“I’m right here, Mutt,” Willie’s voice came from behind us.
Covered in black soot, Mutt and I sat on the diamond-patterned step-bumper of the fire engine. The firefighters had succeeded in saving the surrounding homes, but Mutt’s Bar and its neighboring house were toast. Willie had been smart enough to jump out the back door. When the police questioned me, I described the arsonist and the SUV in as much detail as I could, even dropping Jon-Jon’s full name.
While I couldn’t positively identify him, Jon-Jon more than fit the profile. But I knew how slow the police could be at times. Especially if some on the force viewed anyone’s torching of a dump like Mutt’s a community service.
Hearing about the fire at Mutt’s, Darcy had called. While getting the details, she informed me that Jon-Jon had spent less than an hour in lockup. His father had pulled a lot of strings and gotten him out. So, he had opportunity and motive to do this.
Well, the punk would not get away with it. He would pay. No one decides to lob a fireball into my friend’s place. If the police were going to let him off the hook, I wasn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I left Mutt with Willie and the firemen and sped home to shower off the smell and soot. With a change into clean clothes in what a district attorney could describe as a premeditative action, I raced back across the bridge into downtown. I parked the Audi in one of the multi-level garages, but the short trek from the garage to where I was headed did not calm me down, nor talk me out of what I was about to do. At the entrance to the Cradle, the anger coursing through my veins barely let me notice the doorman, a massive kid with juice-induced arms. I gave him a twenty, the going cover charge these days, and strolled past.
Strobe lights bounced off dimly lit brick walls and dry ice haze. Jon-Jon, the jerk-off, was here, I could feel it. I made my way through the mob of twenty-somethings, scanning the room in all directions. But too many bodies were here to sort through.
When all else fails, ask a bartender. I knew a lot of them in Charleston. They’d come to my bar on their days off for the beach and live music. The one working tonight, a white guy named Jim, had been to the Cove a few times. I stood at the bar behind two short girls waiting for their drinks.
Jim spotted me when he brought the girls their order. “What are you doin’ in this place?”
“I came to see how the other half lives.”
“I can answer that,” he said. “Lousy.”
I asked, “You know a guy named Jonathan Langston Gardner, Junior?”
Jim rested a hand on the bar. “Jon-Jon? What d’you want with him?”
“I need to give him something.”
“I’d like to give him something, too,” Jim said, wringing out a bar towel. “He likes to stiff his friendly neighborhood bartenders on their tips. Last time I saw him, he was with some bottle-job blonde with a tramp stamp. Check out the dance floor.”
“Thanks.” I turned to walk away but came back. “You may get your wish.”
He smiled and nodded.
The moving lights leapt over the gyrating throng. At the edge of the dance floor, I stopped and checked every face on the dance floor. Two guys next to me were ogling a pair of girls dancing together a little too close and friendly. The song ended and the slow-dancing girls left, apparently not liking the new selection the DJ chose. I couldn’t blame them—I didn’t like it either. As soon as they moved away, I spotted Jon-Jon grinding with the bottle-job and wondered what had happened to Eve White, the aspiring actress/model I’d seen him with.
My dad always said you could tell a lot about a man by his shoes. Jon-Jon had on pointed Italian jobs that stuck out a few extra inches. On his lanky figure, they looked like they belonged on a clown. In other words, a perfect fit.
Jon-Jon grabbed the girl’s breasts with both hands.
She slapped him and stormed off.
He laughed, standing alone in the midst of others still dancing.
I pushed through the crowd, came up beside Jon-Jon, and shouted in his ear, “I’ll give you something to laugh about, sport!”
He spun around and his fist came at me. I took the hit directly on the jaw. But Jon-Jon’s punch was more show than go and merely reenergized my anger. I hit him hard in the stomach. His eyes bugged out and he doubled over.
The people dancing stepped away, giving us the floor.
