Heat

by R. W. Clinger

  He cut to the chase right off the bat. “You went to see my grandmother today, didn’t you?”

  I held a plastic bag of Chinese food in my right hand and nodded. “I needed her help.”

  “Do you believe she started the fire at the Flaming Flamingo?”

  I shook my head. “I believe she’s a smart woman who knows what she’s talking about. Age offers wisdom, and Laura is not an exception to that rule.”

  “She’s not an arsonist,” he declared, although I disagreed with him.

  The majority of Hurricane Bayers believed that his grandmother had started the gasoline blaze at The East Hurricane Bay Inn, and I just happened to be one of them. Love could make you do the strangest things. And heartache could cause a wealthy elder to start fires, following the demise of a romantic endeavor with a certain gentleman friend.

  “I never said she was.”

  He moved up to me, almost bumped his chest into my chest, tapped his right index finger against my left pec in a firm motion, and said, “Stay away from my grandmother, Axle. She has nothing to do with the fire and death of Rudy Shower. I don’t want to hear that you’re bothering her again. She’s an old and frail woman who needs to be left alone.”

  “I can’t promise that,” I said, telling the truth. “I’m being paid to figure out two crimes. If anyone can assist me with the fire and murder of a bartender, then I will gladly speak to them, including Laura Monigal.”

  He placed a palm over my right shoulder and gave it a rough squeeze. Pain shot up to my neck. “I don’t want to threaten you, but you give me no other option. If I see you around my grandmother, or have any communication with her, I’ll make your life a living hell. Arson and setting you on fire are not beneath me.”

  I thought that the most interesting comment that had I stored away in my memory. Could Rebecca’s boyfriend have burned down the Flaming Flamingo and murdered one of its prized bartenders? Did Clifton Monigal have a connection to the bar or the bar’s owner? Was Rudy Shower his nemesis, and if so, why? A flood of other intriguing questions involving the fire and murder consumed my thoughts, but were soon interrupted because Casey pulled up to the bungalow in his Fusion, returning home from the office and work.

  “Do I make myself clear, Mr. Dupree?”

  “About as clear as a crystal tumbler filled with gasoline, my friend,” I answered, grinning.

  Clifton was just about to say something jarring and threatening, but Casey climbed out of his Fusion and observed the cowboy with me in the shell drive.

  “What do we have here?”

  “Clifton was just leaving,” I said to Casey. “He just stopped by to answer a few questions I had about the fire and murder.”

  “Yes,” the bogus cowboy said. “I was just leaving.”

  He turned away from me and climbed into his massive truck. Before I knew it, he backed out of the shell drive and left, which gave me some private time with my boyfriend, the Chinese food, and our naked bodies entwined as one.

  * * * *

  As expected, Casey and I made love again in his bedroom. Thereafter, we showered, enjoyed bottles of chilled beer, and watched the sun set, which turned the horizon into a tranquil black. Around eleven o’clock, we turned in for the night.

  I honestly don’t know what time it was when I smelled smoke and lifted out of sleep. At first, I believed the bungalow had to be on fire because of the strong burning smell, but that wasn’t the case. Instead, another paperback book had been set ablaze on the beach, outside the bedroom window where Casey and I slept in each other’s arms.

  Orange and yellow flames licked at the night and illuminated the darkness. The smell of gasoline became rank and potent, caught in my nose and lungs. Although I should have panicked, I didn’t. Instead, I exited the bungalow, walked to the end of the beach house, and used sand to put the flames out. Then I waited for the charred paperback, all five hundred-plus pages, to cool off. I eventually determined its author and title, which ended up being Margo Pagino and her historical romance called Fire’s Brew.

  Part 3: June 4, 20—

  Chapter 21: Firewalking

  Hurricane Bay Road

  Bungalow 16

  9:04 A.M.

