Southern Heat

by David Burnsworth

  He took the number. “Thank you, young man. I surely will.”

  I left him there and headed back the two blocks alone, thinking this was a big waste of my time, if not his. At the Mustang, I pressed the alarm remote and reached for the door handle. Someone grabbed my shoulder. On instinct, I dropped my keys to free my hands. Something stiff pressed against the back of my head.

  Mutt’s voice was low and serious. “You better tell me why you here axing questions before I blow your brains all over this shiny ride.”

  “Mutt!” Brother Thomas yelled from a distance. “Don’t do it!”

  “Stay outta this, Brother,” Mutt shot back.

  I kept calm and formulated a plan.

  “It’s . . . not . . .” Brother Thomas huffed from a closer distance, “what you . . . think.” He must have been running.

  Mutt moved closer to my ear. His breath felt like a bad fog. Spittle sprayed the side of my face when he spoke. “I smoked a lot of camel jockeys in Desert Storm. One white boy ain’t gonna make a big splash on the list.”

  He tried to spin me around and I decided his one chance at me was over. I jammed an elbow in his face. The blow caught him off guard and he staggered backwards a step. I followed with a fast uppercut. My fist made solid contact with the underside of his chin. His head jerked back like a Pez dispenser followed by the rest of him. When he landed on the ground, the gun dropped from his hand. I picked up the pistol and my keys and scanned the area. A small crowd had gathered. Brother Thomas stood facing me, stooped over with hands on his beefy thighs and gasping from his run. Mutt was out cold.

  In Afghanistan, I’d been assigned to Recon and volunteered for point every chance I got. With my wife gone, getting blown up seemed like a good idea. The commanding officers mistook my suicidal tendencies for leadership ability and promoted me. The problem with my military plan turned out to be quick reflexes—real quick reflexes. The kind that won car races. And fights.

  “Brother Thomas,” I said, “you wanna revise your story?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Elmore James’s voice filled Mutt’s Bar from the speakers of the vintage jukebox. As the old blues master sang about swinging a broom, Brother Thomas asked the bar patrons to leave. The ones who’d seen me take the gun from Mutt made a few threats.

  To the exiting crowd, Brother Thomas said, “If Mr. Pelton or his car leaves here any different than they arrived, there will be hell to pay.” He locked the door behind them.

  Brother Thomas and I had found an old first-aid kit underneath the bar, and after we dragged Mutt inside took smelling salts from the kit to wake him.

  Mutt stood unsteadily behind the bar and wrapped ice in a towel. He put it to his swelling nose, groaned, and said, “You one fast white boy, Opie.”

  Brother Thomas watched the bartender. “Not the smartest move you could’ve made, mm-hmm.”

  Mutt said, “Reggie was killed, man. You think we ain’t next?”

  I sat on the same stool as before. The gun was still in my possession, stuffed down the front of my shorts. Its handle stuck out the top of my waistband and jabbed me in the stomach. I said, “What did you do in Desert Storm, wash dishes?”

  Mutt jutted out his chin. “Fifty-first infantry. You?”

  “In Afghanistan, Recon, among other things.”

  Mutt repositioned the icepack. “I heard it was crazy over there. You don’t know who you should be shooting at.”

  “I got out just in time.”

  “Brother Brack,” Brother Thomas said.

  “Just Brack.”

  “Brother Brack, what do you want from us?”

  “The truth would be nice,” I said. “You did a lot of nodding on our walk and not much talking.”

  The fat preacher sat on one of the stools and looked at Mutt, then at me. Mutt went to the other end of the bar, stooped down, and came up with a shoebox that he sat on the counter. He took the lid off, flipped through it until he found what he was looking for, and walked back.

  “You big on pictures,” Mutt said. “Here’s one for you.”

  I took the black and white photograph. In the dimly lit bar, I could make out two soldiers standing arm in arm like best friends. One of the men was my uncle. Though he looked a lot younger when the picture was taken and had no eye patch, his crooked nose was the same. The man with him was black and I didn’t recognize him. “Who’s my uncle with?”

