Burning Heat

by David Burnsworth

  “This just gets better and better.”

  Before heading back to the nursing home, I picked up Mutt at his house. For some reason, I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted another drink, not that Mutt would discourage me in that regard. If I left decisions to him, we’d bail on the stakeout and close out the evening at the Treasure Chest. Part of me even thought that might be a good idea.

  Rain that an hour earlier was nowhere in sight now pelted the windshield. Such was the weather in the lowcountry summer. Mutt ran from his front door and jumped in the car.

  “Let’s git it,” he said.

  Ten minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of the nursing home.

  “Which car’s his?” Mutt asked.

  As we passed the black Impala, I pointed.

  “Now that’s a nice ride,” he said. “Not as nice as yo’ uncle’s Caddy could be, but not bad. I’d steal it.”

  As if on cue, Ernest Brown exited the main building and walked to his car.

  “Aw, man,” said Mutt.

  “Aw, man, what?”

  Mutt blew out a long sigh.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I know that brother.”

  Frustrated, I asked, “You what? Know him? How?”

  “He come in the bar a few times.”

  Ernest got in his car and pulled out of the parking lot. I gave him a long lead, then followed.

  “He came in your bar?”

  My friend turned to face me. “Look, Opie. I ain’t got hot mammas with no clothes on flashing gold cards at me. I take what I can get. And another brother is always welcome.”

  I didn’t have the heart to remind him his bar was no more. Instead, I asked, “How many times did he come in?”

  Scratching his chin as if in thought, he said, “I’d say two or three. All in the same week.”

  We were catching up to Ernest so I backed off and slid behind a big Toyota SUV. “You remember when that week was?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Right before that cracker blew the place up.”

  Ernest ran a yellow light and we got stuck three cars back.

  Cars crossed the intersection in front of us.

  Mutt said, “You think he mighta had something to do with it?”

  “Yes.”

  The light turned green. I revved the engine and dropped the clutch, using the empty turning lane to our left to get us around several slow moving cars. Two red-line shifts later and the traffic was way behind us. The problem was that Ernest and his shiny Impala were nowhere to be seen.

  “You lost him?”

  Darcy had an uncanny way of pointing out the obvious. With the iPhone to my ear, I nodded at Mutt as if the conversation with my favorite news girl was going great.

  “I think he might have spotted us.”

  We were parked in the lot of a Piggly Wiggly grocery store. Yes, I was Big on the Pig.

  Mutt lowered his window and lit a Kool.

  Thrumming the steering wheel, I said, “So, what else do you know about his routine?”

  “I thought we agreed you were going to do the tailing and phone me with updates, not the other way around.”

  “Yeah, well. It didn’t work out that way.”

  “No kidding.” She sighed. “Okay, let me see what else I can do for you.”

  She hung up.

  I put my phone in my shirt pocket, took out a Dominican cigar, and pressed in the cigarette lighter. As if an omen, this car actually had one. Must have been ordered with the lung cancer package.

  Mutt asked, “What she say?”

  “She’ll get back to me.”

  “You know what I’d do?”

  This was going to be good. “Let me guess. Cruise the strip clubs?”

  “I was gonna say drive back to his boss man’s house and see if he showed up there, but you got a good point.”

  Pictures of Willa Mae and Camilla took over my mind like internet pop-ups. If Ernest had a taste for women in the business, then maybe that’s where we should be looking.

  I said, “Okay, Casanova. You win.”

  A big smile lit Mutt’s face. “How!”

  Raising a hand, I said, “Easy there. What we’re going to do is cruise the parking lots.”

  As quickly as the smile appeared on his face, it vanished. “You sure a lot of fun, Opie.”

  “When this is over, you can hit all the clubs you want. Right now, we need to find a killer and this Ernest guy is our target. Are we Ebony and Ivory or what?”

  “You had to go and bring that up, huh? All they did was take advantage of a blind brother when they made that one.”

  I said, “How.”

