Heat

by R. W. Clinger

  “Did Calvin have any problems working at the Flaming Flamingo.”

  Uncle Freddy laughed. “Of course, he did. He hated that kid who died in the fire, and he threatened the owner that he was going to burn down the bar.”

  “You mean Peter Rotunda?”

  “Of course. Who do you think I was referring to?”

  “Why did he want to burn the bar down?”

  He shook his head, sighed with discontent, and said, “Rotunda put the moves on Calvin. From what I understand, it didn’t go over very well. Calvin was a small guy, and Rotunda looks like a bodybuilder with lots of fat. Kitty told me that Rotunda threw Calvin over Rotunda’s desk at the bar and tried to diddle him. Calvin flipped out and threatened to burn down his bar.”

  “Do you think Calvin started the gasoline fire at the Flaming Flamingo?”

  Uncle Freddy shook his head. “I don’t. Calvin did a lot of bad things, but starting fires wasn’t one of them. He liked to beat men up. Calvin always said he wanted to box. I don’t know why Kitty never got him involved in the local gym. Whatever. It’s too late now to worry about it. Calvin’s where he belongs. Bless his soul.”

  “Why did Calvin dislike Rudy Shower?”

  He looked me square in the eyes and pointed at me with his left index finger. “Because Rudy Shower was a fucking whore. That’s why. Calvin was in love with Rudy. He let everyone in our family know that he wanted to be Rudy’s boyfriend. Calvin wanted to run off to Vermont and marry Rudy, but Rudy decided to sleep with every queer guy in the state of Florida, minus Calvin. That pissed my nephew off, and he grew to hate Rudy.”

  It sounded as if Calvin had the perfect reason to possibly set the Flaming Flamingo on fire with Rudy Shower inside. Love could turn a person upside down. And bad love could make someone like Calvin start a fire and murder.

  Frankly, I learned what I needed to learn from Uncle Freddy and started to leave when he spoke again.

  “I’m not saying my nephew was above starting the fire at the gay bar and accidentally killing the man that he loved. I’ve already told you that Calvin was a bad egg. But if I were to point fingers at anyone in particular in Hurricane Bay, it would have to be Tristen Trintar.”

  “Who is Tristen Trintar?” I asked, never having heard the name before.

  “Peter Rotunda’s ex.”

  “And why would you point a finger at him?”

  He shared a serious look with me that entailed unmoving eyes and a semi-parted mouth. Then he said, “Tristen’s a firebug, of course.”

  “Well, of course.” I thanked him for his time, apologized again for his loss, and went in search of an ex-lover who just happened to like setting fires.

  Chapter 24: Tristen Trintar

  Downtown Hurricane Bay

  The Rapture, Third Floor, Room 17

  1:37 P.M.

  It didn’t take me long at all to find Tristen Trintar. I made my way to his apartment on Bradberry Lane next to the marina, knocked on his front door, and learned from his Mexican housekeeper named Nella, after providing her with sixty dollars, that Trintar visited The Rapture. I thanked the maid for her time, winked at her, and left her to her cleaning.

  Trintar ended up being exactly where I expected him to be at The Rapture, on the third floor, under two male hustlers who had spiked white hair. Tourists believed The Rapture was a new wave church with nondenominational attendees. Locals knew the place occupied a three-floor whorehouse for queers. Bondage occurred in the basement. Baths were on the first floor. Muscleheads hustled on the second floor. And the third floor reeked of drugs and very young men, some of which were probably not eighteen, not that I could verify it.

  Room Seventeen resembled a stall more than a room. There were no windows. It had three walls, a bed, and a stainless-steel rack with fresh towels, or about as fresh as towels could get at The Rapture. Trintar still had a bald head and hairy blubber, squinty eyes, and three chins. The two male hustlers over him were thin, barely of age to ride Trintar’s tiny dick, and were probably hooked on meth or an unnamable street drug. One blond sucked Trintar off while the other hunched his ass over Trintar’s face for some nasty tongue action. The scene looked repulsive and distasteful, different from what I normally viewed among threesomes. Part of me wanted to hurl, but I ended up keeping my breakfast down.

