“Typically, people living near one of these sites are at the lower levels of income and don’t vote.”
“My uncle must have known something was up. I just don’t know what.”
Graves said, “The Chemcon site is past due on the reconstruction phase. The last entry I have lists it as an ER3 site with a PPA.”
I said, “Do all you government types speak in initials?”
He chuckled and said, “Sorry, my wife has the same complaint. ER3 stands for Environmentally Responsible Redevelopment and Reuse. In a nutshell it means the owner has a plan for the site after the cleanup so it doesn’t just sit there. It’s probably past due on the reconstruction phase because there hasn’t been much cleanup done.”
“And the P-P-something?”
“PPA stands for Prospective Purchaser Agreement. In this case, it means the EPA was in negotiation with an individual or corporation for the site.”
Patricia handed me a note with a question she wanted me to ask.
I read it and said, “Can you tell me if my uncle was the individual?”
“Not with the information I have in front of me. Since this is in my neck of the woods, you’d think I’d know more about it. I will when I talk to you again, you can bet on it. Give me a number where I can reach you.”
I gave him my cell number and we hung up.
Darcy said, “Holy cow.”
Patricia stood and paced. “My ex-husband was a real piece of work. He never told me he had a tax problem. And he certainly never told me about any of this.”
“I’m glad I’m not the only one,” I said.
After securing the cash from the crab pots in a safe at the Palmetto Pulse, I called Uncle Reggie’s lawyer, now mine.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A bath for Shelby and a quick shower for me, and we were new men. At least I felt like a new man. As Shelby and I walked into the law firm’s reception area a little before seven PM, my dog was busy sniffing everything his leash would let him reach. When the same young receptionist from my first visit saw Shelby, she removed her phone earpiece, came around the desk, and knelt to pet him. Shelby raised his eyebrows and lifted a paw to shake hands.
As if talking to a baby, the receptionist addressed him in the third person. “He’s such a pretty boy, yes he is.”
I said, “It’s okay if he’s in here, right?”
“Are you kidding? Do you know how many desperate housewives of Charleston stroll in here with a Gucci purse in one hand and a miniature Chihuahua in the other? If we had a pet ban, our clients would find another law firm.”
The phone rang. I expected her to go answer it but she didn’t. Thanks to my dog, the master-manipulator of females, I found out her name was Jane and she was Chauncey’s granddaughter. Chauncey came out and waved me into his office, saying, “Sorry it took so long. I was on a phone conference with another client.”
Shelby didn’t want to follow us into the office and I couldn’t blame him. Jane happily took the leash from me. In his office, Chauncey motioned to the sitting area by a big bay window overlooking King Street.
I said, “You bill phone time too?”
He took a chair to my right. “Sometimes.”
“What about for a client sitting in your waiting area?”
He crossed his legs. “Real sharks prefer the big kill of a settlement. So what’s up?”
“Patricia and my uncle dropped crab pots in the I.C.W. last week. Turns out they were fake.” I handed Chauncey the papers from the pots. “We found these in them along with bricks of cash.”
Chauncey leaned forward and read the papers. After a few minutes he said, “Government-subsidized environmental cleanup. I don’t believe it.” He sat back in his chair. “Do you know what this means?”
I shrugged.
He said, “I’ll tell you what it means. It means hundreds of millions in untaxed income. It means you don’t know who your friends are.”
“Except for you,” I said.
Chauncey smiled and said, “I work for you. There’s a difference.”
“Say, that brings up another point. If the cops don’t release my uncle’s funds, I’m going to have to start selling. That is, assuming I can’t use the cash we found.”
“We have to first establish it was claimed income,” Chauncey said. “In the meantime I happen to have received an offer on the bar.”
“I heard. How much?”
“Three-point-five million,” he said. “How’d you find out about it?”
“A little old lady told me. A little old lady who’d probably sell her own children.”
Chauncey squinted as if in thought. “Mrs. Calhoun?”
I nodded. “Who’s the buyer?”
