Big City Heat

by David Burnsworth

  When Cassie had gotten him up with the phone call at two a.m. the Tuesday night before, Brack realized she’d taken up with Mutt. And that Mutt had so-called “retired” on his fire insurance proceeds and moved to Atlanta a year ago to be nearer to his daughter who lived with his ex. Cassie had run a great soul food restaurant in Charleston and opened a similar place in Atlanta. Mutt told Brack she’d convinced her New York City sister, Regan, to join her here. With Regan now missing, Cassie had good reason to be scared.

  Brack assumed that Cassie had called him because he and Mutt were friends. That he and Mutt had already been through a lot together. And that he would do anything for his friend, even driving five hours to help him any way he could.

  Mutt, for all his good qualities, didn’t help matters by neglecting to tell Cassie about his latest business venture—another old beer joint. Brack considered, not for the first time, that the couple’s separate residences allowed Mutt to do pretty much whatever he wanted.

  Pulling into her restaurant’s parking lot, Brack noticed that she’d named her business after herself as she had in Charleston—a similarity she shared with Mutt. Cassie’s stood among a row of premium addresses along Peachtree Street in what was referred to by Atlantans as Midtown. Decorated to look as if it came directly from the lowcountry, its pastel blue shutters were hinged across the top of the windows and propped open at the bottom to provide shade and light at the same time. The window frames were trimmed in white. The only touch missing was a palmetto tree, yet Brack was sure he’d spot one somewhere.

  Not knowing if it was okay for Shelby to come inside, they walked around the perimeter. Because Brack owned two establishments in Charleston—a run-down bar called Pirate’s Cove on the Isle of Palms, and a new place his manager, Paige, was in the process of opening on Kiawah Island—he knew enough about drainage, convenient parking, and entryways and exits to realize that Cassie’s new place appeared well-planned.

  Once the pair made the full loop and faced the entrance again, a squat figure wearing a bright green flowing dress barreled out the door.

  “Hey, handsome!” She threw her short meaty arms around Brack before he could stop her.

  He tried not to squirm. “Good to see you too, Cassie.”

  A few inches over five feet, with thick features all around, this woman was strong enough to force the air out of his lungs.

  Shelby, Brack’s sometimes best friend, gave a jealous bark.

  Cassie released Brack and knelt to give the four-legged lady-killer a more gentle welcome. “How you doin’, baby?”

  Shelby promptly rolled onto his back and let her scratch his belly.

  Brack said, “Thanks for calling me.”

  “You mean it?” She looked up at him. “I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do.”

  “Of course it was. I’m sorry you were threatened.”

  Looking back to Shelby’s tummy rub, she said, “Me too.”

  “Would you be able to recognize them?”

  “No. It was dark and they was wearing masks.”

  Brack didn’t buy it, but let her slide. “If you want to talk about something else, we can.”

  Still kneeling next to Shelby, she said, “No. You come all this way to he’p. And I appreciate it. I had no one else to turn to.” Her voice broke.

  “What about the police?”

  “I filled out all the papers,” she said. “B-but they said not to get my hopes up.” Tears streamed down her worry-lined face.

  Shelby got to his feet, and did his best to lick them away.

  Brack said, “I’ll do what I can to get Regan back.”

  She gave Shelby a kiss and stood, brushing sidewalk dust from her dress. After a deep breath and exhale, she said, “I know you will.”

  Her light skin color accentuated her round face and big brown eyes.

  “Why didn’t Mutt call me himself?”

  Cassie didn’t reply, letting him figure it out.

  Then he understood. “Pride.”

  “He got a lot of that.”

  Me too, Brack thought.

  Hungry from skipping breakfast, Brack looked past her to the restaurant. “You got anything left over from yesterday to eat?”

  “Sure do, hon.”

  Inside, the restaurant was all light pine flooring and pastel blue walls trimmed in white, with framed photos of live oaks and African-American women clothed in the white cotton wraps associated with Gullah.