  One of the blonds noticed my presence and said to Trintar, “We’ve got company.”

  Trintar mumbled something profane and pushed the ass away from his face. He arched his head forward, slapped the hustler’s nuts against his forehead, and said, “What the fuck do you want, Axle? Can’t you see I’m busy here, getting some ass?”

  “I want to ask you about the murder of Rudy Shower.”

  He waved the two blonds away and said, “Give me ten minutes.” The blonds listened and exited the cement room with boners between their legs. Trintar watched them leave. Then he turned his attention to me. “This better be fucking good. I just had an eighteen-year-old’s tight ass in my mouth. You won’t be able to do better than that.”

  I cut to the core of the matter. “Tell me about starting fires.”

  “Who the fuck told you that I start fires?” He reminded me of lard on the small bed, naked, furry, and comprised of all sweat. Nothing about him resembled anything attractive in the slightest, even his fat face.

  I lied and told him Calvin Bow had been hit by a bus the night before.

  He laughed, which made all his blubber jiggle. “Fuck Calvin Bow. He only told you that because he hates my guts.”

  “Why does he hate your guts?”

  He laughed again and shook his head. “Because the little fuck thieved meth off me and didn’t pay for it. I threatened to murder him. It gave him a good enough reason to despise me.”

  “Did you threaten to burn anything down, like the Flaming Flamingo?”

  “Fuck no. I’m not the arsonist you’re looking for.”

  “Are you the murderer I’m looking for?” I asked, unafraid of the man and all of his sweaty mass.

  Jiggling came natural for him as he laughed, which sort of humored me. After a bout of choking, he calmed down, showcased the widest and longest smile with me that I had ever seen, and said, “If I wanted to murder someone, it definitely wouldn’t have been Rudy Shower. He was a nice kid.”

  “How do you know he was nice?”

  “Because he worked for my ex.”

  “Peter Rotunda?”

  “Yeah. Peter.”

  “Did Peter have anything bad to say about Rudy?”

  “Always. Peter is a shithead to work for. He’s the male version of a bitch. It’s his way or no way.”

  “Did Peter set his own bar on fire and accidentally murder one of his employees for insurance money?”

  “Nothing is accidental in Peter’s world,” he said.

  That said a lot. I believed my questioning intense and to the point. To keep Tristen Trintar on my good side felt like a good idea, instead of asking him for more details about the inferno at the Flaming Flamingo. Without distressing him anymore than I already had, I apologized for interrupting his threesome, thanked him, and left The Rapture without sharing an hour with one of its available hustlers.

  Chapter 25: Chief Darren Dawe

  29 Marlin Street

  Firehouse Number 7

  2:41 P.M.

  I thought Chief Darren Dawe eccentric with his horn-rimmed glasses and red suspenders.

  Chief Dawe’s office looked immaculate and without a speck of dust. Some people believed that he had feared germs or suffered from OCD. Truth about the matter: Chief Dawe simply liked a clean and clutter-free office, the way he felt that every business office should be.

  I sat down across from his desk, making myself at home.

  “This is an unexpected visit, Axle,” he said, holding a green Sharpie Smear Guard highlighter between two fingers.

  “I’m sorry to stop unannounced, but I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Hope is illogical,
” he said, staring at me with a raised eyebrow. “Many people fail to accomplish what they want to accomplish because they hope too much. I’m the type of man to put some ass behind something and have at it.” He tapped the end of the highlighter on his desk three times.

  I enjoyed the man’s demeanor and thought him good at his job. His wife must have been the proud mother of his children and madly in love with her husband. There wasn’t anything simple about the man. Not his look. Not his intelligence. And certainly not his integrity. Chief Dawe had established himself as a likable and popular guy on the Gulf Coast. Plus, residents considered him astute, protective, and undraining.

  I breathed in a roast beef with mayo and tomatoes scent, figuring it’s what the man had for a late lunch. The smell hung thickly inside his office, which I didn’t mind in the slightest.

  “I’m here because I want to know what kind of information you may have on Underground Spectacle.”

  He pointed the green highlighter at me. “I should be asking you what you know about the same subject.”