  The parking lot of the Treasure Chest was packed. We did a slow roll up one side and down the other. And in the last spot sat our target’s Impala. I stopped the Audi behind it.

  “Opie, when you right, you right.”

  Through the windshield, I watched the doorman. He looked our way, then went back to his smartphone. But if we stayed here much longer, he might get interested. I said, “We can’t go in there.”

  Mutt rested an arm on the window ledge. “Why not?”

  “He might see us.” I unlocked my phone and made a call. When the other end picked up, I said, “Detective Crawford? This is Brack Pelton.”

  “Hey, um, Brack.”

  “I’ve got a source that identified Willa Mae’s killer. If it’s him, he’s the same one who murdered that girl in the alley.”

  Crawford said, “Well, I appreciate your calling me. Why are you calling me? I thought you were close with Detective Warrez.”

  “Long story.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I gave him Ernest Brown’s name and tag number.

  “So what kind of proof do you have this perp’s the one?”

  “A reliable source.”

  “That’s it? I’m going to need more than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “A little something called evidence. Anything. A knife with prints. Her underwear in his car. Video of him committing a crime.”

  “Gee, that’s all?” I said, “How come every time I talk to you guys, I end up having to do your job for you?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “How about this? Since you let Jon-Jon go, do you have any suspects?”

  Crawford didn’t respond right away. When he did, he said, “The investigation is open and ongoing. The Charleston Police Department is—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Look, I’m hanging up now. I thought you might like to be cut in on solving this case. I guess I was wrong.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Pelton.”

  I’d heard that one before. It didn’t stop me then, either.

  After I ended the call, I put the phone in my pocket.

  Mutt said, “Why’d you have to go and tell the po-lice what we up to?”

  “I wanted a record in case they find our bones burned up in some trash barrel.”

  He shook himself like a dog. “That waren’t even funny, Opie.”

  We pulled across the street and waited for Ernest Brown to get in his car and drive away. At least, that was my plan. Mutt wanted to head inside and check out the show. To get him to comply, I had to promise to front him an all-expense-paid night of debauchery when this was over.

  Lucky for us, across the street stood a vacant building with no lights over its parking lot. We both lit up smokes, mine another nice Dominican, his a domestic in the cigarette family. Papa Was a Rolling Stone played on the old-school station, Mutt’s favorite.

  He snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah!”

  I blew smoke rings out the window. We’d been in the car only a short time, but it looked as if we lived in it. Drink cups, candy wrappers, and an almost-empty box of doughnuts littered the interior. The front windshield also needed a good cleaning.

  Ernest Brown walked out of the Treasure Chest with a girl on each arm, one black and the other Asian.

  “Ho boy!” Mutt said.

&
nbsp; “That must be costing him a fortune.”

  “All you white people think about is money.”

  “What do you think about?” As soon as I asked, I knew the answer would be bad.

  “My man Ernest over there is walkin’ it to his car. How!”

  We watched our target open the rear door to his whip. The girls slid in the back, and he followed.

  I said, “I don’t believe this.”

  “Believe it,” Mutt said. “My boy got a two-for-one sale and ain’t gonna wait.”

  Before I made up my mind what to do, Ernest got out of the backseat and into the driver’s seat. The brake lights lit up and we heard the rumble of the barely muffled V-8. He reversed from the parking spot and pulled out of the lot onto the main drag. I gave him a hundred yards and followed.

  “Don’t lose him this time, Opie.”

  “Thanks, Darcy,” I said.

  Mutt shifted in his seat. “My girl give you a hard time, didn’t she?”

  As if on queue, the Bluetooth announced her call.

  Mutt pressed the phone button and said, “How you doin’, you sweet thang you!”

  Darcy’s voice came out of the car speakers. “Mutt! I didn’t know you were with him. He needs all the help he can get.”

  “You know that’s right!” he said.

  “Did you find Ernest?” I asked.

  “His credit card just recorded a thousand-dollar transaction at the Treasure Chest.”

