Heat

by R. W. Clinger

  “Who are you?” the beauty queen asked after opening the door.

  “Axle Dupree. I’m here to see Gregg.” I sounded confident, unyielding, and undeterred by her charmless beauty.

  “He’s out of town. Gregg travels a lot because of his art,” she said, blinking a number of times and flashing her long and brush-thick eyelashes at me.

  “Do you know when he’ll be returning?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure. Gregg comes and goes as he likes. I don’t keep him on a leash.”

  I presumed her the girlfriend or lover by her last comment. I handed over my business card and said, “Can you see that he gets this? And if you could, tell him to call me when he has a free minute?”

  She looked at my card with interest, flipping it over in her fingers. “Is this about his missing son?”

  “Yes. Bobby Pagino.”

  She blinked a dozen times, attempted to smile, failed at that luxury, and said, “I don’t believe Bobby is missing. He was just here two nights ago. We had cocktails together. The young man enjoys his vodka.”

  Being forward, I just about asked myself in so we could discuss the matter of Bobby’s whereabouts in full.

  A masculine voice called out behind the woman, “Who is it, Candy?”

  The sound of bare footsteps over galvanized wood echoed in a connecting room, and then a man appeared over Candy’s shoulder; her lover on the side since he wore nothing more than a tight pair of white boxer-briefs and appeared to be semi-hard. The guy looked three times the size of Candy with a massive chest. He had VW-sized biceps, the biggest nipples I had ever seen on a man, and thighs of steel. He looked a little like Casey in the face, but lacked my boyfriend’s allure and charm.

  Candy looked over her left shoulder and said, “It’s a private investigator. He’s looking for Bobby.”

  “Bobby isn’t missing,” the man behind Candy replied.

  She said, “I know that, Mitch. Go back to the bedroom and wait for me. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Mitch listened like a good little whore and meandered away.

  She eyed me up and down, scrutinized me with a relentless ambition, maybe liked what she saw, and asked, “I guess Bobby’s hag of a mother thinks he’s missing, doesn’t she?”

  I could have lied to Candy, but decided not to. Something told me she knew of Bobby’s location and could help me. As the old cliché went, never bite the hand that feeds you.

  “She does. Margo has hired me to find Bobby.”

  She laughed, titling her head back. “Margo and her tricks. I admit, the woman isn’t dull. She truly does entertain me.”

  “May I ask where Bobby is, Candy?”

  “You may not.” She scanned my frame a second time, taking in my muscles, narrow waist, and sexy attributes. Then she winked at me, smiled, and leaned into the door in a seductive commotion. Her breasts brushed against the wood. “But what you can do is join me and Mitch for a round of naked play. What do you say, Mister Private Dick?”

  Feeling flattered that she thought me attractive and wanted to share me with her boyfriend, Mitch, behind Gregg’s back, I liked Casey a little too much. “I’m off the market.”

  “Such a pity. I’m sure you could rock our worlds.”

  I realized Candy had every intention of giving me Mitch instead of the information that pertained to Bobby’s whereabouts, and our meeting had reached a dead end. “If you want to help me, Candy, call me.” I pointed to my business card in her right hand, winked, apologized for interrupting her sex game with Mitch’s morning wood, and left the premises.

  Chapter 14: Ronny Shower

  Hurricane Bay Marina

  291 Hurricane Bay Road

  12:16 P.M.

  I wasn’t surprised to learn that Ronny Shower mirrored the image of his twin brother, Rudy. Both men were blonds, had a pale hue to their skin, and had middleweight frames that were eye-appealing. Details that I had collected about the Shower brothers told me that Ronny was older than Rudy by three minutes, not that it seemed important. Other details of the pair detailed that Rudy worked hard for his money as a bartender, attended Hurricane Bay College when he wasn’t working, came across as being responsible in life, and maintained being the complete opposite of Ronny.

