Heat

by R. W. Clinger

  I pulled the facemask away from my mouth with my free hand and replied, “I’m fine. I just need some oxygen. I wasn’t burned. I feel safe now.”

  “Just checking. I’m worried about you. You’ve been through hell and back tonight.”

  “Thanks for doing that. I like to be worried about.” I slipped the facemask over my mouth again, sucking in the cool and crisp oxygen.

  Eventually, the fire was extinguished, and a smoldering wet mass of lumber, brick, and charred appliances remained. Smoke spiraled into the night as firemen in their appropriate gear searched for the body of Bruno Grigade among the scorched debris. After being unsuccessful at the task, Chief Dawe proclaimed that there were no victims in the fire, and Bruno Grigade had somehow escaped.

  Chief Dawe also clarified the fire arson and told the media, “It was started with gasoline. A further investigation will take place. I promise to work hard to obtain answers for our community.”

  Between huffs of oxygen, attempting to relax on the gurney, I asked Casey, “Where’s Bruno?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. He probably climbed out the bedroom through the fallen wall and…”

  “And dove for the Gulf, right?” I interjected, finishing his comment for him. Frankly, I wasn’t surprised to learn that Bruno had escaped the fire. Being a man of courage, strong-willed, and one who thought on his toes well, Bruno wasn’t a dumbass and knew how to get by in a pinch. Thugs were like that in the world of crime.

  He nodded. “I think so, but I’m not sure.”

  It made sense. “How else could Bruno escape the meltdown, and where else could he run off to?”

  “Gone,” Casey said. “Unbelievably gone.”

  All of it had left me puzzled, wondering if Bruno Grigade was some kind of professional magician or phantom. Gone.

  Chapter 49: September

  Because some residents of Hurricane Bay were still in a state of confusion regarding Bruno Grigade and the fire, the city’s mayor made an appearance on channel seven and told all of its viewers that Bruno Grigade’s body was never recovered from the burning bungalow or retrieved out of the Gulf. Some people of Hurricane Bay said that Bruno suffered from severe burns, survived the fire, and resided in Mexico. Others thought that he had somehow, someway taxied a boat ride to the Bahamas.

  Officer Bishop thought otherwise, and that Bruno had been swallowed by the Gulf. Casey believed the man turned into charred fish food. I thought him alive and healing his wounds, surviving in a hospital bed in Venezuela, Columbia, or Ecuador. No matter where Bruno Grigade was in the world, all of the residents of Hurricane Bay could agree that he wasn’t a threat any longer, vanishing from our community and lives forever. Simply gone.

  * * * *

  Rebecca Rexx did move to Stockton County, Oklahoma, with her gorgeous cowboy, Clifton Monigal. Frankly, I missed her, feeling loss in my life. A text or phone call only separated us, though. With the help of her cowboy, she opened a theatre called The Rodeo Teatro, became engaged to Clifton, and planned to marry her sexy, cowboy lover. Rebecca scheduled the wedding for the following summer. She wanted a huge celebration to be held on Clifton’s ranch in Oklahoma; both Casey and I were not only invited, but we were also members of the bridal party.

  So Rebecca had discovered happiness and love. Her whole world had changed in one summer. Not only did she move from Florida to the Midwest, but she also told Hollywood to shove it. Henrey DeBoir, a producer of DeBoir Films Unlimited, called Rebecca (or Rita Redd as she went by in California and around the world in her movies) up and asked if she would be the leading lady in his upcoming film called Fire’s Brand, the film adaptation of Margo Pagino’s bestselling novel. To my surprise, and probably Hollywood’s, she laughed in DeBoir’s face and said she wanted nothing to do with his film, the movie industry, and California.

  Thatta girl! I thought. Good for her.

  * * * *

  I learned more about Clifton Monigal from Rebecca than I really wanted to. I knew his cock size, how he made love to her in the shower, which side of the bed he slept on, his chosen beer to drink, and which parts of his body he washed in the shower first. Clifton occupied himself on his ranch with Rebecca, both of which I believed needed handfuls of attention. Rebecca also said that the cowboy’s business of raising and selling Mustangs was doing quite well.

