Blu Heat

by David Burnsworth

  And now he was back in a position where he had to risk losing Shelby to Trish. All because he loved the action. How stupid could he be?

  At the moment, Shelby deserved better than Brack. He deserved Trish. He said, “I’m bringing him over now.”

  Figuring that Pelton would stay in town and set himself up as a target for the killer, Blu staked out the kid’s home. Parked up the street from Brack Pelton’s house, Blu got lucky and caught Pelton and his dog returning from a run. Blu didn’t enjoy running, but did it to keep his wind up. He’d been slowly reducing the number of Camels he smoked, down from a pack a day high to somewhere around three cigarettes. The next step, he knew, would be the electronic ones. He liked the habit that kept his hands and mouth preoccupied. Freud might have said something about an oral fixation, but that was just being petty, in Blu’s opinion. The good doctor was most likely a nutjob.

  Before Blu could decide whether or not to approach Pelton, the kid exited his house with the dog again. They got in the shiny pickup truck parked in the sand drive and backed onto the street. When the pickup drove away, Blu noted the time of eleven a.m. and went with tailing it to see where Pelton headed next.

  It was a short trip. A few minutes later, Pelton pulled to a stop at the gated entrance of an exclusive neighborhood on the island. Blu drove past, scoping out a place to park and wait for Pelton to leave. He found nothing but palmetto trees lining the road. Driving a vehicle like his old Land Cruiser made it easy to fake car trouble. The Toyota was more reliable than just about anything else in Blu’s life, except for maybe Dink and Doofus’ desire for fresh produce.

  No one gave him a second look as he made a U-turn and parked between two of the trees. From experience, he knew he couldn’t linger more than an hour or so. Hopefully Pelton wasn’t there for an all-night poker game.

  Brack pulled into the driveway of Chauncey and Trish Connors’s home. Shelby was sitting up in the backseat of the truck, already barking. It was as if he knew where he was going and was glad to be there.

  He barreled out of the truck when Brack opened the back door. Brack watched his dog run up the drive.

  Trish Connors stood in the garage door opening and knelt to receive her sometime companion. Mid-sixties, she was the most elegant lady Brack knew: tall, in shape thanks to personal trainer visits, tan, and well-dressed, even when casual.

  Her husband and Brack’s lawyer, Chauncey, stood beside her, a coffee mug in his hand. His bowtie was off but he still wore dark slacks and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He must have come home for lunch.

  “Heard about the shootin’, Brack,” he said in his Charlestonian brogue. “I waited to hear from you, but when I didn’t I assumed you were still in good standing with the police.”

  Brack walked up and shook Chauncey’s offered hand. “Not exactly. They’ll have more questions, I’m sure.”

  “They always do.” The lawyer took a sip of his coffee.

  Trish was too busy making a fuss over Shelby to join the conversation.

  “Thanks for taking in Shelby. I thought it best to take precaution.”

  Chauncey nodded. “One of the shooters is still out they-ah, is that right?”

  Brack took out a half-smoked cigar and lit up. “Yes. The chief says they’re brothers. And they have an FBI file.”

  “That’s not good. What can I do to help?”

  “Keep me out of jail if it comes to that.”

  Trish finally spoke up. “Why don’t I take Shelby inside so you two can talk?”

  Brack thought that even someone as slow-witted as himself could see through her ruse. She played a good game of being considerate, but Brack knew she was just trying to separate him from Shelby. He said nothing, mentally kicking himself again for being in need of her dog-sitting services.

  To make matters worse, Shelby didn’t even look back at him this time. He dutifully followed her into the house, his mind on his new master and the attention and dog treats she would bestow upon him.

  Chauncey said, “Don’t worry about Trish. I hid her passport.”

  “That still leaves one heck of a big country she could hide in.”

  The lawyer smiled. “I also have LoJack on both our cars. I don’t think she knows what it is.”

  The statement didn’t give Brack a warm-and-fuzzy. The Connors had enough money that Trish could be across the Mississippi River with Shelby before Chauncey knew anything was up. Again Brack kept quiet, telling himself this was just his paranoia setting in.

  Soon this would be over and he and Shelby would be back to normal, playing fetch on the beach together, wasting away their days in pure lowcountry bliss. But not before he got his next action fix.

  Chapter Seven

  Blu was glad he didn’t have to wait a long time for Pelton to leave the secure community. He watched the shiny white pickup truck exit through the gates and make a right turn, heading back the way it had come. There weren’t many cars on the road at the present time so Blu let Pelton get a hundred yards before heading after him.

  This Brack Pelton character didn’t seem to be a bad guy. He sure stuck it to those hit men. At least one of them, anyway. And Blu appreciated that.

  A haunting question wouldn’t leave his mind: Why did Skip choose that bar? Was it random? Certainly wasn’t anything random about that Colt Python in Pelton’s hand. Guns were a necessary evil. One that Blu only courted when the stakes got high. Like right now.

  When he’d walked in the bar and got drawn on by Pelton, he wasn’t carrying anything but his wallet, two cigarettes, and a lighter. Now, though—now he carried his own cannon, a nine millimeter Berretta just like in Desert Storm. It’d served him well there and served him well since. At home was his other favorite, a Glock. And that Army-designated M24 Remington rifle he’d used to win more than a few competitions.