  To be frank, Ronny hustled for a living on a forty-five-foot schooner called Maiden’s Mist, and he had fucked a lot of dudes to obtain the boat. The Gulf, booze, men, drugs, and sex were his passions. And his father, Milton William Shower, was a cigarette-producing tycoon. Milton didn’t support Ronny and his bad habits.

  Maiden’s Mist docked at the Hurricane Bay Marina, tucked between two windowless buildings and docks. The schooner was Bermuda-rigged, wood-hulled, and seven hundred and eighty-five square feet. Being fifty-nine feet long and having a single engine that was a Volvo Penta, which was diesel, the boat proved to be eye-opening. The engine had five hundred and forty-two hours on it, and equipped with a three-blade propeller. A cast bronze dock with hand-carved name boards and Hella deck lighting enriched the details of the boat. The accommodations had a traditional Pinky interior, two single berths with cushions and covers, and a folding ladder. The galley was located in the starboard aft second of the forward cabin. The forward and aft cabins were joined by a narrow passageway. All in all, the schooner looked comfortable enough, fun, and probably hosted many parties, even in the early afternoon hours.

  I boarded the craft without any hassle. The only prerequisite, which Ronny himself contrived, included the removal of my T-shirt, which I didn’t have a problem with since a warm summer day with a touch of humidity livened up the day.

  What I came upon included a liquid lunch on the schooner and three naked, muscular, and middle-aged men who could have easily passed as Wall Street brokers who kept very spicy secrets behind their wives’ backs. Two of the three men were sharing the same lounge, had erections, and were heatedly kissing in the sun. The third man jacked off to the scene, enjoying his solo time and voyeurism.

  Ronny wasn’t unpleasant to look at by any means. Positioned at the front of Maiden’s Mist with a bottle of imported beer in his right hand, he grinned at me from ear to ear, probably high. The man’s uncut cock deflated between his legs and hung down eight inches, massive in size. The extra skin on the dick looked appealing, but I craved Casey a little too much to gratify myself with a lick or two.

  Ronny pumped my hand, offered me a beer, and said, “You’re here about my brother’s murder and the fire at the Flaming Flamingo, aren’t you?”

  Obviously, but I didn’t admit it. Some people liked to talk, and Ronny just seemed to be one of those people. If he wanted to share a spiel with me about the crimes, then so be it. “What do you know about the Flaming Flamingo fire and the death of Rudy Shower?”

  “I know that it wasn’t an accident like people are saying. Whoever set that fire wanted my brother gone.”

  “Gone?” I questioned, interested in what he had to share with me, although I became a bit distracted because of Ronny’s three guests and their heated sex antics to my left. “Why would someone want Rudy Shower gone?”

  “Because he knew things he shouldn’t have,” Ronny said, scratching the center of his sculpted chest with his left hand. “My family is Irish. Rudy…” He abruptly stopped, contemplating his next set of words before speaking them out loud. “Rudy wasn’t an angel like people thought he was. Yes, he had golden looks and came across as being sweet, but that wasn’t the Rudy I knew.”

  I realized that Ronny didn’t seem at all upset that his brother had died. Any other brother in a normal relationship with his sibling would have been weeping, fragile, and devastated. Ronny wasn’t like that at all, firm as a rock, unaffected by his twin’s passing.

  “What Rudy did you know?” I asked.

  “A menacing one. My brother was a tyrant and had a horrible temper. You didn’t want to be on his bad side, or he would make your life a living hell. Irishmen are sometimes like this. Their tempers become the best
of them.”

  “Who was on his bad side?” I thought it a great question during my short visit. No wonder I gloated about being a private dick.

  Grunts, groans, and slurps occurred to my left. I shifted my view in that direction and saw the three men at work with each other. Two were seated on a lounge, and the third stayed on his knees, providing blowjobs. All three bodies glistened under the sun and looked as if they were making an amateur triple-X movie together.

  Ronny seemed to ignore the trio of men as if they weren’t beside us. “Edgar Sign.”

  I knew the name, but didn’t let on that I did. “Who?” The lie slipped out of my mouth with ease.

  “Edgar Sign runs the Underground Spectacular.”