  Mutt said, “My daddy, Sergeant Willie B. Tucker.”

  Another snapshot of history.

  I said, “Who’s Ray?”

  At two-thirty, I skidded into the parking spot of the Pirate’s Cove and killed the motor. The speeding ticket I had acquired lay crumpled in my hand as I gripped the steering wheel. Eighty in a fifty-five. At least the Highway Patrol hadn’t been around when I hit one-twenty on an open stretch. A Mustang five-point-oh moved. The cop didn’t ask if I had any weapons and I didn’t offer Mutt’s pistol stashed in the glove box. I threw the ticket onto the passenger floorboard and picked up the jump drive the tourist had given me.

  Inside my uncle’s office, I pulled the jump drive out of my pocket, sat in the chair, and turned on the Mac. Three spreadsheet files came up: Jameson Refining, Chromicorp, and Cooper River Chemicals. I opened one of them and an expense sheet took up the screen.

  Five PM, when I would phone the man from the Folly Pier, could not get here fast enough. I forced myself to focus. All three files had lines of data and a summary tab with “reported” and “actual” columns. Every figure in the “reported” column of each file was greater than the “actual.” I printed out the summary sheets and copied the files onto another stick. When I finished, I put the drive in the safe and locked up.

  At five o’clock, I phoned the number written across the envelope from the tourist on Folly Pier.

  After a few rings, the voice of the same tourist answered. “Mr. Pelton, thanks for calling.”

  “You said in your note my uncle was murdered because of something you and he were working on. You want to tell me what that was?”

  “Did you look at the files yet?”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure what you’ve given me.”

  “Come on. Your uncle said you were smart.”

  Maybe I was reading more into it than was there. I decided to speak the obvious. “Looks to me like the companies were misrepresenting expenses or something.”

  “You could say that.”

  This conversation wasn’t getting me anywhere. “You want to meet?”

  “I’m not sure I can trust you yet,” he said. “Take what you’ve got so far and run with it. Reggie already paid for the files. I’ll call you in a few days. Be ready with twenty grand for the rest.”

  I planned to ask him about Ray but he broke the connection. My call back to him went straight to a generic mailbox. I didn’t leave a message. All I could think about was two stacks of bills, ten grand each, sitting in the safe.

  Paige had the evening shift covered at the bar so I left about six. At home, I emptied the pockets of my work jeans from a long Monday. Out came the all-in-one pocket knife that Uncle Reggie had given me. Every time I handled it, my thoughts filled with him. Like the knife, he was a Jack-of-all-trades. I put it inside a wooden box on my dresser where I kept my watch.

  After spending time with Shelby on the beach to unwind, I took a second shower and, because I wasn’t hungry, had a glass of iced tea for dinner. TV gave me an escape and I barely remembered to catch the eleven o’clock news. Uncle Reggie’s picture filled the screen, the same shot used in the paper.

  Shelby padded to me.

  I scratched his ears. “I can’t get a break, can I?”

  Darcy Wells appeared onscreen, standing in front of the Pirate’s Cove bar on the Isle of Palms. She looked cool and collected in her business garb and perfect blond curls.

  “The search continues for those responsible for the death of local bar owner Reggie Sails. Police are interviewing suspects all over the greater Charl
eston area.”

  Her image segued into the clip of her ambush interview with me, and the camera panned to Detectives Rogers and Wilson. I turned off the TV, noticed the message light blinking on the answering machine, and pressed play.

  “Mr. Pelton,” said a familiar upper-class Charlestonian voice, “this is Chauncey Connors, your uncle’s attorney. I am calling to see how you are doing. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.”

  Tuesday morning, from my front porch rocker, I called the police to see when they might release my uncle’s body. All I got was Wilson’s voicemail. After leaving a message, I next dialed the man who said he was my uncle’s attorney and friend. A perky receptionist’s voice answered for “Connors, Matheson, and Gooding Law Firm.” She put me on hold and forced me to listen to Muzak’s version of “Stairway to Heaven.” Maybe it was me, but Zeppelin did a better job.

