He said, “Loudmouth deserve more than that.”
The woman swatted at the man’s shoulder. “Now stop it, Frank. Hear? Everybody deserve a little forgiveness every now and then.”
Not everyone, I thought, as I went inside.
Brother Thomas and Mutt were waiting for me at a booth in the back.
“Gentlemen,” I said.
“If it ain’t Opie,” said Mutt.
Brother Thomas nodded. “Brother Brack.”
I took a seat. Cassie came with a pitcher of iced tea dripping with condensation and filled my glass. Her gaze at me stopped somewhere past grandkids and she giggled. Tonight her perfume was cinnamon.
“How you doing, hon?” She put her hand on my shoulder. “You need to come see me more than this. Ain’t my cooking good?”
“Yes ma’am,” I said. “The brother and I were talking about it this afternoon. I had to come out and get me some more.”
Cassie rubbed my cheek and sauntered away, an extra kick in her step. She returned with a tray and set out a large family-sized plate of fried chicken, bowls of smashed potatoes, greens, black-eyed peas, and cornbread. After Brother Thomas said grace, the three of us dove in. Brother Thomas wouldn’t let go of the chicken plate until he’d grabbed the two biggest pieces. Gravy oozed over Mutt’s potatoes and onto the table. I snatched the vinegar away from Brother Thomas before he could drain the whole bottle on his greens. We ate until there was nothing left.
Cassie set another basket of cornbread on the table and looked at the mess we’d made. “Well, I’ll be.”
We fought over the squares of cornbread while she cleared the empty bowls and brought more. Something about being the only white face here made me feel at ease. No one looking for me would show up here. I slowed after the second round of food and told them about Darcy and Patricia and our boat ride.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
For the finale, Cassie brought coffee and sweet potato pie. A whole pie. As she cut it into three pieces and dished it out on plates with ice cream, an elderly lady sitting at another table called to her.
Cassie nodded at the woman and touched my cheek. “Enjoy it, handsome.” She smiled and left.
Mutt finished eating and burped. “Gawd.”
Brother Thomas sat back in his chair and patted his stomach. “Mm-hmm.”
I chewed on a toothpick and tipped my chair onto its hind legs. At the moment, I felt content with the best meal I’d had since the last time I’d been here.
Brother Thomas’s eyes locked on to mine. “Brother Brack, you know anyone by the name of Dora?”
I popped my chair back on four legs and yanked the toothpick out of my mouth. “Why?”
“She called the church this morning. A stranger gave her the number. A white man.”
“Really?”
Brother Thomas gleamed. “This woman was of, shall we say, the oldest profession.”
“Hey now,” said Mutt.
“And this stranger,” Brother Thomas continued, “she invited him in and he paid her.”
Mutt’s eyes opened wide. “Hold on!”
“Then, Brother Brack, this man proceeded to talk to her.”
Mutt said, “Talk? He just talked?”
Brother Thomas ignored the question. “He was following some men who were, um . . . visiting her neighbor. Asked all sorts of questions about them. How long they been coming to see the girl. How long they stayed. Then, he asked Dora about herself.”
I said, “And you say she was given your number?”
“Yes.” Brother Thomas laced his fingers together over his stomach. “You see, not too long after this man left her house, a car exploded outside her door and the po-lice showed up. I read about it in this morning’s paper. The situation gave Dora, shall we say, mo-ti-vation to rethink her life. I invited her to visit with a few of the ladies of the church. They found nice donated clothes her size and we managed to scrape together enough money to purchase a bus ticket.”
I scratched my head. “Bus ticket?”
Brother Thomas nodded. “She ran away from home two years ago and been selling herself here in Charleston since. She was a mess when she come to the church. Desperate and lost. We made a phone call to her family and she was on the next bus back home, mm-hmm.”
“That’s a good story,” I said.
The minister of the projects stared at me. “Brother Brack, I’d sure like to thank the man who led her out of the life.”
“Brother,” I said, “you look at him in the mirror every day.”
Brother Thomas smiled and didn’t say anything else. I think he wanted to let me know he knew. But I didn’t want him to be any more involved. And I certainly didn’t want him to get a visit from Rogers and Wilson.
The next time Cassie came by I asked for the check and added a large tip.
I fell asleep on the couch in the beach rental with Shelby on the floor at my side. In the middle of a dream in which I ran the Mustang flat out, hit curve apexes just right, and snapped flawless redline shifts, Shelby’s growl woke me. I opened my eyes in the darkness.
He snarled once more and ran to the back door. I grabbed the forty-five from the coffee table, eased my feet onto the floor, and crept up beside him. Shelby’s body was stiff when I patted his head and his eyes looked out between the blinds to the back patio. Darkness stared back.
He growled again, louder. My gut told me Shorty and Goatee had found us and wanted payback. Assuming they were in the backyard, I told Shelby to stay, made my way to the front door, and snuck outside to flank them. The ocean breeze and the crash of the surf covered my approach. Shelby’s bark echoed through the thin walls of the house. I tiptoed along the side and peered around the corner to the backyard. Two figures stood on the patio in front of the sliding glass door outside the living room. One of them was short and stocky, the other tall and lanky. The short one pointed something at the glass door, low.
I aimed and fired. The forty-five boomed and the wooden deck chair in my sights splintered into pieces. The figures bolted over the railing, dropped ten feet onto the sand, and vanished. When I went to the sliding door, Shelby grinned at me through the glass and wagged his tail.
They were going to shoot my dog.
My blood boiled.
Down the street, an engine started. I ran to the front of the house. A large SUV passed by at full throttle and I put three rounds through the back window. It shattered and the truck fishtailed around a corner. Rage took over my common sense. I ran to keep up but they were gone. A police siren wailed in the distance.