  “The what?” I asked, confused. Never had I heard of that and wondered what he had meant.

  “Rudy used to work for Sign. The two had a falling out.”

  Questions were beginning to heap inside the folds of my mind, but none would be asked on Maiden’s Mist because Ronny became bored with me.

  He sighed. “Look, I’m really horny and want to get off, Mr. Dupree. There will be no more questioning. You have two choices. You can stay and fuck around with the four of us, or you can leave. What will it be?”

  I thought of Casey and our boyfriendhood, realized that maybe I liked him a little more than what I realized, and told Ronny, “See you around.”

  “Not unless I see you first. You can walk yourself off my boat.” He disposed of his empty beer bottle and walked over to the threesome. He dropped to his knees and assisted with the blowjobs.

  I did as he requested and got out of there.

  Chapter 15: Underground Spectacle (One)

  St. Paul Street

  HBIA

  1:27 P.M.

  I did a Google search on Edgar Sign and nothing surfaced on my laptop’s screen. Then I did a search on Underground Spectacle and learned the same results, which baffled me. Not one website offered any information about the two topics. Did I really believe that the guy’s name was Sign, and his group was called Underground Spectacle? Those findings, or there lack of, confused me. How could something not exist on the Internet? How could I be that naïve to believe that Google had become the index of life and supported a website for everything?

  Not even fifteen minutes into my search, Peter Rotunda entered my office in a skimpy pair of white shorts and an aquamarine tank. He placed two pictures on my desk before sitting down.

  “Did you question these two people as of yet?”

  I looked at the pictures and declared them strangers. Then I shook my head. “I haven’t. Who are they?”

  “Two of my employees at the Flaming Flamingo.” He tapped the female’s picture and said, “This is Sunshine Dane. The man is Calvin Bow.”

  Sunshine glowed like her name: blonde, bright-looking, and pretty. Lesbians and straight men would have called her hot. I placed her at twenty-five and bubbly, but not insipid.

  I perceived Calvin Bow the same age, bald, and rugged. I pictured him lifting men like barbells and then seducing them with his good looks. He had amethyst-blue eyes, a cleft in the center of his chin, and an intoxicating smile that could melt steel.

  Peter Rotunda added, “The sooner you question these two people, the better. I’m sure they know why my bar was torched. Employees confide in each other and talk. Secrets are always shared among those who work together. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I did, and clearly, nodding.

  “I believe that Sunshine and Calvin were fucking each other, but I’m not sure. I also believe that Calvin was fucking Rudy, but I don’t know that for a fact, either. None of that was my business. But if they were in a sexual triangle of sorts, I wouldn’t put it past either of them to burn my building down and murder an enemy. What do you think?”

  I categorized it as good food for thought. What Peter said seemed reasonable and maybe accurate. Complex sexual trysts could always cause someone to commit arson and murder, right? I believed so. I also believed that everyone, including Peter Rotunda, a suspect until I proved otherwise.

  To establish those views, I told him, “You could be spot on about these inclinations.”

  “Inclinations,” he said, raising his eyebrows, perhaps offended. “I think my comments are more than inclinations.”

  “We’ll see what pans out,” I said. “No one is off my list of suspects until I think they are innocent, including you, Mr. Rotunda.”

  He stood, pointed at me, grew red with anger, and blurted, “I’m not paying you fifteen K to sit on your ass and question me, Axle. I’m paying you to find an arsonist and murderer. Do you understand me?”

  I nodded, realizing I had pissed him off. Again, the old cliché rang true, but a good one nonetheless: I was biting the hand that was feeding me; a no-no in most business deals. Shame on me. I apologized and asked him to please calm down. He listened, which sort of surprised me. Men failed to listen to me, particularly wealthy ones like him.

  Satisfied with his tantrum, he said, “I think I’ve made my point, young man.”

  “You have, sir. Thank you for stopping by.”

  He exited without saying goodbye, vanished from my office, and left me to my silence and many notes concerning the unsolved case.

  Chapter 16: Two Humps Dunes

  2:00 P.M.