  “A thousand dollars?” Mutt punched my arm. “That brother paid a thousand dollars for them strippers, Opie. A thousand dollars!”

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  Ahead, Ernest turned on to the main four-lane.

  “Following Ernest,” I said.

  “So you found him. You’ve almost redeemed yourself.”

  “I guess that’s better than nothing.”

  She said, “Call me when you get something, Opie.”

  The next sound was the chime of a disconnected line.

  The black Impala, now only twenty yards ahead, pulled into the parking lot of a motel.

  Actually calling the place a motel was being generous. The place not only rented by the hour, but charged extra for the rooms with the least amount of bedbugs.

  Mutt said, “My man ain’t got no class, bringin’ them fine ladies to a place like this.”

  That coming from the man whose bar, before it burned, was held together by more termites than wood particles.

  I passed the motel and turned into the lot of a run-down restaurant next door.

  “What we doin’ here?” Mutt asked.

  “I got an idea.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The inside of the restaurant mimicked the outside in that it, too, was grungy and unkempt. We took a booth with ripped seats and a chipped table by the window with a clear view of the exit from the hotel’s parking lot. Not wanting to risk the food, I ordered coffee from an overweight woman stretching her tight jeans and boasting a low-cut top. Mutt ordered the same. I wanted to give Ernest enough time to get comfortable with the ladies.

  Mutt said, “So what’s this crazy idea you got?”

  Before I could respond, the waitress brought our coffee.

  Mutt watched her depart. “Whoa.”

  “I think she may be a little too much for you, Shaft.”

  With his eyes still on the waitress, he said, “Ain’t no woman too much for Shaft.”

  “What do you say you and me go and make sure Ernest doesn’t get his money’s worth?”

  His eyes met mine. “You know, I been thinkin’ maybe those girls he wit’ could use a break.”

  I gulped my coffee and stood.

  Mutt did the same. I left a five dollar bill on the table and we walked out.

  Outside the restaurant, I handed Mutt the keys. “Pull the car around and wait.”

  “Opie, this ain’t no time to be the Lone Ranger. It took me all night to find you the last time.”

  “I’m not going to go and kick down the door.” I had something better planned.

  Mutt gave me a weary look but accepted the keys.

  I walked down the sidewalk to the motel but didn’t enter its lobby since I didn’t want lodging. I continued along the side of the two-story building to where the cars were parked. Doors to all the rooms opened to the outside, including those on the second floor, accessible from a walkway with a flight of stairs at each end. A quick reconnaissance of the parking lot and I found Ernest’s car parked in front of room one-fifteen. Of course, I couldn’t be sure precisely which room he was in, or on which level. But for what I had planned, it didn’t matter. I took the stairs nearest to his car. Close to the ice machine on the second floor, I found what I was looking for—and it offered a great vantage point from which to watch the fun.

  After a quick prayer that the fire alarm would actually work, I reached out and yanked the handle. Two long seconds passed before it kicked on, and a loud wail erupted from the aged system.

  Happily, I waited for the small crowd of people to emerge from their rooms and move down the stairs to the safety of the parking lot. From where I stood, I could see most of the room doors. A quick tally of the occupants revealed a disproportionate number of older men and younger women, all haphazardly dressed, and all looking thoroughly irritated.

  Ernest stumbled out of room two-thirteen, his shirt off but otherwise clothed. The two young ladies with him walked out unabashedly in lace brassieres, leather-looking panties, and heels.

  When the threesome and the other en déshabillé occupants had gone down the stairs, I entered Ernest’s room, thanks to old-school door locks. Over the winter, Darcy had taught me how to pick them. I found Ernest’s wallet on a TV stand, along with his cell phone. The phone had a security lock but his wallet offered up a driver’s license and some business cards. I memorized the address on his license and slipped one of his business cards in my pocket. Also in the wallet I found a business card for none other than Gordon Sykes, Esquire. Willa Mae’s lawyer. The one selling information. Written on the card was tomorrow’s date and ten A.M.