My hired shark selected a file from the bureau behind him. “Trans World Unlimited.”
“Trans what?”
He opened the folder, pulled out a sheet of paper, and turned it so I could see the company logo. “Trans World Unlimited. They’re a conglomerate. Among other things, they own franchises. Weekends Bar and Grill, O’Malley’s Pub, and Surf’s Up Nightclub.”
“They want to turn the Pirate’s Cove into one of those cheesy pickup bars with that stupid blue neon wave hanging over the liquor bottles? I don’t know what’s worse. That or what Mrs. Calhoun said.”
“Which was?”
“Dolphin Swimmer.”
He said, “Three million, five-hundred-thousand dollars.”
I slouched in the seat. “If I sold out, Uncle Reggie said he’d come back to haunt me.”
“The tax situation isn’t going away,” he said. “You got any other money?”
“Not that kind. The old bat is probably getting a kickback in all this.”
Chauncey grinned and said, “On the bright side, the police can’t freeze the accounts forever. I can probably stall the bidder while I see what I can do about releasing your funds.”
An hour later, I decided to take another run at Mutt. Since his place was a mile from the Chemcon property, maybe he could tell me why my uncle wanted to get involved. In front of the bar, I stepped out of my Jeep and, in case anyone was watching, stuck the barrel of the forty-five down the back of my shorts. Shelby jumped out and sniffed the sidewalk, inhaling the scents and smells of the projects. I didn’t bother with his leash. The rusty screen door creaked when I opened it and Shelby padded in ahead of me.
John Lee Hooker’s “Boom Boom” rumbled out of the juke.
Several African American men stood around the pool table. Two perched at the bar. Mutt, facing them from behind the bar, cleaned a glass with what looked like the same dirty rag from my previous visit. The swollen nose my fist had given him appeared to have deepened in color, which meant it was healing. I walked to the bar and took a seat. Shelby growled and went behind the bar to Mutt.
Mutt stepped backward. “He don’t bite, do he?”
“Not usually,” I said. “Just don’t let him think you’re scared.” In the six months I’d had him, Shelby never bit anyone. Of course, he’d never been provoked. Women loved him and the feeling was obviously mutual. But men were a different story. My dog had a curious way of greeting them, and I could hang my hat on his judgment of their worth.
Every man in the dump crowded the bar and peered over the top to watch Mutt lower a finger-twitching hand to my dog. With a snarl and show of teeth, Shelby moved in closer. Extra sweat beads formed on the bartender’s forehead. Shelby jerked his head up and gave a sharp bark. Mutt yanked his hand back. I eased my hand around the butt of the forty-five just in case my dog needed backup. After another bark, Shelby grabbed one end of the dirty towel hanging from Mutt’s hand, and tugged and grunted like he wanted to play. The men crowded around the bar hooted and howled. I released my grip on the forty-five and let out a long breath.
Mutt looked like he was about to need a diaper. “Good doggie.” He rubbed Shelby’s head. “Good doggie.”
Shelby released the towel and licked Mutt’s hand.
Wi
th the towel, Mutt wiped the sweat from his forehead. Shelby barked again and Mutt held the towel out as an offering. My dog snatched it out of his hand and ran around the bar with the filthy rag in his mouth. He was current on his shots but I wasn’t sure they covered this place. I took the rag from him. Shelby whimpered until one of the patrons held out a cheese puff. Obedience school had taught Shelby to eat only what I gave him, so he looked at the treat, sat on his hindquarters, and stared at me.
“Thanks for the offer,” I said to the man, “but he’s been trained not to take food from strangers.”
The man offering the cheese puff said, “That’s all right.” He took three more out of a bag he was eating from, set them on a napkin, and slid them to me. “He deserve something for putting Mutt in his place.”
I fed them to Shelby.
Mutt propped himself on a stool. “Who were you gonna shoot, me or the dog?”
“I’d never shoot my own dog.”
That Mutt had seen me reach for my gun while Shelby terrorized him genuinely impressed me.