“That’s for Mutt’s Bar,” I said. Then I slammed my fist into his face. Jon-Jon fell backwards into some barstools lined up against a side bar, knocking them over.
“And that one’s for me.”
Something in my right periphery distracted me. I looked just in time to see a guy running for me. Stepping aside, I shoved him on top of Jon-Jon. Next, I picked up one of the barstools, planning to get serious about giving Jon-Jon the beating of his life but I got hit by a freight train. Quicker than a blink I was on the ground. The barstool I’d raised crashed against the wall. My arms were pulled tight behind my back. The figure on top of me had to be the front door beefcake because even gung-ho cops didn’t tug this hard. My face stuck to the beer residue on the tiled floor. I managed to lift my head in time to see Jon-Jon standing above me. He looked down, smiled, and kicked me in the face with one of his clown shoes.
I sat in a lounge chair facing a cop.
The officer, a white guy with a short goatee, shined a light in my eyes. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
I said, “I could tell if you’d get that light out of my face.”
He angled the light away. “How many?”
Focusing on his fingers, I said, “Three.”
“What’s your name?”
“Brack Pelton.”
“What day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
The cop leaned toward me. “How you feeling, Brack?”
The room was fuzzy but getting clearer. I smiled. “Tops.”
He said, “Great, ’cause I’ve got to read you your rights.”
“He hit me first.”
“We’re still interviewing witnesses. Not sure how it’s gonna play out yet. So, I figure better safe than sorry.”
I said, “Yeah, well where’s the jerk-off with the clown shoes? He getting the first-class treatment, too?”
The cop didn’t say anything.
I frowned. “His daddy came and got him, didn’t he? That’s okay. Do what you gotta do. I want my lawyer.”
To his credit, the officer escorted me out without the embarrassment of handcuffs. Still a little hazy, I offered no resistance. On my way to the door I spotted Jim, the bartender. He gave me a thumbs-up, then moved his fingers across his mouth, imitating a zipper. Even though the left side of my face ached, I smiled.
At the cop-shop, they put me in an interrogation room and left me alone. I sat in one of the chairs, put my head on the table and fell asleep. Sometime later, the click of the door woke me up. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out.
“As many times as you have been in here,” a female voice said, “you should know that falling asleep only makes you look guilty.”
I lifted my head up off the table and rubbed my right eye. My left one had closed up. When the room came into focus, I saw Detective Warrez watching me from the doorway. She wore a light-gray shirt and dark pleated slacks.
Standing across from me, she said, “You feel like talking?”
“Yeah,” I said, “to my lawyer. Just as soon as you people let me call him.”
She looked at my face, then left the room and returned with an icepack and a first-aid kit.
Snapping on latex gloves, she pulled a chair close to me, sat, and wiped the sticky dance floor residue off my cheek with sterile towelettes, a serious break in protocol.
Watching her with my good eye, I decided that I liked her being this close. I liked it a lot.
Her focus was on the side of my face. “The officer on the scene already said you lawyered up. I called Chauncey for you. He’ll be here for the arraignment.”
She st
opped wiping, examined her work, and handed me the icepack wrapped in a towel. “Hold this above your eye. It should stop the swelling.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And thanks for calling Chauncey. How did you know he was my lawyer?”
“Like I said, this isn’t your first time in here.”
Of course.
Thursday morning, after my arraignment, Chauncey escorted me out of the courthouse and into his twelve-cylinder German sedan. He handed me a piece of paper.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“I have a conflict of interest here,” he said, his Charlestonian drawl emphasizing every syllable. “That’s the name of a lawyer I’m referring you to.”
I looked at him. His navy silk custom-tailored suit. His starched white shirt. And his burgundy bowtie. “You represent the Gardners?”
He nodded.
I did my best to glare at him with one eye. “And you’re picking them over me.” I reached for the door handle. “Don’t worry, I’ll find my own ride.”