  No one else was around.

  “Cassie, I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but I suggest you not be here by yourself until this is over.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to me in daylight,” she said, batting a hand in the air. “And I make sure someone walk me to my car at night since them men scared me.”

  He felt her reasoning about safety in daylight was about as good as his own, usually. In this case, dangerously wrong.

  She donned a large apron, and while she fried drumsticks, smashed potatoes, and heated up collards for him, she deboned a plateful of chicken for Shelby.

  With all of them in the kitchen—a health-code violation that came with a hefty fine if found—Brack swallowed a mouthful of delicious cornbread, hoped the inspector wouldn’t show up, and asked about her sister.

  She said, “I love her, but she is one wild child. Always has been.”

  “Is that why you think she’s in trouble?”

  Shaking her head, she said, “I don’t know. I thought when she come here it would all be good. She’d work in the restaurant wit me and Mutt. We’d be family.”

  “Instead, she hit the town, didn’t she?”

  After a moment, Cassie said, “Yes.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “About a month ago. I went over to her apartment.”

  “I’d like to take a look there,” Brack said. “Any chance you have a key?”

  Cassie did have a key. She’d been to Regan’s every other day but said she didn’t do more than just see if her sister was there. As far as Cassie knew, Mutt hadn’t been over there at all, which seemed odd to Brack.

  As Shelby and Brack walked out of Cassie’s place, Mutt rang his cell phone.

  “Where you at?”

  “Leaving Cassie’s. Where are you?”

  “Back home now.”

  “I’ve got the key to Regan’s apartment.”

  “Well, come get me.”

  “Sounds like Shaft is ready to roll,” Brack said, kidding Mutt about his obsession with Richard Roundtree.

  “Cocked and locked.”

  Arriving back at Mutt’s place, Brack guided Shelby into the one-story rental house. His dog wasn’t keen on being left alone, but experience told Brack that walking into someone else’s apartment without permission was hit or miss. He didn’t want Shelby in danger.

  Ten minutes later, with Mutt riding shotgun, Brack plugged Regan’s address into the Porsche’s GPS.

  As they followed the electronic female voice commands through the city, Brack asked, “So where were you this morning?”

  “Had to go to Taliah’s school,” he said. “By the way, we gotta pick her up at three, so get a move on.”

  “Yessir,” Brack said.

  Taliah, Mutt’s exceptionally bright thirteen-year-old daughter, was the reason he’d moved back to Atlanta. Expected to graduate early from high school the following summer, she was already taking college-level courses. In other words, much smarter than Mutt and Brack put together.

  They pulled into a low-income apartment complex. The expensive new German convertible would win them no friends here, but it was too late to turn back now. Brack parked in front of the building with the number Cassie had given. As they exited the car, he wondered if there was anyone watching the apartment. Deciding there probably was, he gave a t
ouch of the door handle, and the car horn beeped to let him and everyone else know the alarm now stood guard.

  White placards with fading black numbers hung on the weathered brown siding of the units. In a small courtyard, four truants around ten years old stopped playing touch football and stared at the salt and pepper pair as they passed.

  Apartment number 212 was up two flights of stairs narrow enough to have Brack question how anyone ever got furniture up or down. Mutt gave Regan’s door two hard raps.

  They waited a few seconds, but the only sound came from the football players below.

  Brack produced the key from Cassie and unlocked the door. They entered and found themselves in very cramped quarters. The entry door split the small living room from an even smaller dining area. Worn gray carpeting. White walls. Popcorn ceiling. A hall ahead of them presumably led to Regan’s bedroom.

  Cassie’s sister had made a modest home for herself, furnished with a decent couch, smallish TV, and a smartphone docking station and sound system. First impression: neat but dusty.

  Brack asked, “Is the rent up to date?”

  “Not sure,” Mutt said. “I’ll check in the back.”

