Big City Heat

by David Burnsworth

“There won’t be no vacuum effect,” Brother Thomas said.

  “I’m not sure I understand what you two are really saying.” Cleophus scratched his chin. “But I’ll go along since both of you are saying the same thing.”

  The last time Brother Thomas and Brack agreed on something, they almost set a course for their own incarceration. Brack had to keep in mind that he didn’t need to once again drag his good friend into the gutter with him.

  That good friend then asked, “How is Trish doing?”

  “Great. She’s got this luxury cabin at the top of a mountain and complete access to my dog, who by the way, has the run of the place. And his diet is shot.”

  “So what’s our plan?” Cleophus asked.

  Brack wanted to say, “Kill Vito and drag Regan back to Cassie.” Didn’t, though.

  As if sensing Brack’s reluctance to answer, Brother Thomas said, “We gotta see exactly who Vito reports to.”

  A rap on the counter had them turn around, where Brack hoped that information was about to be shared.

  Darcy smiled. “You guys need to be more careful. The door wasn’t locked. I thought the whole reason you’re staying at the hotel is to protect Mutt.”

  Brother Thomas said, “You can’t be sneaking up on us, girl.”

  “Sorry if I scared you, Brother,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

  Flustered, he said, “Well, okay then.”

  Brack said, “Rogue reporters are always lurking about.”

  “Save it.” She held up her printouts. “Who wants to read about Marcus Valenzueala?”

  Cleophus said, “I seen you on the news. You’re real good, Miss.” He introduced himself.

  Darcy shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Reverend. And thank you.”

  Brack said, “Are you going to share the file or just taunt us?”

  She looked at Brack but handed the file to Brother Thomas.

  As if suddenly thirsty, Brack stood, got four glasses out of Mutt’s kitchen cupboard, and filled them with ice and sweet tea. Back in Charleston, Mutt’s home was always clean but had slightly fewer accommodations than his current digs. Sweet tea being one of them.

  As the glasses were handed around, Darcy reviewed the contents of the police file aloud. This Marcus was an interesting fellow. Seventy years old, he ran a very large empire that, in addition to Mexico, stretched across the southeast United States, from Texas to Florida to Virginia. The file showed his specialty to be methamphetamine, but he also ran girls and guns, whatever and wherever the demand was.

  Cleophus said, “Meth seems low-rent for Vito.”

  “I agree,” Darcy said. “I think he tolerates it in order to keep in good standing with his grandfather, Marcus.”

  “That might be how we get to him,” Brack said.

  Brother Thomas asked, “How does this Marcus get around the competition?”

  Darcy said, “He tries to eliminate it where he can. Otherwise seems they all have loose agreements that are always in flux.”

  “With Kualas out of the picture,” Brack said, “apparently thanks to me and Nichols, Vito now has the run of the city.”

  A little before nine p.m. a knock at the front door interrupted their conversation. Brack went to see who it was. Tara and her brother stood on the stoop holding two white shopping bags.

  She held up hers. “We brought Chinese.”

  Her brother said, “Enough for an army.”

  “Good,” Brack said, “because an army is what’s here.”

  He led them to the kitchen and got plates out of a cupboard while they set out the food. The good Reverends eyed the food like vultures homing in on a fresh kill.

  All exchanged the latest news and shared the great takeout until they were stuffed. Then, after they’d cleaned up and cracked wise over their fortune cookies, they sat around Mutt’s living room discussing their next moves. Generally Brack preferred stirring the pot and seeing what popped up. But Vito did not rattle easy. Certainly not as easily as his goons.

  Wanting input from Mutt, they took two cars to the hospital to visit with him and Cassie, who’d been moved out of the ICU.

  Mutt was sitting in Cassie’s room when the group walked in. He looked at the six of them and chuckled. “Dang if y’all don’t look like you belong on one a’ them bad reality shows.”

  Tara gave him a hug. “Very funny, Clarence.”

  At the sound of his given name, the smile left Mutt’s face. Brack knew he hated his name.