  I yawned and stretched, exhausted from the night before. Following the fire on the beach last night, I had immediately called the Hurricane Bay Fire Department. Fire Chief Darren Dawe arrived at the bungalow ten minutes later with Officer Cane Bishop, who I had dated on and off during the last six years and called my personal friend. The only reason we weren’t a couple was because Cane came out as bisexual and enjoyed women just as much as he did men, if not more. I realized I couldn’t compete with any woman on the planet and decided to set the officer of the law free, although I still missed the way he had used his dick in bed. He proved himself a God under the sheets and other places in his flat that overlooked the Gulf.

  Officer Bishop bagged up the gasoline-smelling and smoldering Margo Pagino romance and said, “I’ll get prints on this thing and let you know what forensics finds.”

  Being caught up in his dreamy-white smile, six-foot frame, and light green eyes sent a zigzagging bolt of fire through me. Blond with fuzz on the end of his chin, having beautiful skin, and a relentless libido, he prided himself with unequivocal layers of charm. I could have tossed Casey aside had it not been for Cane’s attraction to the opposite sex and the many women he dated.

  Chief Dawe wrote his report and withdrew me from my police officer ogling. He said, “I’ll let my women and men know that you have a problem out here.” He clicked something on his cell phone and asked, “Is it true that you spoke with that arsonist, Laura Monigal, this afternoon?”

  Wow, word got around Turtle Bay and back to Hurricane Bay fast.

  “It’s true. I did see Laura this afternoon.”

  “Is she planning on burning down another gay bar?” Chief Dawe asked, being serious.

  “I have no idea.”

  Officer Bishop shook his tight ass as he tromped over to his green-and-white cruiser and climbed inside. “That woman has a target on her back,” he said, pointing at me. “And you shouldn’t be associated with her. She has a lot of money and can put the blame on anyone concerning a fire and murder, which includes you.”

  “I understand that and will keep an eye on my back,” I said, realizing the truth behind his statement.

  If Laura Monigal liked to set fires, she could have easily let someone like me take the fall for them. Money walked and talked in Turtle Bay and Hurricane Bay. And God knew she had plenty of it, and power, to get what she wanted, just like how she had paid off the twelve jurors at her trial without being caught.

  “You better watch more than your back, guy. Laura can be ruthless and uncaring. A woman with her financial backing is dangerous, and you should stay clear of her.”

  “I got it.”

  I watched him climb in the passenger seat of Cane Bishop’s cruiser. They headed back into town, vanishing into the night.

  * * * *

  Another sunny morning graced us in Florida, and the temperature had already reached ninety and offered some heavy duty humidity. Soaked with perspiration as soon as I climbed out of bed, I became irritated almost immediately.

  Casey liked to be an early bird and enjoyed a cup of coffee in the shade and the Herald on the rear patio. He looked handsome in white shorts, a pink polo, and Spanish leather loafers that he had purchased in Barcelona the summer before. He placed the paper down on the table as I sat across from him with my own cup of coffee.

  “How do you feel today, sleepyhead?”

  “Spent. Last night murdered me.” I took a sip of my coffee, burned the roof of my mouth, and felt my head sting with morning pain, which probably triggered the notion that I needed two aspirin.

  “What’s on your agenda today?”

  He always enjoyed my company and seemed thrilled to be involved with me and to have me as a boyfriend. Why exactly? I wasn’t sure. But I wasn’t about to take a
dvantage of him and the tenderness he offered me, either.

  “I want to question Rudy’s coworkers from the bar, Sunshine Dane and Calvin Bow. Peter Rotunda thinks they may have something to do with the fire and murder at his bar.” My mouth numbed a bit, and I decided to try my coffee again. The swallow felt smooth and just right, beginning to wake me with its caffeine kick of luster, high-octane energy, and life.

  “You’re a busy guy. I’m working in the office this morning and then at the Westington Cottage, which is inland.”

  “Landon and Timothy’s place?”

  “Yes, the drama queens.”

  I wanted to laugh, but my head stung too much.

  “Speaking of queens, Bruno told me about firewalking yesterday. He tells me the craziest things sometimes. Never are our conversations dull. I don’t know where his topics come from. They’re random and always so bizarre. But I found his topic of firewalking intriguing, Axle. Do you know anything about it?”