  If I wanted him to share anything of importance with me, I had to dish some out. Therefore, I said, “I know two men who are associated with it.”

  “What two men?”

  “Rudy Shower and Edgar Sign.”

  He nodded, tapped the highlighter against the edge of his desk one more time, and said, “Yes, I’m familiar with both. Shower because he died in the blaze at the Flaming Flamingo, and Sign because he runs Underground Spectacle.”

  “What do you mean by runs?” I asked, intrigued with his comment.

  “It’s a private club that sometimes meets under Roughs.”

  “The bar that Peter Rotunda owns?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “There’s a door in the rear of Roughs. It goes underground. It’s a basement, but basements don’t really exist in Florida. Anyway, it’s a bizarre group of men who do avant garde talents.” He had me in the palm of his empty hand.

  I asked, “What kind of talents?”

  “Glass eating, sword swallowing, fire breathing, electrocution, knife throwing, self-inflicted wounding, strangulation, chainsaw juggling, scorpion eating, and firewalking, just to name a few.”

  “Firewalking?” I asked. Hadn’t Casey just asked me about the bizarre talent that morning? What did he know about the arson and murder that he wasn’t sharing with me?

  “Yes, firewalking. The club has a farm they frequent outside of Hurricane Bay. It’s called Sign Farm. It’s owned by Edgar Sign. It’s where the fire events, chainsaw juggling, and other events occur. The scorpion eating, sword swallowing, and glass eating take place here in the city.”

  How could I not be blown away by his information? I felt numb. “How do you know about this private club, Chief Dawe?”

  “A few of us were members at one time. I wasn’t, but I had friends who were. They were scrapers.”

  “Scrapers? What do they do?”

  “They take hard pieces of plastic and scrape it along their stomachs until the top layer of skin is removed. The talent is all about their tolerance for pain.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “Tell me that can’t be legal.”

  “It is. Underground Spectacle is legit, and they operate without problems. Some of the bars in this town make their members look like angels.”

  “How many members does the club have?”

  “Quite a few. They come from all around. Jacksonville, Naples, Key West, Daytona, Orlando, and Miami. It’s a very serious group of people who think they’re talented.”

  “How often do they meet?”

  “Once a week.” He looked at the calendar on his desk and pointed at today’s date. “Coincidentally, they have a meeting tonight.”

  “Really?”

  “I only know this because a friend of mine is in the club, as I’ve already said.”

  I didn’t want to know the particulars of his friend, realizing that the club was private. Instead, I said, “Do you think Underground Spectacle has anything to do with fire and murder at the Flaming Flamingo?”

  He shook his head. “Of course not. Those people in that club are harmless. They’re about hurting themselves, not others.”

  I thought him wrong, thanked him for his time, and went to find my boyfriend. I needed to ask Casey what he knew about Underground Spectacle and why he had mentioned firewalking that morning.

  Chapter 26: Casey and Bruno

  BeeBee’s Modern Design

  Hemingway Street

  3:20 P.M.

  Casey ended up exactly where I didn’t want him to be: with his assistant. I just happened to be driving down Hemingway Street and saw the two exiting BeeBee’s Modern Design, a secondhand store that specialized in refurbished furniture, expensive but different pieces that looked exquisite. Both men were carrying an elephant-shaped coffee table to a fourteen-foot, GMC moving van that Casey rented from Hibbard’s Rentals to move furniture. The coffee table looked heavy and chiseled from granite. The two moved like sloths, making baby steps to the van. Casey said something to Bruno, left out a chuckle, and continued with his task.

  I didn’t know where the coffee table’s final destination would be, not that it mattered. Casey worked on three clients’ houses at the same time, decorating various rooms. Busy seemed to be an understatement regarding his life. And frankly, his income painted a clear picture that he worked hard and loved his job. It was rare for one of his clients to dislike his work. Local magazines, other decorators, and real estate moguls thought him a cutting edge designer with uncanny skills.