  After Peter Rotunda left my office, I received a text from Casey that read, Meet at Two Humps Dunes in fifteen minutes. Plan to stay an hour.

  Two Humps Dunes sat behind the Rockingbaugh bungalow, which just happened to be one of five residences that Casey was hired to decorate. Van Rockingbaugh, a queer poet from New Hampshire, used his Florida bungalow a few times a year. Rockingbaugh was currently in Europe, traveling from country to country on a summer vacation. Casey said the poet would be out of the country for three months, which gave him plenty of time to decorate the bungalow. In the meantime, Casey had used the Two Humps Dunes as a private outdoor sex spot where we enjoyed each other’s company.

  Like its name, Two Humps Dunes comprised two dunes and a narrow trail between them that led from the bungalow to the beach and Gulf. The secret place offered plenty of privacy for us to strip out of our clothes and enjoy some outdoor sex together, and other sensual places on the Rockingbaugh property. Casey thought it somewhat necessary to send me a text about some fun time, which I rarely, if ever, denied.

  * * * *

  Nothing special about Rockingbaugh’s bungalow along Hurricane Bay Road forewarned me of a bad time. The pink structure with its shell walkways, an assortment of palms, and lizards everywhere, looked to offer incredible fun. A screened-in pool encompassed the rear of the house, as well as the sand pathway that led between the dunes.

  Casey Kalhoun, already hard and naked upon my arrival, stood between the two sand dunes and jacked his cock up and down in heated motions. His hazel eyes, with their hints of amber, twinkled in the afternoon light, and his jawline looked solid because his teeth were clamped together. He jutted his ass forward and pumped his dick inside his fists. His five-eleven frame rocked to and fro, and he eventually called out to me.

  “Get out of your clothes, get over here, and get me off!”

  I could never be shy about sex with my boyfriend and did as he always instructed. Before either of us realized it, I stripped down to my birthday suit, climbed on my knees, and started blowing my boyfriend. His cock plunged into my throat, pulled off and away, and continued the heated duty for several minutes. His blond hairy balls slapped against my chin a number of times, and he dug his palms and fingers into my shoulder blades. Together, we worked east and west, sucking and humping like real boyfriends. Slurping, growls, grunts, and murmurs were shared between the two of us. And then we decided to switch positions.

  I stood, and he got on his knees. My dick flew into his mouth, exited, and flew inside his mouth again in hyper motion. I banged his face the way he enjoyed being humped, and I didn’t hold back. I held the back of his head with one palm
and cupped my own ass with the other. My hips were on fire in the sand dunes, swinging to and fro, bashing his mouth and throat with my dick. Perspiration surfaced on my torso, and droplets skied off my pointed nipples.

  “I missed you, guy.” I continued with my bolts, happy to be his sand companion.

  He came off my cock for air, took a short breather, and continued his deed. More thumps occurred to his face, more sucks were applied to my dick, and both of us swung like two pendulums in different directions, and at opposite times, to increase our pleasure.

  He stopped blowing me before I came. There would be no drowning his face or throat with my semen. Instead, I pushed him away with a gentle shove to his left shoulder. We stood, chest to chest, and began to kiss in the excited wind. Our cocks became aligned with his right hand, and he jockeyed their excess skin up and down, proving that he could get us off at the same time. We breathed in synchronized bliss as his palm and fingers jerked us off. Long and smooth strokes sometimes turned into heated and quick ones. Minutes compiled as he rocked our worlds, forcing both of us to come.

  Eventually, we burst our loads between our parallel chests. Semen jutted up like an unstoppable fountain, spiraled out of our dicks, and splattered both of us in our faces, wetting our chin and cheeks down with the gooey mess. Huffs were shared, two growls exited his throat, and balls bounced together, offering relentless satisfaction.

  * * * *

  Spent and sticky in the sun, we decided to jump into the Gulf to clean the sex scent from our perspiration-covered torsos.

  While we soaked in the saltwater, he asked, “What are your plans for this afternoon, Axle?”