  “I don’t. Should I?”

  “You take your shoes and socks off and walk over hot coals or stones. Fire is literally under your feet. Now listen to this.” He rambled for the next ten minutes about firewalking going back to Iron Age India and that it was a rite of passage apropos to one’s power and bravery. “It was also used as an assessment of faith in some religions. Scientists have confirmed that the amount of time a foot makes contact with the fire does not induce burning. Embers are not good conductors of heat.” He took a deep breath and continued, “Firewalking is practiced in the Fijian Islands, parts of Greece, and Bulgaria. Village festivals in India have firewalking. And don’t forget the Japanese, Taoists, and Buddhists. Some cultures believe it’s a social task to produce unity. Firewalking is related to supernatural forces, strong faith, and the psychological theory of mind over matter.”

  Perplexed because of his rambling, I asked, “Do you think firewalking has anything to do with the arson and murder at the Flaming Flamingo?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t.”

  “Then why did you mention it?”

  “Because Bruno and I share a lot of topics during our workday and this just happened to be one of them. Why?”

  “No reason. I was just wondering.”

  Silence emerged for a few seconds, and we made eye contact, which felt endearing and comfortable.

  Then he winked at me and said, “Yesterday’s other topics at the office included flea markets, selfies, and New Orleans, which Bruno enjoys.”

  Maybe he spent too much time with his intern instead of me. I had to wonder. How many topics did the two men share during a day’s work, and were those topics ever intimate? And what else did they share? Were they kissing, hugging, and sleeping together between their conversations? Did Casey find a new boyfriend to replace with me with? Did the allure we have for each other weakening right before my very own eyes?

  None of those questions had answers, but I made a mental note to gather conclusions in the near future. In the meantime, I enjoyed my coffee, attempted to wake up for a long day of questioning suspects, and still considered Casey my boyfriend, but maybe for only the time being.

  Chapter 22: Sunshine Dane

  Roughs

  782 Opulent Avenue

  10:47 A.M.

  I failed to be surprised to learn that Sunshine Dane, the former bar back at the Flaming Flamingo, now worked as a bar keep at Roughs, another one of Peter Rotunda’s money-making properties.

  I walked in the place and saw that it looked shabby-nice. The place woofed! The bear bar had black walls, brown leather seats, a dartboard, mechanical bull, and country music on the jukebox. Drink specials that evening were going to be a Rodeo Rum, a Bull Bomb with cheap whiskey, and a Dandy Daiquiri.

  I saw Sunshine at the bar, washing beer mugs, and I realized that she was a he, out of drag. I posed no judgment about the young man and asked, “Sunshine Dane?”

  He looked up from his work. A geisha’s face stared at me; something beautiful and elegant. His skin resembled smooth paste, pale, and soft. His eyes were almost a charcoal black and quite Asian, which I admired. He wore his dark hair spiked, and his lips were narrow and lush pink. I guessed that he could have passed as Rudy Shower’s age (twenty-three) and just as tall (five-ten).

  He said, “I’m Sean Dane during the daylight hours. Sunshine is my evening and night name. Get it right.”

  “I’m sorry.” I removed my business card from my wallet and placed it on the bar in front of him.

  He thumbed the card and said, “You’re trying to solve my lover’s murder, aren’t you?”

  “Do you mean Rudy Shower?”

  “Of course.” He poured me a draft beer and placed it in front of me. “I miss him. We had some good times together.”

  The beer had a lot of head, not that I minded. Nor did I mind the time of day and took a sip, needing to take the edge off before noon. “How long were you lovers with Rudy?”

  “Almost a year. Our one-year anniversary was two days ago, which we didn’t get to celebrate.” He sounded cold and miserable. Death will do that sometimes, especially if the victim suffered from being loved.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “My condolences.”

  He poured himself a draft beer and took a long sip, draining a quarter of the liquid from the glass. Afterwards, he said, “That was for lovers who die in fires.”