He grabbed my arm. “Brack, I’m removing myself from both sides. Ethically, it’s the only thing I can do. But I don’t think much will come from this. The officers I talked to back there said they couldn’t get a straight answer from anyone.”
When Chauncey pulled up to the entrance of the parking garage where my Audi sat, he said, “I recommend you not say another word to me or anyone else about this except the lawyer written on the paper I gave you. In fact, before you do anything else, call and set up an appointment. He’s expensive but worth it.”
I nodded, said, “Thanks,” and went to get my car.
When I arrived at my house on the Isle of Palms, I found Darcy’s car in my drive.
She asked, “Did Jon-Jon do that to your face?”
“Not without help.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she said.
“The worst part,” I said, “is Chauncey also represents the Gardners, so he recommended another lawyer.”
Darcy said, “Who is it?”
I read the card. “Lester Brogan.”
She whistled.
Thanks to the Palmetto Pulse, I knew of Brogan. Though my father may have looked at what kind of shoes someone wore, I tended to judge people by what they drove. The new Aston Martin I’d seen Lester piloting around the islands told me he was a winner.
“How’s Mutt?” she asked.
“I need to call him,” I said. “His friend Willie barely made it out of the place alive.”
“Jon-Jon really did it, huh?” she asked.
“I’m pretty sure. He’d threatened to do it before, but I didn’t take it seriously.”
“What a piece of work.”
After Darcy left, I called Mutt. Brother Thomas was with him and he seemed to be doing all right. Next, I called Lester Brogan’s office. A breathy receptionist took my information. She seemed professionally eager to please because she said the attorney had an opening at two o’clock that afternoon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I showered the scent of jail off and changed into khakis, a starched white shirt, and leather loafers, clothes more appropriate for meeting with the most expensive lawyer in town. Even if I wore no socks.
Lester Brogan’s firm occupied the top floor of one of the few tall buildings in Charleston. When the elevator doors opened with a chime, I was greeted with a tasteful combination of stainless steel and glass, and light gray walls with matching wall-to-wall plush.
The receptionist, a gray-haired woman wearing a white blouse asked, “May I help you?”
Lucky for me, the swelling in my face had gone down a lot and I could see out both eyes again. “My name is Brack Pelton. I have a two P.M. with Mr. Brogan.”
“Welcome, Mr. Pelton.” She motioned to a group of leather chairs. “Please have a seat and Mr. Brogan will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you.” I did as she asked.
Before I had the opportunity to attempt chit-chat with her, Lester walked into the reception area. Five-five, shaved head, and five-figure suit, he greeted me with a big grin and firm handshake. “Mr. Pelton, good to meet you.”
Lester led me back to his office, which copied his lobby’s Bauhaus decor. The view of the city was breathtaking. I saw the clock tower of St. Michael’s that has given the city the time of day since 1764. Once we were seated, he asked me to replay the previous night’s events.
When I finished, he rested his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers together. “Well, at least you didn’t kill him.”
“No, but I wanted to.”
He nodded. “I suggest we not mention that.”
“Agreed.”
“Anything else you want to tell me?”
I relayed the problems we were having with the Pirate’s Cove, starting with the break-in. “The little snot wants my bar.” I sat up straight and looked Lester in the eye. “You need to stop him from using this arrest to take it from me.”
Later that afternoon, Detective Warrez called to see if I wanted to meet for a drink and suggested a cigar bar downtown. Because of her earlier threats of arresting me, I wondered what she was thinking and arrived early, getting a sofa in one of the semi-private lounge rooms. A large coffee table sat in front of the couch and Picasso prints hung on the walls. For this evening I’d chosen an especially robust Punch cigar and was in the process of unwrapping it when my friendly neighborhood detective showed up. Her perfume, a subtle scent of flowers, cut through the smoke and announced her presence.
I looked up from my cigar. “You look very nice.”
And she did. Her chin-length black hair was parted just off the middle and swept back behind her ears, which only accentuated her large, inquisitive eyes. A simple, unadorned silver necklace showed perfect taste.