  During one of our conversations, she informed me, “I didn’t realize he had two other ranches, one in Ponca City and the other near Kansas City. He has more than two dozen men working for him. How could we ever question his status as being a real rancher?”

  “Our bad,” I said.

  Then we talked about Clifton’s hairy cowboy pecs and how she knew that he manscaped them once a week and…

  * * * *

  I had also learned through Rebecca that Clarissa Monigal, Clifton’s first cousin, worked as a full-time editor at Paxtonian Books in Miami. She concentrated on mostly fiction, filling the world with upcoming reads. Specific titles that were soon going to be released included, Tell Me What You Want to Know by Madison Shae Barker, a mystery called Snake in the Garden by Karen O’Donald, and a time-traveling romance by Valerie Done called Scripts of Time.

  Rebecca texted, Clifton and I will be in Florida sometime in November, around the holiday. We’ll visit Clarissa, his grandmother, and you.

  I texted back, Can’t wait to see you. Lots of love. :)

  * * * *

  Laura Monigal planned a three-month-long trip to Riobamba, Ecuador. She had a list of volcanoes she wanted to see that were along the Ring of Fire. I rather thought the decision a coincidence and parallel to her life, since she liked setting fires.

  Before leaving on her adventure, she interviewed with Shawna Dyson of the Hurricane Bay Reader, a local magazine. The article said that she also wanted to visit the Galapagos Islands to observe the blue-footed Booby, a rare sea bird near the equator. Laura’s favorite color just happened to be blue, and she had become infatuated with everything about the bird.

  Shawna finished her article with, “Ms. Monigal is a breath of fresh air without any inhabitations whatsoever. Mature. Articulate. Fiery. The woman is one to admire, respect, and adore. I can’t wait to have a sit-down with her, following her return, and hear her remarkable tales of Ecuadorian life.”

  * * * *

  Peter Rotunda paid his fee to me and told me he had planned to open a new bar in late November where the Flaming Flamingo once stood. He wanted to name the bar The Playful Pelican, and to be open for business soon, with a concert performed by Steve Grand, a popular gay singer from Chicago.

  Rotunda told Out and Proud in Hurricane Bay, a queer website representing our community, “The Playful Pelican is going to have four floors. Two bars will be on the second and third floors. A pool, spa, and changing area will be on the first floor. The fourth floor will be all glass, like an atrium, and offer a sitting room for private parties needing a small bar.” He added, “I plan to do this without having a heart attack first. We’ll see if God is on my side.”

  Rumors spread around Hurricane Bay that a young man had entered Peter’s life, not that they were lovers; a Marine by the name of Michael Handle. Handle, who just happened to be a decorated ex-Afghanistan warrior with brawny looks and much charm. Handle claimed to be half Peter’s age, not that anyone cared. The kid had his left leg blown off in the desert by a landmine while fighting to protect of our country. No one knew the leg to be a prosthetic, though, since Michael hid it well, and the amputation occurred below the knee. Other rumors floated about town that suggested Michael chose to move into Peter and his boyfriend’s residence. The three men were inclined to live a happy-ever-after life together.

  Good luck to them. Best wishes.

  * * * *

  Tristen Trintar, Peter’s ex-lover, had been arrested on September 11 for having sex with underage boys. A raid and meltdown by the Hurricane Bay Police Department occurred at The Rapture. Tristen was cuffed and taken to jail.

  Something
told me he wasn’t getting out anytime soon.

  * * * *

  Margo Pagino requested a private luncheon with me at The Red Oyster Bar next to the Gulf. We had a private room with our own waiter, an adorable Cuban named Carlos Bontanna. Margo decided to have a liquid lunch, and I chose oysters on the half shell, a small salad, and two Long Island iced teas.

  Over one of seven rum and Cokes, she asked, “Is it true that you thought I was the arsonist and murderer?”

  I didn’t lie, nodding. I couldn’t possibly tell her a fib when she already knew the answer to her question because of local gossip at the bakery, First St Catherine’s Church, and the post office.