  As U2’s “I Will Follow” played on the Land Cruiser’s tape deck, Blu tailed Pelton down Palm Boulevard and across the bridge onto Sullivan’s Island, where it turned into Jasper Boulevard. With two vehicles in between them, the closest a Jeep Wrangler with some lucky guy hauling around three bikini-topped women and the other a new Mini, Blu hoped at least one of the cars stayed behind Pelton through the upcoming stop sign.

  Luck was with Blu again. Pelton turned right onto Ben Sawyer Boulevard and headed off the island. And so did the Jeep. The three-car convoy—Brack, the Jeep, and Blu—crossed over the intra-coastal waterway and into the town of Mount Pleasant.

  If Blu had been counting blessings, the second one, after the Jeep had stayed between them, was that they hadn’t gotten stuck at the Ben Sawyer Bridge when it sometimes rotated out of the way for sailboat traffic to pass below in the intra-coastal.

  The Jeep took a right onto Chuck Dawley Boulevard toward I-526 while Pelton stayed straight toward downtown Charleston. At this point, other cars had joined them, and Blu didn’t need the Jeep for cover anymore. As long as he kept a few cars between them, he felt he could hang back all the way into downtown.

  They crossed the massive Arthur Ravenel, Jr. Bridge, the one that had changed the face of the city ten years ago, and onto the Charleston peninsula. Things got more complicated when Pelton followed what was now Seventeen, turned right onto King Street, and parked in front of a store that sold musical instruments. A store Blu knew all too well.

  Blu said, “No way.”

  Brack had been followed enough times to know to listen to his instincts. And from the time he left Chauncey’s he sensed someone following him. It took a few moments to spot the tail—an old Toyota Land Cruiser—and a few more moments to figure out who it was—that Blu Carraway PI.

  As soon as he spotted the tail, Brack made a quick call to his aunt, who ran one of the local papers as well as the Channel Nine news. It went to voicemail, so he’d called the switchboard and was transferred to her office.

&nbs
p; His aunt, Patricia Voyels, answered with, “Are you okay?”

  “Trish must have called,” he said, heading up the Ravenel Bridge toward Charleston.

  “No,” she said. “I do know a little about what’s going on around here, Brack.”

  He thought, then why haven’t you called?

  As if reading his mind, she said, “The Isle of Palms chief said you were okay. I guessed you’d be calling me eventually, and here you are.”

  “I’m glad I’m so predictable.”

  “And I’ll bet you need a favor,” she said. “That seems to be the only reason you call these days, nephew. You know, it wouldn’t hurt for you to spend some time with your aunt.”

  Darcy’s gone and Patricia reminded him of her.

  Again, as if sensing his reluctance, she said, “Don’t worry about it. We’re all pretty busy these days. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m guessing when you found out the details of the shooting at the Pirate’s Cove, you had your staff do some research.”

  “Of course.”

  “I need to know what you have on Blu Carraway.”

  He heard her shuffle through some papers.

  Then, she said, “Interesting fellow. Ex-Army Ranger. Solid citizen. My sources say he’s very tough.”

  Yeah right. He said, “The cops have got nothing on this guy.”

  “Because they don’t have my connections.”

  “Well, dear aunt, what do your connections say about our solid citizen?”

  She said, “You know Adam Kincaid?”

  “The banker?” Brack had read about him in the news. Some big shot with a lot of clout.

  “In the simplest terms, I suppose he is a banker.”

  “What about him?” He looked in the rearview mirror at the old Land Cruiser following, thinking, “And hurry up because I need something fast.”

  She said, “Someone kidnapped his daughter while she was on vacation. When the police and the feds couldn’t get her back, one of Adam’s friends suggested he call in a specialist.”

  “Don’t tell me this Carraway guy got her back.”

  “From Mexico. He and his partner, a biker named Mick Crome. The information I have is that the two of them killed six high-ranking members of one of the cartels there in the process.”

  “Why isn’t he dead, then?”

  “Because, dear nephew, he apparently cut a deal with the other cartel members. He would get the girl back and they would have some internal competition eliminated.”

  “A win-win, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Okay,” Brack said. “I need something a little more immediate. Is he married?”

  “No. But he has a daughter.”

  Something told Brack not to mess with Carraway’s daughter. “What else?”

  “You know Willie’s Music on King?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s been known to associate with the owner.”

  At the moment he’d heard this, the King Street exit was coming up. “Perfect.”

  Brack ended the call and took the exit.

  Who did this guy think he was dealing with, some civilian? Pulling to a stop in front of Willie’s Music would certainly take the snot out of the Ex-Ranger-cum-Private Investigator’s nose.

  So Brack did just that.

  Chapter Eight

  Blu did not hide his anger. He parked directly behind Pelton, got out of the Land Cruiser, and walked to the driver’s side of the pickup.

  Pelton got out just in time for Blu to get in his face.

  “You think this is some kind of game?”

  The kid didn’t flinch. “Why are you tailing me?”