“Don’t laugh.” She sat down next to me, straightening the hem of her black sleeveless dress, and put her pocketbook on the coffee table. “I don’t get out much and felt like dressing up a bit. I hope you don’t mind.”
I was glad I’d gone with my first instinct on attire. The dark blue, silk shirt and light-colored, linen slacks felt cool in the heat. My second choice had been ripped shorts and an old T-shirt, which would have gotten me no points this evening, and I needed all the extra credit I could get.
“I like a woman who takes pride in her appearance,” I said.
She smiled and crossed her legs. “Thanks, I think.”
I waved a waiter over.
Detective Warrez told him, “One-fifty-one, neat.”
I added a seltzer and lime for me and the waiter left.
Detective Warrez asked, “You don’t drink?”
“I try not to,” I said. “It’s usually bad news for me.” I put the cigar in my mouth and lit it, taking in a mouthful of smoke and blowing it toward the ceiling. “By the way, am I supposed to keep calling you Detective Warrez? I don’t mind, but you might get tired of it in a less formal setting.”
Her cheeks reddened and her mouth opened, letting me glimpse what she must have looked like as a young girl. “I guess I never did tell you my first name.”
“No. You never did.”
“Rosalita. My family calls me Rosa but I don’t like that.”
“I like Rosalita. It suits you.”
The waiter came back with our drinks.
She held her jigger up to me. “To making things right.”
I tapped her glass with mine. “Amen.”
Rosalita sipped her rum and looked around the room we had all to ourselves. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in here on a social occasion.”
I took a pull of my stogie and exhaled slowly. “What made you pick it?”
“I know you smoke cigars.”
“Yeah, but I’m trying to quit,” I said, and hoped I’d mean it someday. “Anyway, you said you had something new on the case.”
She took another small sip of her drink. A drop of rum ran down her chin and she wiped it with a cocktail napkin. “Foreplay is over, huh?”
“I
could sit and watch you in that dress all night,” I said. “But I have more respect for you than that.”
She held my gaze for a second, then broke away. I might have even seen her mouth turn into a half smile as she looked around the room again. “Pretty good, Pelton. That was pretty good.”
I relaxed on the couch, slouching down an inch or two. “Please call me Brack.”
“Okay, Brack,” she said. “Here’s the deal. I know you don’t want to stop looking into the Willa Mae case. I also know you have Patricia Voyels and the Channel Nine News girl in your pocket.”
“And?” I felt her trying to read my face but I know I wasn’t giving anything away. Her chest rose and fell as she took in a deep breath. It looked to me like she had come to a decision.
She said, “Some people are very nervous about Willa Mae’s murder case. They want it closed fast. They would have preferred it remain quiet but you and the media took care of that.”
“That first amendment really gets in the way sometimes,” I said.
She took another sip.
“Do you know why they’re nervous?” I asked, locking my eyes on hers.
“I’ve got a few ideas.”
“Well, you’re probably on the right track then.”
“Thanks for the confidence.” The small pocketbook she’d brought vibrated towards the edge of the coffee table. She picked it up, unzipped the top and took out her smart phone, looking at the caller I.D. “I’ve got to answer this.”
I nodded and watched as she stepped away to talk. She went toward the rest rooms, one hand holding the phone and the other covering her ear to block out the noise from the bar. While she was gone, I smoked my cigar and thought about what she’d just said.
Rosalita returned but didn’t sit down.
“Problem?”
She picked up her purse and dropped her phone inside. “I have to go. Something’s come up.”
“Work related?”
“We’re not close enough for me to be answering questions like that,” she said.
“Well, I appreciate your getting all dressed up to come out this evening, Rosalita. Next time, I’d like to buy you dinner so we can get to know one another a little better, feel more comfortable answering those types of questions. Maybe show you I’m not that bad of a guy after all.”
Burning Heat Page 18