“Real funny, Opie. So what can I do you outta?”
I pulled two Cuban cigars from my pocket, clipped the ends, and offered one to him. “What do you say we smoke a peace offering?”
Charleston bars and restaurants had been forced to go smoke-free a few years ago. Judging from the smoke clouds hovering in the room, Mutt must not have gotten the memo. My uncle’s stainless Zippo snapped open in my fingers and I lit Mutt’s first.
After a few puffs, he examined the cigar. “Not bad.” He took a long drag and blew a few rings toward the ceiling. They danced around one of the exposed bulbs hanging on a dusty cord. “You want a beer or something?”
“Trying to quit.”
Mutt reached into the cooler, pulled out a Sun Drop, and opened it for me. The pool players went back to racking shots. The other men returned to their conversation.
I lit my cigar.
A voice boomed behind me. “You shouldda called and told me you was coming back to town, mm-hmm.” Brother Thomas pulled out a barstool next to me, sat, and slapped my knee.
I exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I’m sure glad we’re all friends, now.”
“A lot happened in the past few days,” Brother Thomas said.
“You sure right,” Mutt said. “Archie over there hit the daily on Monday. He was so happy he come in here and bought rounds ’til it was all gone. Someone told his wife and she throwed him out. He staying wit me ’til she takes him back.”
Brother Thomas wiped his face and neck with a handkerchief. “You think she will?”
Mutt nodded. “She always take him back. I figure another day.”
I said, “So, what did my uncle have going with the EPA cleanup site?”
“Neighborhood kids sneak over there to play,” Mutt said. “Reggie was trying to make sure it got cleaned up.”
“How was he going to do that?”
Brother Thomas said, “He talk like he was gonna buy it.”
I thought about the money in his accounts, thanks to the loan against the bar. “Did he say what he was going to do with it?”
“Naw,” Mutt said. “He said he was gonna look into it is all.”
Chauncey made arrangements with a funeral home for the viewing of Uncle Reggie, and that’s where Brother Thomas gave a bold eulogy Friday morning. Paige and I closed the Pirate’s Cove for four hours so the staff could attend. Most of the crowd came to the Cove afterward, and out of deference to Uncle Reggie and his inherent need for the Cove to make a profit, Paige and I kept it a cash bar.
The crowd that showed up could have come together only in a place like Charleston. And could have only my uncle as the common denominator. The owner of a million-dollar beach-front house traded vodka shots with a man from Brother Thomas’s congregation in the projects. Three Folly Beach surfers cornered several state legislators and demanded they fix beach erosion. My personal favorite encounter occurred when Mutt asked Detectives Rogers and Wilson if they had any weed. They pulled out their badges and pretty much cleared the room, which was okay with me. It was late. Good thing I’d left the gun in the safe.
At two in the morning, a small group of us relaxed in chairs on the upper deck of the Cove and listened to the crash of the ocean. Shelby sat at the legs of Patricia’s chair. Brother Thomas dozed in a lounge chair.
Even though Chauncey’s wife had gone home to bed a few hours ago, he was still hanging around. I knew he missed my uncle. He stooped to pet Shelby. “Trish and I have two Labs. I think she treats them better than the grandkids. Or me, for that matter.”
Darcy stood by the railing, her blond wisps gently blowing in the wind. “You blame her?”
The lawyer laughed. “Not really.”
Mutt lit a cigarette. “There sure was a lot of people here.”
Bonny, the bar mascot, landed on the railing beside Darcy.
I said, “You’re right about that.”
Patricia held a glass of red wine by the stem, her legs tucked underneath her. “The police never did find Reggie’s necklace or his other things.”
My late wife had bought Uncle Reggie a white shell necklace on our honeymoon. He wore it every day. I couldn’t remember if he had it on when I was giving him CPR. Holding a mug of root beer, I propped my feet on the deck railing and rocked my chair back. “We’ve got a lot of work to do when the sun comes up.”