  Not feeling the need to personally go through the woman’s underwear drawers, Brack said, “Have at it. I’ll check around out here.”

  Brack didn’t have to look far. A bong sat on the carpet beside the couch. Under the coffee table a box that originally contained tennis shoes held a small pipe, but no drugs.

  From down the hall, Mutt said, “Hey, Opie? Check this out.”

  Brack placed the box back where he found it and went to the bedroom.

  In contrast to the modest living area, Regan had splurged on the bedroom décor. Pink curtains curled around the tall bedposts of a queen-sized four-poster. Mutt stood by the closet. When he pushed the door open wide, Brack saw leather straps with shiny metal buckles glinting in the closet lighting. They hung from hooks on the back of the door together with coiled whips and pairs of handcuffs.

  He said, “What you think about this, Opie?”

  Brack stood out of arm’s reach of the bondage of Regan’s life. Many thoughts traveled through his mind. No matter what Brack and Mutt looked into since they’d met a few years before, it always ended up involving sex or money. Or both. This situation wouldn’t be any different.

  “Well,” Brack said, “it’s not my thing.”

  “Me neither,” Mutt said. “I knew the girl had problems, but I never thought she was into this stuff. It ain’t new, either. It’s got some miles on it.”

  He lifted a strap to show how worn the leather was.

  Brack spotted a photo on a white dresser. Two women, one Cassie and the other a very attractive, bronze-skinned model wearing a white flower in her hair smiled at him. Regan was a thinner, prettier, younger version of Cassie with the same inquisitive eyes.

  Closer to forty than thirty, Brack realized he’d already seen a lot in his life. Maybe more than most thanks to the Marine Corps and a couple of dead bodies. But probably not as much as Regan had seen in her twenty-five years. He and Mutt left the apartment with nothing but an understanding that this road they decided to follow her down would get darker.

  Chapter Three

  Three p.m.

  Taliah ran to Mutt and gave him a big hug. Not something Brack expected from a teenager, but with her high I.Q. she was not typical in any respect. She seemed very happy that Mutt was back in her life.

  Brack leaned against the door of his car and watched them walk toward him, hand in hand.

  About five-six, Taliah had bright brown eyes and wore her dark hair pulled back into some kind of clip. Like the other girls leaving the private high-school building, she sported the typical uniform skirt and polo. Her broad smile showed off a mouth full of metal. “Hi, Mr. Brack.” She held out a hand.

  Brack shook her hand. “Nice to see you again, Taliah.”

  She had visited her father in Charleston a few times and Brack had met her then.

  “You bring Shelby with you?” she asked.

  “He’s at your father’s house,” Brack said. “Would you be interested in watching him for me some?”

  Her bright eyes got brighter. “Of course!”

  “We better get goin’,” Mutt said, gesturing toward the car.

  “You got a Porsche?” Taliah pronounced it correctly with two syllables. Most people butchered it with one.

  “He sure do,” Mutt said. “You ready to go?”

  “Yeah!”

  She scrambled into the backseat, if you could call it that.

  Brack gently put the seat back so as not to crush her. “Where to?”

  “I’ve got karate with Tara.”

  “The woman from the bar?” Tara had made quite an impression on Brack, something that hadn’t happened in a while.

  “What bar?” Taliah asked.

  Mutt eyed Brack and cleared his throat. “Uh, what he mean is, she look like someone we knew back in Charleston.”

  Brack didn’t reply, realizing that Mutt hadn’t told her about his current occupation. Instead, he let her guide them to a dojo across town. They parked in the mostly empty lot of a small strip mall and went inside the unit that had karate spelled out in lighted red letters over the door.

  The same Tara as from Mutt’s bar met them at a glass display counter and gave Taliah a hug.

  Before Tara could greet the men, Mutt said, “This is Brack, a friend of mine.”

  Tara looked at Mutt for a beat, then turned to Brack. “Nice to meet you. I’m Tara.”

  Smiling, he said, “My pleasure.”