  Defending myself, I said, “I learned that you had an affair with Peter Rotunda, and he cheated on you. A woman has quite the wrath, which we are both very much aware of. I believed you burned down his bar and accidentally killed his employee to get even.”

  She laughed. “You have a lot of growing to do as a detective, young man. Shame on you. Is it true that you learned those bogus details from Officer Bishop?”

  I didn’t want to throw Officer Cane Bishop under the bus, but I also didn’t want to lie to Margo. “Of course.” It broke the tension and helped to build our respect for each other.

  “Fair enough. No harm, no foul,” she said. Then she rambled about the new romantic series she started writing. The first book of four was called Under Ocean and detailed a kingdom of mermaids and mermen. Margo thought the series would be quite the success and a nice break from her Fire series. “I need to expand my thinking.”

  “Don’t we all?” I replied, getting drunk and actually enjoying my lunch with her.

  * * * *

  In the middle of September, Edgar Sign appeared in my office. He wore a suit, tie, and his top hat. He carried a wooden cane in his right hand, its walnut handle shaped like a dragon breathing fire. A purple handkerchief hung out of his left breast pocket, which I thought dapper. He sat across from me after removing his jacket and hat and leaning his cane in a nearby corner.

  “Mr. Sign.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “A pleasure to see you.”

  “I realize my visit unexpected and unscheduled, therefore, I will make this rather brief.” He sounded mature and arrogant, gaining my respect.

  Thunder boomed outside, a rainstorm at work. A zap of lightning filled the office with yellow light. Neither of us seemed affected.

  Calmly, he said, “I want to personally invite you to spend a weekend at Sign Farm. I owe you that much since the investigation of the Hurricane Bay arsonist and murderer has ended. We are not a devilish group of men and women, my friend. We are not freaks of nature. Nor are we circus animals. We are spectacles called Underground. We are prizes in the world of chaos, young man. And I would like to share with you the ins and outs of my group.”

  “You act as if I have judged you and your followers,” I said, starring directly into his eyes, concerned with his comments, finding them almost rude.

  “Have you?”

  I shook my head. “I have not. Truth is, I find Underground Spectacle intriguing and pleasurable. I was mesmerized the night I visited your farm and wanted to stay longer. Your group means no harm, I have learned. You’re not practicing ungodly rituals, you’re not drinking arsenic-tainted Kool-Aid, and nor are you and your followers religiously motivated. You simply come together as a group and enjoy performing and watching bizarre and unbelievable acts, which I think entertaining and support.”

  “You do judge us,” he said, pinning a stern stare on me.

  “I suppose I do, but only in a positive way.”

  “Which I like.” He smiled, grinning from ear to ear. “Now, my friend, what do you say about my invite?”

  I accepted his invitation, excited about my weekend at Sign Farm, among his followers and their strange talents, hoping to even have a chance to practice a few.

  * * * *

  Bobby Pagino lived at Sign Farm, happy and content there. Through various conversations with the young man, I had learned that he and Edgar Sign were lovers. Bobby practiced eating fire, and he intended to visit his mother in the near future, perhaps around the holidays.

  “Margo loves you more than her writing,” I told Bobby, watching him light a bed of coals on fire.

  Feeling embraced by the light wind and chill, I knew the members of Underground Spectacle would still show for the night’s events, which entailed firewalking and eating, sword throwing and eating, piercings, and other attractions of the Underground world that I interpreted as fascinating, food for the soul, and mesmerizing.

  “She needs to show that she loves me, Axle. I’ve never really felt loved by her.”

  “And you need to earn her love,” I said, being diplomatic, frank, and honest. “You can’t hide yourself from her at the farm. Spend some time with her. Become part of her world, and she will become part of your world.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said, continuing his set-up for the night’s show.

  I knew he would. Bobby could be a smart kid. Both of us just had to give him time to think about his life and his mother. Eventually, he would come around, and Margo would be a part of his world.

  * * * *

  Gregg Hofflander personally invited me to one of his art shows in Miami. A new set of clay figurines were on display at the Seaside House of Art; two wealthy Italian men who were lovers owned the gallery. Hofflander’s called his show The Still-life Women of Clay, and he promised it to be the biggest thing he had done so far. The Italians who owned the art studio were taking the show to Europe, which Hofflander believed would make him known worldwide. His current clay figurines were selling well. His travels east would inevitably create a name for the man; something he looked forward to.

