. Makes a lot of money doin’ it, too.”

  “We can’t take it to him. The car’s probably got a tracker on it. Call him and tell him he can have it, but explain the problem.”

  “How we gonna get around, then?”

  That was a good question. My vintage Mustang was not coming back out of the garage for a while. “Ask him if he’s got anything fast he wants to sell. Something that’s clean and legit. I don’t need to get pulled for stolen wheels.”

  Mutt made the call and then said, “He’s got a car might work for you. Wants twenty in cash. Said he’ll meet us in North Charleston. I got the address.”

  Standing, I said, “Let’s roll.”

  We smoked Dominican cigars while we waited in the back parking lot of an abandoned strip mall for the man to take the dirty rental car away and hand us our new wheels. Lucky for us the two patrol cars we passed didn’t seem to notice or weren’t interested enough to pull us over. That was good because I didn’t have a good explanation of why I matched the description of the A.P.B. in their system. A flatbed truck pulled into the lot when we were half through with our stogies.

  I looked at the car on the hauler. “I don’t believe it.”

  Mutt said, “No way.”

  The flatbed truck carried a gray Audi S4, similar to a car we’d chased down a killer with and almost died in previously. Mutt’s friend was dark-skinned, wore grease-stained overalls, and smiled with fewer teeth than Mutt.

  “Lemme get this one down so you can look at it,” he said, “and get that one loaded so I can find the tracker.”