Sleep did not come easily and seeing Uncle Reggie for the last time didn’t help. It was compelling to think he’d risked it all for his friends in the projects, and I didn’t want to shortchange his good name, but there had to be more to it. His last words were not “Save the black kids.” And so far I had no idea who Ray was.
My cell phone rang. I looked at the clock as I picked up. Five AM.
The voice from Folly Beach Pier said, “So, what have you found out?”
Still lying on my back, I said, “Who’s Ray?”
“Ray who?”
“That’s what I’m asking. Before my uncle died, he said Ray shot him.”
The man took his time answering. “I don’t know any Ray.”
I sat up. “All this cloak and dagger and you don’t know any Rays. That’s great. What else don’t you know?”
“Look, there’s enough information in the files to bury some people.”
I gripped the phone tight. “If you’ve got something, give it to the police. Give it to the IRS. Better yet, give it to me and I’ll make sure it gets out there.”
“I’m not giving anything away. I’m selling it. To you if you’re buying.”
I said, “Someone trashed my uncle’s house and mine looking for something. They got a copy of the memory stick.”
“It can’t be traced to me,” he said, “but your uncle was probably killed for it. Who did he talk to? Who turned on him?”
I swung my feet onto the floor. “How do I know you aren’t on their side?”
“You don’t. Just like I don’t know if you’re the one who sold your uncle out. I heard he left you everything.”
“Yeah, and after running the bar for the next twenty years I can probably retire.”
“Ah, but what about the land? It’s a hundred acres, isn’t it? Lots of river frontage. A couple million, easy.”
“You sound like you’re making me an offer.”
“Your uncle agreed to pay twenty grand for more information. You get the same price.”
I inhaled deeply and blew it out like smoke. “So, do you have a name, or do I call you Deep Throat?”
“Clever, but it’s still twenty grand. I’ll let you pick the location. Someplace with a crowd. It’s easier to hide.”
“It’s not like we live in New York City, you know.”
“What do you suggest?”
After a few seconds of thinking, I said, “The opposite. Sullivan’s Island, past Fort Moultrie toward the harbor. The shore’s pretty narrow. There’s beach access. Not many people. Lines of rocks stretch out to the water.”
He said, “Meet you in two hours.”
The line went dead. So much for any sleep now.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When I pulled into the beach access parking area not far from my house, the sun was coming up over the ocean, coloring the sky a bright crimson. The old saying about a red sky in the morning came to mind.
A new gray Volvo sedan was already parked in the sand lot. By my watch, I was five minutes late. A stop at the Pirate’s Cove had put me behind. I took a bottle of bug spray from the glove box along with the gun and stuck them in my pocket. Shelby and I walked the path to the ocean and cut left.
My source from the pier stood on the narrow beach. He held a briefcase in one hand and used the other to swat at his head and neck. “You didn’t say anything about the no-see-ums.”
Shelby ran past us into the water.
I let the man smack his bald head a few more times before I took out the spray and threw it to him. The no-see-ums he referred to were gnats living in the marsh. As irritating as mosquitoes—maybe worse. The man set his briefcase in the sand and doused himself from head to toe, probably ruining his suit. When he threw back the bottle, it was close to empty.
“Nice suit.” I sprayed myself. “You working on a Saturday?”
“You got my twenty thousand?”
“You got the goods?”
He took one step back. “Not on me.”
I finished with the carcinogenic shower and stuck the bottle in my pocket. “Then I don’t have the twenty grand.”
He gave me a long look before he opened his briefcase and pulled out a file folder, waving it at me. “You sure you don’t have the money?”
I showed him the envelope with the cash I’d picked up from the safe in the Pirate’s Cove. He took the envelope and thumbed each brick like he was checking to see if I’d stuck blank sheets in the middle.
“It’s all there,” I said.
He put the bundles in his suitcase. “One man is behind the companies on the file. Did you do the math? It’s like ten million dollars and that’s just last year.”
“Did he kill my uncle?”
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