  A voice interrupted the music. “Mr. Pelton, this is Chauncey Connors. How are you holding up, son?”

  “I’m okay. Thanks for checking in on me.”

  “My pleasure. You need anything?”

  “I need advice,” I said.

  “Counsel is my vocation.”

  “The reason I’m calling is I’m wondering if I should be keeping the bar open.”

  “Well,” he said, “you are named as the executor of your uncle’s estate. Why don’t you come in and we’ll start the process. I happen to be free today at four if that works for you.”

  “Where’s your office?”

  He gave me a street number on Lower King, meaning old Charleston money passed down over centuries and currently resident in the antebellum homes along the Battery and Tradd Street. I had trouble picturing Uncle Reggie park his rusted-out bomb in front of Connors, Matheson, and Whoever’s law offices, stepping out in his best cutoffs, wife-beater undershirt, and flip-flops, and strolling in to any King Street address to make a will—friend or no friend.

  “Four o’clock in your office,” I said.

  My uncle and I had been estranged from the family for different reasons a long time ago so I wasn’t surprised he had named me executor. There wasn’t anyone else.

  In my college years, I’d spent summers part-time bartending for Uncle Reggie at the Pirate’s Cove. One day, two drunks decided it was time to settle an old score. I stepped in the middle of them and caught a fist in the mouth, the only other time I’d gotten a split lip. The Saturday night beauty the Charleston cops gave me was healing, but not quickly enough.

  For my appointment with Chauncey, I dressed in khakis and a heavily starched blue oxford, and slid into polished loafers. My dad’s old Heuer watch said half-past-three. The cell vibrated in my pocket. I checked the caller I.D. but didn’t recognize the number and answered the call. “Pelton.”

  “Brother Brack,” a baritone voice boomed. “This is Brother Thomas, mm-hmm. How you doing today?”

  Everybody seemed interested in how I’m doing.

  “Not very well, all things considered. The police haven’t told me when they’re going to release my uncle.”

  “We don’t have much luck with them around here, either,” he said.

  I tried to think of something funny to say but thought better of it.

  He said, “I was wondering if you had any plans for dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Tonight.”

  I pulled the phone away, not sure what to do. Our motto in Afghanistan—when in doubt, full steam ahead. I said, “What time and where?”

  “Meet me at the Church of Redemption on Sheppard Street at seven. No need to bring anything, Mr. Pelton. Just yourself, mm-hmm. Just yourself.” He hung up.

  The gun I had taken from Mutt rested innocently on my kitchen counter. Brother Thomas’s suggestion I didn’t need to bring anything meant, I decided, it wasn’t potluck and I wouldn’t have to contribute a dish. But watches and rings and smart phones—and personal protection—fell into an entirely different category. I slipped the gun into my pocket, prudently and properly accessorized.

  Shelby gave me a final look, circled his cushion a few times, and plopped down. I patted his head and walked out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The large oak door to Connors, Matheson, and Gooding Law Firm opened to the scent of wood polish and leather. The smells, along with original paintings and sculptures, conspired to make me feel out of place, and I hated feeling out of place. An attractive receptionist sat behind a curved hardwood desk. Sun-bleached hair framed a pretty face and tan skin. Early twenties, I guessed, although the business suit and blouse were a little misleading. Her eyes started at my Italian shoes and stopped at my hair. She smiled big, apparently not concerned with my bruised mouth. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Chauncey Connors,” I said. “I have a four o’clock appointment.”

  She typed something into the computer and said, “He’ll be with you shortly, Mr. Pelton. Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I’ll let him know you’re here. Have a seat.” She motioned to the waiting area, giving me the big smile again.

  I needed something to brighten my mood and her pretty grin did the trick. The leather couch in the waiting area engulfed me. Magazines lined a coffee table and I snatched an Architectural Digest and flipped through it.

  The man who’d introduced himself as my uncle’s lawyer appeared from a door behind the receptionist and spoke with the parlance of an old southern plantation owner. “Mr. Pelton. Good to see you.”