  I felt horrible about his loss and realized his pain. The geisha looked broken and scarred, and he probably needed some grief therapy. I wasn’t a psychologist, though. My case involved private investigations for an arsonist and murderer who still happened to be at large, and a certain fucked-up someone who kept burning Margo Pagino romances on my boyfriend’s beach.

  Again, I said, “I’m sorry about your loss. Can you tell me anything that can me help in finding the person who set the Flaming Flamingo on fire and murdered your boyfriend?”

  Sean nodded, which felt like a breath of fresh air. Then he took a long swig of the beer in front of him. After his chug, he said, “You have to find Bobby Rotunda. Have you done that?”

  “I don’t believe he’s missing,” I answered.

  “He isn’t missing. You still have to find him, though. He’s the key to your puzzle. He knows who murdered Rudy.”

  “Is Bobby staying hidden for a reason?”

  Sean shook his head. “Bobby isn’t missing. You just aren’t looking in the right place for him.”

  “Where is the right place to look?” I asked, curious and confused at the same time.

  “I can’t tell you that,” he said. “Bobby doesn’t want to be found.”

  “I think I’m beginning to understand that. You can still throw me a bone and help me out.” I cleared my throat, leaned over the bar, and said in a direct tone, “Your boyfriend died a horrible death in a fire. Think of him.”

  He shook his head, finished off his beer, and wiped the back of his right hand across his mouth. “Rudy wouldn’t want me to tell you where Bobby is.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not something I can talk about. But I have faith that you’ll figure it out. Once you find Bobby, you will learn who the arsonist and murderer is.”

  “Do you know who that person is?” I challenged him.

  “Of course not,” he answered, snippy with me. Then he picked up my beer, poured it down the drain beside him, and said, “I think you should leave. I’ve said too much already.”

  “You really haven’t,” I begged to differ with him.

  “No, I did.” He vanished behind a door that said, in bold red letters, Employees Only.

  I left a few seconds later, craving the rest of my draft beer and its thick head. Sunshine knew more than he was telling me.

  Chapter 23: Calvin Bow

  29871 Dolphin Way

  11:59 A.M.

  I learned that Calvin Bow, a twenty-two-year-old biology student at Estrow University and bartender at the Flaming Flamingo, had died the previous evening on Sea Way, plastered by a city
bus. How I missed this in the morning paper or on the news presented a mystery for me. I thought it rater embarrassing to arrive at Calvin’s mother’s bungalow on Dolphin Way and have Calvin’s Uncle Freddy tell me.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Dupree, but there’s been a family crisis.”

  The light blue stucco bungalow resembled a piece of shit. The gardens looked thick with weeds, Spanish moss hung down from the trees in dense layers, and boards covered two windows, which I assumed were left up from one of last year’s hurricanes. The bungalow appeared small and almost uninhabitable with cracked walls and missing shingles. Uncle Freddy didn’t lack looks, though. He sported Calvin’s thick brown hair, matching eyes, and groomed mustache. I placed his five-ten frame at maybe forty and well taken care of with daily exercise.

  Once Uncle Freddy told me of the Bows’ loss, I apologized and shared my condolences. To my horror, leaving me awestruck and unsure where my visit headed, he huffed and rolled his eyes.

  “Trust me, this family is better off without that little asshole. Calvin always found himself in every kind of trouble. Burglary. Drugs. Alcohol. Street fights. Problems with boyfriends. You name it, and he ended up being involved in it. Although my sister-in-law, Kitty, is grieving right now for the loss of her son, we both know that this bus accident was meant to be. She had always said that if Calvin didn’t end up in jail, he’d end up dead. I suppose the latter came true.”

  Since he seemed to be handling the death of his nephew without much emotional hardship, I decided to ask him a few questions about the recent fire and murder at the Flaming Flamingo. What the hell, right? What did I have to lose? He could either help me or slam his sister-in-law’s bungalow door in my face. Why not put my balls to the wall and learn that Uncle Freddy’s badass nephew could have been a possible arsonist and murderer?