  I watched the two men load the coffee table into the moving van. Casey climbed behind the wheel of the van, and Bruno settled himself in the passenger seat. I followed them to Kingfish Estates, west of Hurricane Bay. The men unloaded the piece of furniture and carried it into a beautiful stucco home with many windows. Again, I didn’t see my boyfriend put the moves on his assistant. Nor did Bruno have his way with Casey. Rather, the two men were professional at all times and hadn’t crossed any lines that I was forced to question.

  * * * *

  4:20 P.M.

  I left Casey and Bruno alone and made my way back to Bungalow Sixteen. I needed a nap, and executed one with a top-notch performance in nothing more than a pair of yellow briefs.

  * * * *

  5:20 P.M.

  I woke from my dreamless nap and ordered Greek salads and stuffed grape leaves from Speros for dinner. I set the dining room table for us to enjoy the delivered meal.

  * * * *

  6:20 P.M.

  Dinner turned cold, and I had two glasses of white wine alone. A text from Casey chirped on my cell phone.

  Running late. Eat without me. I’ll be another two hours. Sorry. XXX000. C.

  * * * *

  7:20 P.M.

  Fuck it. I ate without Casey, stopped drinking, and took a quick shower. The night awaited me, which detailed interesting events. Following the shower, I dressed from head to toe in black: pair of jeans, Reeboks, and a T-shirt. I Googled Sign Farm on my cell phone, learned of its whereabouts on SR28 in the Everglades, and set out on an irreversible mission.

  * * * *

  8:20 P.M.

  I left without leaving Casey a note, climbed inside my Mercedes, and headed to Sign Farm for the next few hours, in search of two men: Edgar Sign and Bobby Pagino, who was still missing. Plus, I wanted to find the private club called Underground Spectacle and learn whatever I could of Sign’s group.

  * * * *

  9:20 P.M.

  Twilight arrived and turned into a plum-colored darkness. I used my Tom-Tom and traveled down a long span of two-lane highway that led into the Everglades. I made a right on Vine Avenue, a sharp left on Iroquois Drive, and eventually came across a dirt road called SR28.

  Chapter 27: Sign Farm

  Everglades

  SR28

  9:51 P.M.

  I didn’t know what to expect to see after dark at Sign Farm. I parked my Mercedes along SR28, hiding it at the nearest
turn-off, and walked down a weaving dirt road inside the Everglades. I knew little about the region. Layers of limestone stored water from the vast marshland, and constant flooding occurred in the area because of the Myakka, Kissimmee, and Caloosahatchee Rivers. Calcium and peat deposits were high in the area. The land had often been described as the River of Grass. The abundance of water formed the grasslands.

  The night felt warm and wet with a subtropical climate. A light wind blew against my cheeks and forehead, dampening my flesh. The moon hid behind clouds, and I surmised a storm brewed, heading from east to west, through the golden aster and scrub lupine. I smelled the sweetness of pawpaws and short-leaved rosemary while walking down the dirt road. The strong scent of deltoid spurge filled my nostrils. I listened to gopher frogs burping around me, and I heard a burrowing owl.

  Intrigue overcame me instead of fear. Music dispersed into the night somewhere in the distance. Light drumming and a trio of bongos echoed within the darkness. Melodic and masculine chanting that consisted of many vowel sounds rolled over the tropical wetlands. Careful with my steps, I saw three glowing fires in the distance with flames that reached into the night’s darkness. My heart raced, and my ears started to ring. Nervous, but not afraid, I continued my escapade onto the farm’s property.

  Insects the size of watermelons attempted to drain my system of its blood. I kept swatting the little beasts away with swinging arms. Many flew past my nose, grazing its slope with their miniature and narrow legs. The sound of silver rice rats echoed around me, moving quickly through the dense grasses, perhaps warning me of my night’s travels, convincing me to turn around and mind my own business.

  Yellow-white headlights flashed behind me. A vehicle turned from SR28 onto the dirt road. Not wanting to be seen, I quickly fled to the right side of the road and hunched down inside a mass of sawgrass. God only knew what could bite, sting, lick, or brush against me. The Everglades were dangerous, and the American alligators had me most concerned. I didn’t want to be visited by a blue tail mole skink or an Atlantic salt marsh water snake. Worse yet, an American crocodile could have torn me to shreds.