  Only someone named Chauncey could pull off wearing a bow tie. His blue one complimented a light-gray wool two-button suit and white oxford shirt. As I rose from the cocooning leather and shook hands with the lawyer, I wondered how much this meeting would set me back. The attorney’s wardrobe suggested more than several hundred bucks an hour. Maybe a thousand.

  Chauncey led me up creaking wooden stairs to the second floor of the turn-of-the-preceding-century building. The windows of his walnut and book-lined corner office overlooked palmetto trees flanking King Street and were too free of distortions to be originals. I took a seat in a leather chair.

  Chauncey sat facing me behind the large mahogany desk. “Mr. Pelton,” he said, “this isn’t easy for me. I’ve known your uncle for a long time. Since Vietnam.”

  “Uncle Reggie never talked about the war much,” I said. “I knew it was where he lost his eye.”

  He nodded, saying nothing.

  “I found discharge papers in with his stuff. Was he really in Air America?”

  Chauncey laced his fingers on top of his desk. “He was. One of the best pilots we had. What we called an ace.”

  “You were in with him?”

  “I was his copilot. Still fly when I get the time.”

  “My uncle said Ray shot him,” I said. “You know any Rays who might have had something against him?”

  “I can’t think of anyone who would do such a thing. Of course, I’ve never represented anyone brought up on murder charges.”

  “Were you there when he lost his eye?”

  “I was. We were in the air carrying a load of medicine when the North Vietnamese opened up on us. Tore the plane all to hell. I got hit in the chest, arm, and leg and could not move.” He sighed. “Your uncle took two bullets. A piece of metal from the plane got his eye. But he kept flying and landed us safely. He should have gotten a medal. He saved my life by getting me back to the base, and many other lives with the medicine in the shipment. When the barometer drops, my leg reminds me how much I owe him.”

  “He never even told me he could fly,” I said.

  “He quit. The government cut him a check for losing his eye and he used the money to buy the bar. As far as I know, he hasn’t flown since.”

  It was my turn to nod.

  He said, “So, are you ready for me to read your uncle’s will?”

  I felt my chest tighten. “Yes.”

  Chauncey picked up papers in front of him and read.
“Upon my death, I, Reginald Austin Sails, hereby leave my estate in its entirety to my nephew, Brack Edward Pelton.”

  The words hit me like a freight train. I sat in the leather chair in Chauncey’s office, put my head in my hands, and closed my eyes.

  Chauncey said, “Do you need a minute?”

  I didn’t move. “Keep going if there’s anything else.”

  “Your uncle had a formidable estate.”

  I looked up. “What? He owned a rundown bar and a Cadillac held together by Bondo.”

  Chauncey sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “After Hurricane Hugo, your uncle purchased a hundred acres of undeveloped prime riverfront property from a speculator selling out. He called it Sumter Point. His intention had always been to preserve it. The recent oil rig disaster in the Gulf Coast made him all the more protective.”

  Chauncey’s words bounced off the walls of his office and peeled open my mind like a grappling hook.

  He continued, “He has been offered exorbitant amounts of money by developers for the land and turned them all down.” The lawyer set the papers on his desk, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “Unfortunately, the ownership has not been without problems. Current laws require land to be taxed at fair market value. So, while Mr. Sails was able to buy the land at a much reduced price in the aftermath of Hugo, the value has gone up considerably.”

  I said, “Okay, so the obvious question is how much does he owe the county?”

  Chauncey read the sheet from the file. “A hundred and forty thousand, to be settled with proceeds from the sale of items and/or property of Mr. Sails’s estate. Of course, as the executor and sole beneficiary, and, assuming you proceed with liquidating the estate, you would be entitled to a large sum of money even after Dorchester County got its share.”

  An hour later I stood outside the building on the uneven brick sidewalk lining King Street. With power-of-attorney papers in my pocket, I rested my hand on a palmetto tree as if it could provide moral support. Sweat dripped down my back. I looked at the sun and took a deep breath before making my way to the parking garage.