  Two days after the successful show in Miami, I received a Federal Express package from a Mr. Greggory Hofflander. The package arrived in a Seaside House of Art box. Inside the box were lots of Styrofoam peanuts and a clay figurine wrapped in plastic bubble-wrap. The figurine of a young and somewhat emaciated man balanced his upright frame on a bed of rocks. According to note inside the box, written in Hofflander’s indecisive scrawl, he had titled the piece Man on Fire #15, and added a note.

  You were an inspiration to me. Enjoy the gift. See you at one of my future shows. Thank you. GH

  * * * *

  Officer Cane Bishop threw in his badge and resigned from being the mayor of Hurricane Bay. The announcement made it into the Hurricane Bay Informer, and it went viral all over the news. Bishop was a liberal and already had the Republicans in an uproar. Rumor had it that he might be running against a right-wing Monigal.

  Bishop didn’t mind saying to his followers, “A competition isn’t a real fight without a fair battle.”

  * * * *

  Fire Chief Darren Dawe took a leave of absence from the Hurricane Bay Fire Department. He and his wife traveled around the United States for the next year in a Winnebago. Chief Dawe told the citizens of Hurricane Bay that he deserved the trip. I wasn’t one to object with his decision, although some did.

  * * * *

  Sunshine Dane quit working for Peter Rotunda and started a cigarette lighter company. She claimed that, “Lighters are our lives. To enjoy life, you have to enjoy lighters.”

  Rumor had it that Monigal money backed her company. Something told me that Laura invested her cash in the project, having a liking for fire and lighters, but I could never validate the thought.

  * * * *

  Beefy Calvin Bow still studied biology at Estrow University. He also still worked for Peter Rotunda. Peter had hired the man as the head bartender for The Playful Pelican. Between classes and bartending, Calvin dated Sunshine. Marriage for the pair seemed nowhere near in their futures since they were too young. Besides, I knew that neither of them believed in labels, particularly that one.

  * * * *

  Ronnie Shower visited his twin’s grave almost every other day at Grosslin Cemetery. The death of Rudy had caused R
onnie to grow up rather quickly. Sometimes Ronnie took flowers to the grave. Other times, he shared a drink from a stainless-steel flask with his remembered brother. Depression had struck Ronnie, and he thought about seeing a therapist. Thus far, he hadn’t. In due time, he would, I believed. But what did I know?

  Chapter 50: The Widow’s Walk

  Hurricane Bay Beach

  Bungalow 23

  September 27, 20—

  9:48 P.M.

  The new bungalow ended up to be legally in both our names. Our new home grew into everything we imagined it to be: bigger than the last one, equipped with its own dock, wraparound deck, theatre room, three bedrooms, and a widow’s walk on the roof that allowed enough room to fit two small patio chairs and a miniature table. We settled into the place quickly and efficiently. Boxes were unpacked from things we could salvage from the fire, new clothes were purchased, pots and pans, bedding, and few pieces of furniture. The place looked half-decorated by the third week of September, but neither of us really cared, knowing the job would eventually get done by Thanksgiving or Christmas.

  The widow’s walk at the top of the bungalow proved to be private and magnificent at night. A blue twilight mixed with blackness welcomed us to its small area. Casey climbed the narrow ladder to the walk with his longneck beer, and I followed behind, enjoying the sight of his tight ass in front of me. We were both dressed in shorts, no shirts, and were barefoot.

  “I missed you today,” I said, sitting down beside him, having just moved the table from between us to the area behind us.

  “It’s nice to be missed. Someday you won’t have to feel that way when I ask you to marry me.”

  “And when is that someday going to come?”

  “Someday. You’ll have to wait and find out.”

  “I hope it’s sooner than later.”

  “It will be,” he said, sounding confident. We drank from our beers, and he said, “Thanks for being my lover. I actually enjoy spending my days and nights with you. You take the ridiculousness out of life and make it real.”