  “I ain’t never seen you without a quick comeback,” Brother Thomas said. “I’ll have to remember that, mm-hmm.”

  Darcy asked Mutt how Cassie was.

  “She’s a strong woman. Have to be to put up wit me. She’s doin’ better than yesterday.”

  “Good,” Brack said. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m sicka hospital food, that’s how I am.”

  Darnel held up a bag with what remained to feed the army. “This should make you happy.”

  Mutt opened the bag, saw the Chinese food containers, and gave a big grin.

  Darcy said. “Eat something. We’ll sit with Cassie for a while.”

  Darcy left to film a segment. The church men wanted to stay and pray over Cassie. Mutt and Brack rode with Tara and Darnel into the city in her SUV. And Brack reflected on life.

  Whenever the hygrometer pegged with near hundred percent humidity in Charleston, nights became so hot and sticky that the Pirate’s Cove sold out of longnecks and whisky sours. The live band playing on stage got the sunburnt crowd up and dancing, all inhibition left in the backwash of their shotglasses. A charge of energy radiated around the mass of people with a feeling Brack could only describe as pure electricity.

  Tonight, Friday night, Atlanta, the self-proclaimed Capital of the South, felt like that. It might have been seeing Darcy and knowing things would never again be the same between them. Or Tara and Darnel wanting to give Mutt a break from hospital vigil by taking him for a night on the town. Brack was sure the former had no permanent cure, but he hoped his new friends understood what they’d signed up for in suggesting the latter. Mutt, Brack knew, was so wound up from sequestering himself in that small room with the blinking monitors that he’d be like the Tasmanian Devil as soon they reached whatever destination they had in mind.

  A city of almost half-a-million people, Atlanta provided an infinite choice of entertainment. With Tara in the car, Brack wouldn’t have to worry that Mutt would demand they head to the closest gentlemen’s club. They settled on an older bar known for having the best Motown and R&B cover band in town.

  Get Back, the name of the establishment, was already hopping when Brack, et al, joined the frenzy a shade past ten. The night crowd represented the full gamut of the color chart but seemed predominantly African-American. With Vito’s crew white and Hispanic, Brack thought that here, at least, they’d have a good chance of avoiding any nasty confrontations.

  Mutt led the charge to the bar. He ordered three tequila shots with beer chasers for the non-teetotalers among them, Tara, her brother, and himself. For Brack, he ordered a Coke. They toasted Vito’s imminent demise, and Brack’s three companions then licked salt, downed shots, and sucked on lime.

  There were times when Brack missed feeding the beast. The slow burn down the throat. The dulled senses. The temporary fade of memories.

  But tonight was not one of those times. Every day he felt the loss of his late wife, Jo. And soon he’d have to deal all over again with losing Darcy. But right now his friend Mutt was hurting and needed a diversion. Tonight was for him.

  While Brack talked with Tara, Darnel and Mutt chatted up two fifty-year-old women who didn’t seem to be visiting Get Back for only the music. They had squeezed size-twelve bodies into size-ten outfits and inhaled clove vapor while tickling the stems of their wineglasses. The band lived up to its
reputation, hopping from Ray Charles to the Commodores to Stevie Wonder without a hiccup. It didn’t take long before the group jumped up from their seats to hit the dance floor. Mutt led one of the cougars. Darnel caught the other. And Tara and Brack once again paired nicely, though he worked to keep up with her. She anticipated every move he threw at her, spinning into and out of his arms as if they’d been practicing for years, instead of only a single night before—the night his car blew up.

  During a slow number, Brack caught sight of Mutt dirty dancing with his quick picker-upper. Darnel had already disappeared from the dance floor with his. Brack also noticed a few sneers directed his way from some of the men in the place. He figured they disliked seeing a white man with a black woman—especially a woman as eye-catching as Tara. Not that it bothered Brack. If push came to shove, he and Tara could take on most of them without much effort.

  At the break he and his dance partner found two seats at the bar. Brack laid down a five and asked for two waters.