  I eased out of the room. After I did a quick wipe of the alarm switch to remove my prints, I scrambled down the farthest flight of stairs and ran around the end of the building to the street.

  Mutt passed the motel and stopped at the next intersection. Out of the line of sight of the crowd gathered at the motel, I sauntered to the car, opened the passenger-side door, and slid in. Mutt eased away from the curb.

  “Where to now, boss?” he asked.

  Chuckling, I said, “You think he’s got to return the girls to the Chest?”

  “I ain’t thought of that. I bet you’re right.”

  Ernest returned his thousand-dollar lady friends to the Treasure Chest an hour later. My guess was he tried to salvage the remainder of the time he’d paid for, but it was fun messing with him. Mutt and I followed him to the address on his driver’s license.

  After dropping Mutt at his house, I made my way home. Without Shelby, my inherited shack was not a pleasant place to be. Since I hadn’t changed the furniture from the time I moved in—because mine had burned up along with my Sullivan’s Island house—this place reminded me of my uncle. As I unloaded my pockets, I noticed I had a text message on my phone. It was from Paige telling me the volleyball tournament had been a hit. Nothing about any job offers.

  The letter I’d received from Megan was on the table. It reminded me of Camilla’s tip about Friday night at the Courtyard Suites. A good thing I’d seen it because that was tomorrow. I called Paige.

  She answered the phone, shouting, “You should have been there!”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t.”

  In a calmer voice, she asked, “Is everything all right?”

  Not wanting to get into a discussion of her potential resignation, I said, “Listen, I need a favor from you and the staff.”

  The next morning, I picked up Mutt and his thirty-eights at nine-thirty and drove to the
same parking lot from which Brother Thomas, Darcy, and I had staked out Gordon Sykes, Esquire.

  With all four windows down, what breeze there was did not relieve the inferno. The engine ticked as it cooled. Mutt fired up a Kool. I sparked a Dominican.

  At a quarter to ten Sykes walked to his Grand Prix, got in, and drove away.

  “Let’s see where Mr. Sykes goes for his ten o’clock appointment,” I said.

  He turned down several side streets and got on the interstate heading into downtown. When I-26 ended, he got off on King Street and headed to the tourist shopping district. At a side street just past the shop where Elizabeth worked, Sykes turned and parked by an open meter. I found a spot a half block away and pulled in. Scanning the area, I caught the back of the crooked lawyer’s bald head as he entered the building where Jon-Jon lived.

  Mutt blew a stream of smoke outside the car.

  From habit, I stuck the cigar in my mouth and pulled one of the thirty-eights.

  “You expectin’ trouble?”

  Around the ten-dollar stogie, I spoke. “We step out of this car, you better be locked and loaded. This guy is dirt and two girls he knew are dead. If something goes down here I’m shooting first and asking questions later.”

  “I knew there was a reason I hung out wit’ you, Opie.”

  Twenty minutes, one cigar, and two Kools later, Sykes exited the building. A stupid grin crossed his lizard face.

  I snapped a few pictures with my iPhone. “Jon-Jon must have given him something extra.”

  Mutt chuckled.

  “At least we now know Willa Mae’s attorney is in bed with the enemy.”

  Sykes got in his car and pulled away from the curb, heading down the street.

  We banged over the ancient brick street decorated with rough-patched sinkholes. Sykes’s piece of junk on four wheels lumbered along at the speed limit a block ahead. It took a lot of finesse to keep cars between us because no one except for him seemed to want to drive that slow.

  After a few miles, I said, “A pack of Kools says I know where he’s going.” It was not a bet I really wanted to win because winning meant we were wasting our time.

  “If he got a pocket full of cash, he goin’ to the Chest.”

  I didn’t reply. Instead, I made sure we were right. The strip club seemed a central feature in this whole tale. Sykes pulled in and parked. We idled at the curb, giving him a few minutes to go inside. It was eleven A.M.