  “That killer you missed is going to want to square things with you for killing his brother.”

  Pelton leaned against his truck and folded his arms. “So I guess you’ll wait until he makes his move on me, hit or miss, and then take him out for killing your friend.”

  “Something like that.”

  To passersby, it must have looked like two men just hanging out on King Street, making cars go around them. The area was just now getting gentrified but hadn’t made it all the way yet.

  Pelton said, “Why don’t we work together on this?”

  Blu said, “I don’t need some amateur slowing me down.”

  He frowned. “Sorry that’s the way you feel.”

  Blu ignored the comment because something else was nagging at him. “How’d you find the connection to me and this store?”

  “I just pulled over when I saw you.”

  Blu got in Pelton’s face again. “No you didn’t. You leave Billie out of this. You want a war with the shooter and me, you’ll get one.”

  Pelton stood straight and looked like he was about to try and shove Blu off him.

  Before that could happen, Billie stormed out of the building. “You two get the hell away from my store. You’re scaring my customers.”

  Blu took his attention off Pelton, probably a mistake. But he couldn’t help it. The aura of the woman that was Billie Day stared—no, glared—at him.

  He said, “Hi, Billie.” Every time he saw her, he wished he were a better man. He loved her light brown skin, her curvy hips, her short bob hairstyle, and her attitude.

  “Don’t you ‘Hi, Billie’ me, Blu. What are you doing bringing your trouble here in front of my store? You know better than this.”

  Pelton said, “It’s my fault, ma’am.”

  With hands on nice hips, she said, “I’ve never seen you before.” She nodded at Blu. “I know him and he knows this is my store. How do you figure it’s your fault?”

  “Mr. Carraway was following me. He didn’t know I knew he was. I want him to agree to work with me, so I thought I’d show him how good my sources are. They told me he was associated with the owner of this store.”

  “And you figured by leading him here, you’d rattle him?” She took a long look at Blu. “Looks like you succeeded.”

  Pelton smirked.

  Blu wanted to deck the smug bastard. Instead, he took a calming breath, walked back to his SUV, and drove away. In the rearview mirror, he watched Pelton continue to talk with Billie. That annoyed him even more than getting made in the tail. If that other killer didn’t get Pelton, Blu entertained himself thinking about how he could do the job for him.

  Brack smiled at the woman, a light-skinned African-American about a decade his senior. Pretty, with a body closer to Kardashian than Swift. He understood why Carraway liked her. He liked her, too.

  She watched Blu drive away and then turned her glare on him. “Blu’s a good man, but he doesn’t take things lying down. I know you think you’re so smart for leading him here. But all you did was piss him off.”

  “I want to work with him.”

  Her hands were on hips Brack would rate somewhere around perfect. “You said that already.” She cracked a smile. “If that’s what you want, you don’t drop a boulder on him. Blu needs finesse.”

  “Is that what you do?”

  The smile left. “You are pushing it.”

  “How about if I buy you a cup of coffee and make it up to you?”

  “How about if you take that cocky attitude and shove it where the sun don’t shine. I can see why Blu doesn’t want to work with you. You’re all balls and no brains.”

  Brack said, “I’ve been called worse.” Although not by a woman this pretty in a while.

  She turned back to the store. “And when I walk inside you’ll be all alone. I’m guessing that’s how you really like it.”

  That one hit deep. He really didn’t like being alone, but always seemed to end up that way. At least since his wife Jo had passed. And since Darcy moved to Atlanta.

  The woman named Billie made her way toward the door to her st
ore.

  Brack’s phone buzzed in his pocket, jarring him from his thoughts. He took it out, read the display, and answered the call as he watched the woman’s curves. “Hey, Brother Thomas.”

  The woman stopped in midstride and turned around, catching him looking.

  He snapped his eyes to her face, a tad late.

  On the phone, Brother Thomas said, “You alright, Brother Brack? I just heard you had a shootin’ at yo’ place.”

  “I’m still here,” Brack said. “No new holes.”

  Brack’s friend and pastor chuckled. “Glad to hear it. Why don’t you come by and tell me about it when you can.”

  Still looking at the woman, Brack asked, “Say, Brother, you know a woman named Billie? Works at Willie’s Music on King, not too far from your church.”

  The look Billie gave him was a lot different than the look just before she had started to walk away. Gone was the anger.

  Brother Thomas said, “Yeah, I know Billie. Pretty as the day is long. She sings like a bird, too. Sometimes she come to the church and sing on Sunday morning. What about her?”

  Brack smiled at Billie. “I’m looking at her. You wanna talk to her?”

  “She there? Yeah, I wanna talk to her.”

  Billie looked at Brack’s iPhone when he handed it to her.

  Brother Thomas spoke loud enough for both of them to hear with the phone between them. “Billie, that you?”

  She took the phone and put it to her ear. “Hey, Brother Thomas. How you doin’?”

  The thought that came to mind while he watched Billie talk to Brother Thomas was that he should have called the pastor earlier. The man knew everything that happened in the African-American community of Charleston. Besides, messing with a man’s woman was a surefire way to get shot. Billie was right about him sometimes being all balls and no brains. This was a perfect example.