  The bartender pocketed the bill and filled the two glasses.

  When the bartender moved on to serve someone else, Brack said, “You realize we may have to drag Mutt away from that woman out there, don’t you?”

  “I thought about it,” she said. “But he and Cassie are not doing that well right now anyway.”

  Not the impression Brack had gotten when Cassie originally called him, all upset about her sister missing and worried about Mutt’s doings. Or when Cassie was beaten and Mutt practically lived at the hospital. Brack didn’t reply.

  She continued, “I’m more worried about Darnel. His date is twice his age.”

  He nodded. “It was good of you two showing up with food and joining us at the hospital.”

  “This whole situation is crazy,” she said.

  At that moment, Brack felt something jab into his back. He guessed it was a pistol, a familiar sensation that always led to pain and suffering in one form or another.

  A voice said, “Why don’t we step outside, Pelton.” It wasn’t a question.

  Glancing at Tara, Brack saw her wide-eyed stare. A man stood behind her too, his hand on her shoulder. Brack guessed his other hand similarly had a gun stuck in her back.

  Brack said, “I’m happy right where I am. So is she.”

  “I’m not gonna ask again,” the voice said, rising in volume.

  From behind, Brack heard Mutt say, “Good,” then the sound of glass smashing on his captor’s head.

  As soon as the gun left his back, Brack threw an elbow and caught the man in the nose. In the same instant, the man behind Tara hesitated, as if stunned by his partner being taken out. Tara spun around, twisted the gun from the goon’s hand, and slammed the butt of it into the side of his face. He joined his buddy on the floor.

  Things happened even faster after that. Brack grabbed Tara’s free hand and they followed Mutt toward the emergency exit at the back of the night club.

  But three men formed a blockade between them and the exit door. Their mistake, because Brack grabbed the gun still in Tara’s hand, a nine millimeter, and pointed it at the men.

  As soon as the three thugs reached for their own pistols, Brack pulled the trigger six times, nailing each of them twice. The Marines had taught him not to waste shots.

  The men went down and Brack, Tara, and Mutt stepped over them, bounding out the back door expecting its alarm to go off. It didn’t. Tara quickly tossed Brack her keys. Five feet from her 4Runner, he pressed the unlock button. The three of them each opened a different door and discovered Darnel in a compromised position with his elder date. He must have had his own key to the truck.

  The woman with him screamed.

  Mutt yelled, “Shove over!” and climbed in the backseat over them.

  Tara and Brack jumped in the front seats. Brack started the engine and got them out of there in a hurry.

  The woman screamed again.

  Tara turned around and Brack thought she would slap the screamer. Instead, in her soft Mr. Grumpy voice, she said, “Calm down. We’re not kidnapping you.”

  In the rearview mirror, Brack saw the woman trying to cover herself with her dress. Fat chance of cramming herself back into her size ten from her current position despite all the deep breaths she took.

  Tara continued her explanation. “Someone started shooting up the club so we thought it best to leave.”

  Brack guessed that wanting to avoid further spooking the poor embarrassed woman, Tara chose to omit the detail that he’d been the one shooting up the club.

  “What about Wanda?” the woman said.

  Mutt said, “Don’t you worry ’bout yo’ friend. She made it out okay.”

  The certainty in his voice told Brack more than he really wanted to know.

  To make sure they weren’t followed, Brack took a few erroneous turns. Then Mutt said, “Let me know when you think we in the clear, Opie.”

  “We’re okay,” Brack said. “No one’s tailing us.”

  “In that case,” Mutt said, “follow this for a few blocks. I’ll tell you where to turn.”

  Brack followed his directions and they ended up parked at a meter outside a run-down hotel not far from the Get Back club where they’d been. Tara, Mutt, and Brack got out of the SUV to give Darnel and his date time to get dressed.

  Tara leaned against her 4Runner and put her head in her hands. “This is so crazy.”

  Now would have been a great time for a cigar, except for Brack’s memory of the trash can.