  She turned back to Taliah. “Go change, sweetie.”

  The teenager nodded and disappeared through a doorway.

  When she was out of earshot, Mutt said, “She still don’t know ’bout the bar, okay? He’p me out wit this.”

  “Whatever you say, Shaft.”

  Tara took over.

  “Mutt tells me you were a Marine. They teach you self-defense?”

  “Among other things.” He tried to avoid sounding patronizing so he added, “So you’re a black belt, huh? Bartender at night. Karate instructor by day.”

  “That ain’t all, either,” Mutt said. “She also work with animals.”

  Tara said, “And he doesn’t mean only the ones in the bar.”

  Taliah emerged, dressed in her white karate gi complete with a yellow belt. “Ready to start?”

  Mutt said, “I’ll see you on Saturday, honey.”

  His daughter kissed him, then shook Brack’s hand.

  Tara said, “Let me know if you boys want some training.”

  They circled back to Mutt’s one-story rental. He had to head to Cassie’s and help get things started for the Thursday-night-dinner crowd. Because she was still building a business, she was open every evening.

  Shelby deserved a treat for being such a good boy in Mutt’s house, and Brack wanted to do something special for him. Mutt had suggested a small park not far away, so that’s where they ate dinner, a sub sandwich from a food truck for Brack and Eukanuba from a large bag stashed in the car’s trunk for Shelby. They washed their meals down with bottled water and played fetch with Shelby’s favorite worn tennis ball until almost dark, when they made their way back.

  Around eleven, after a nap, Brack left Shelby at the house and drove to Mutt’s crumbling bar. “Let the Good Times Roll” by The Cars blasted through the Porsche’s speakers. Feeling good, he turned into the parking lot behind the bar and saw a small group of people gathered there, Tara being one of them.

  Three men in biker garb stood near their chrome-laden motorcycles, each wearing the standard leather and basic black t-shirt. Their skin tone ran the gamut of color. Two were about Brack’s height and build, the third bigger still with some machine-gun pectorals on him. It didn�
�t take a rocket scientist to see this was no friendly gathering.

  A small man next to Tara got in the face of the biggest biker. One punch in the nose and the little man dropped to the ground. Tara pushed the biker and he tried to backhand her across the face, but she instantly blocked it and jabbed him in the ribs.

  Brack took a flying leap and caught the two bikers who were his size with his extended arms across their necks in a clothesline. The three of them fell over the bikes with Brack on top of his targets. He drove his fists repeatedly into their scraggly faces.

  The big one grabbed the back of Brack’s shirt and threw him against a parked SUV. Brack ducked to avoid a left hook. The guy’s gigantic fist smashed through the SUV’s back window, not an easy feat. From behind, Tara kicked the giant in the groin. He grunted and collapsed to the ground holding his privates.

  Tara and Brack caught their breath. The two Brack had clotheslined recovered and came at them, taking the fight up a notch. One pulled a switchblade, the other a baton. The blade swished through the air inches from Brack’s face. He stepped in with two hard cuts to the guy’s ribcage and the knife dropped to the ground.

  Tara took a blow to the shoulder from the goon with the baton, but rallied and dropped the guy with a roundhouse kick to his head. Brack finished off the now knife-less assailant with an uppercut to the jaw.

  Their monster friend stood, grunted again, and charged. Tara tripped him, and as he fell, Brack elbowed the goon in the face. He hit the ground again. This time he did not get up.

  Mutt and several others ran out from the bar’s rear door, but nothing remained for them to do. Brack stooped, hands on thighs, until he caught his breath. Tara massaged her shoulder.

  “You two all right?” Mutt asked.

  “You know it,” Brack said, “but you better call the police.” To Tara, he asked, “You okay?”

  She rotated her arm, regaining flexibility. “I’ll be fine.” She looked down at the small man who’d been with her. “How you doing, Darnel?”

  He held a bloody tissue to his nose.