  To Mutt he said, “Thanks for showing up when you did.”

  Mutt sucked on vapor and exhaled. “I was actually comin’ over to let you know I was leavin’.”

  A detail came to mind that Brack had skimmed over before, but with Tara standing nearby, he didn’t speak.

  Darnel exited the vehicle and Tara said to him, “I didn’t know you still had a key to my 4Runner.”

  He gave a smirk and shrugged. “Sorry about that, sis.”

  Mutt said, “Good thing he did or he’d still be back in the club.”

  “Yeah,” Tara said. “A real good thing.” Her voice lacked conviction.

  Thirty more seconds passed without another word spoken and Brack wondered if Darnel’s date was ever coming out of the backseat.

  When the door finally opened, the woman shimmied out. She said, “Darnel, sweetie? Can you zip my back?”

  Brack had to give her an A for effort. It couldn’t have been easy getting into that outfit again, especially in the backseat of someone else’s vehicle.

  Darnel managed to raise her zipper, moving in close and whispering something in her ear.

  She giggled.

  He then turned to the others. “Um, we’re gonna check out the inside of this here establishment. Don’t worry about us. We’ll take a cab later.”

  Brack said, “Mutt, maybe you should make sure this place is safe for them.”

  Mutt gave him a sideways smirk and said, “Okay, Opie. I think I’ll do that. You two can take off. The po-lice are probably lookin’ for three people fittin’ our descriptions. Best to split up anyways.”

  Tara shook her head no when Brack offered to return her keys.

  A mile down the road, he said, “You’ll have to direct me where to go.”

  Tara looked straight ahead. “Men can be such pigs.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. Mutt’s date was already at that hotel. It’s why he directed you there.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “You certainly thought it. Even gave him a really lame cover story.”

  “It was his choice.”

  “You could’ve talked him out of it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, maybe was worth trying for, don’cha think? I mean, his woman is in the hospital and he’s out looking to g
et his rocks off?”

  “Personally,” Brack said, “those two ladies gave me the willies. I would have steered clear of anything beyond the dance floor with either of them.”

  He couldn’t answer for Mutt’s intentions.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Friday, eleven p.m.

  Tara kept quiet for the rest of the drive back to Mutt’s house. When Brack pulled into the drive and got out, she said she needed to get home, bade him goodnight, and drove off.

  Gunplay wound Brack up like a coiled spring. With sleep out of the question for a while, he pulled out his phone to call Darcy, only to find three messages from her that he’d missed. She already knew about the shooting. He hit the call back button.

  She answered on the first ring. “I’m on my way to Get Back. Whatever did you guys get yourselves into?”

  “I’m guessing it was Levin and his goons. They took us by surprise.”

  “One of them is dead, and the rest are seriously injured. Levin wasn’t among them.”

  “They pulled guns on us,” Brack said.

  “Detective Nichols has an A.P.B. out on you.”

  There were times he felt like the dumbest man on earth. A lot of those times occurred in the vicinity of Darcy Wells. He’d first gotten to know her the two years prior to her abandoning Charleston and moving here, so if he were placing bets, he’d put all he had on his next move.

  He said, “I’m heading to my hotel. Why don’t you meet me there?”

  “Give me ten minutes.”

  The call ended.

  If that had been a real bet, Brack would have doubled his money. He knew Darcy would always go for the exclusive, which she’d get from him on the ride back to the bar—before he made his statement to the police. And he’d get to spend a little more time with her before he went to jail. A one-sided win-win if there ever was one.

  After giving Darcy the details, leaving out only Mutt’s alleged clandestine interlude, Brack surrendered the pistol he’d used and turned himself in to Nichols. He was read his rights, got a pleasant ride into the city in a new cruiser, but skipped the usual fingerprinting and paperwork. Instead, he was again escorted directly to an interrogation room. Staring at his reflection in the phony mirror, he realized how much older he looked since the last time he’d been in the same position. Was it only a year ago? He wondered, not for the first time, why he kept putting himself in situations that landed him in this kind of place.