The Folly Beach cops were real sweethearts. They gave me a disturbing-the-peace citation and took my gun. Whoever reported the shooting did not mention a speeding SUV, and the cops had a hard time believing there was one. Even after I showed them the glass and skid marks from the retreating vehicle.
Shelby and I were packed and gone within the hour. No way would I stay here without a weapon. I wondered how they learned where I was hiding. The digital clock in my car said it was way too early. I pulled my cell out of my pocket and hit speed dial anyway.
A sleepy voice answered.
I hit the hands-free button. “Hello, Chauncey. This is your favorite client.”
“Hmm?”
“It’s Brack.”
“Brack? What time is it?”
As I slowed for a red light, I said, “Five.”
His response was not quick, as if he were contemplating something. “Are you in trouble?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Can this wait until regular business hours, then?”
“I need a safe place for Shelby,” I said in the most desperate voice I could muster. “Two idiots tried to shoot him this morning.”
“Shelby? Your dog?”
“Yes. They were after me and found him first.”
He coughed. “Where were you?”
“Shooting at them.”
“I see.”
It sounded like he didn’t.
“Y
ou told me you and your wife have dogs,” I said. “So can he stay with you until this blows over?”
If Chauncey didn’t say yes, I’d have to park Shelby at the kennel. He wouldn’t like that at all. I pictured Chauncey in paisley pajamas that matched his bow ties, sitting in bed with the receiver in his hand, and staring into space wondering how he got mixed up in this.
“Chauncey?”
I thought I’d lost him until he said, “Okay.”
“Great. I appreciate this. One thing, he won’t eat unless I feed him.”
“What does that mean?”
I said, “I guess it means I’ll have to be there at feeding time.”
More silence. As if relenting, he gave me directions. I told him I’d make sure I wasn’t followed but he didn’t seem too concerned.
His subdivision was located on the north side of the Isle of Palms. The security hut at the entrance divided the street and monitored cars entering and exiting. Chauncey had called ahead and told them I was coming. His house sat back from the street, hidden behind tall palm trees and large tropical flowers in full bloom. The middle of three garage doors was open and Chauncey stood in the opening drinking a cup of coffee. Behind him I could see the tail end of his large Audi sedan. The stiff creases in his white oxford shirt and navy suit pants were matched by shiny brown leather shoes with buckles. And of course, the bow tie. He wasn’t smiling.
His wife, Trish, came out to greet us. She had long, light-colored hair pulled back in a clip and wore a linen blouse and nice shorts and sandals. Thin and tall, she was twenty years older than me but didn’t look it.
Before I could stop him, Shelby ran to her, put his front paws on her thighs, and licked her face. As with all other women within a hundred-foot radius of my dog, Chauncey’s wife giggled and hugged him, scratching behind his ears.
“Witchy Woman,” the ringtone I’d selected for Darcy, woke me from a not-so-deep slumber in the front seat of my car parked at a partially concealed beach access on Sullivan’s Island. Somehow my favorite news girl had learned of my adventure with the dirtbags and wanted the scoop. She suggested meeting at a local diner to discuss a follow-up story detailing their exploits with the Chinese prostitute, Ms. Lee. Sounded like a good way to get more revenge. If I thought Darcy would say yes, I’d have asked her to marry me. But I had an idea of where everything that wasn’t part of Darcy’s career stood in the pecking order of her priorities, and so decided against proposing. The waitress brought a plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes to the table as the princess of Charleston news arrived.
She said, “Thanks for waiting.”
“Happy Friday to you, too,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll probably get something else.”
Darcy ordered a veggie omelet and I added two blueberry muffins and a coffee refill to my tab. When her food arrived, Darcy used her knife and fork to eat with. Compared with my bulldozer technique, she was all grace and sophistication.
The big breakfast rejuvenated me. I handed the waiter a credit card for the check and leaned in my chair, suppressing a large belch from getting out of hand.
Darcy looked me over, probably deciding I was a little too rough around the edges.
I said, “How’d you get here? You get your car back?”
“I bought another,” she said.
“That was quick. Same model?”
She waved a hand to shrug off the fact she just dumped fifty thousand on a new car and most likely still hadn’t reported the other one stolen. “I did a little checking on our buddy, McAllister.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“He seems to be legit,” she said. “He’s got several businesses. Mostly environmental cleanup.”
“Chauncey confirmed he was in Vietnam with them.”
“Good. And I got a tip on Galston. It might be worth checking out.”
The check came and I signed with my left hand.
Darcy said, “I forgot Patricia had told me you were ambidextrous.”
“As far as writing and shooting go, anyway,” I said. It had come in handy, so to speak, in the war and it was always a fun bar trick.
Darcy had arrangements to make so I drove solo to the Pirate’s Cove. Some Charlestonians live at the beaches on weekends. They bring their families out to enjoy the natural beauty of the ocean and soak up vitamin D from the sun. Others acquire their tans in clamshell beds. The appeal of heading to a strip mall and spending time in one of those was lost on me—too much like a coffin. There’s no substitute for real sunshine.
Detectives Rogers and Wilson showed up, again, at the bar later that afternoon. They sat at a table shaded by an umbrella on the upper deck overlooking the ocean. The temperature had passed ninety as soon as the sun came up. Sweat beaded on their foreheads.
I took a seat at their table. “How’s it going, detectives?”
Wilson said, “Just thought we’d come out and see how the other half lived.”
Rogers’s skin tone was a little too even. Definitely a tanning-bed bunny.
I said, “Been out in the sun, Rogers?”
He ignored the bait.
A large group of sorority sisters from the University of Minnesota chattered at a nearby table. They had come down for the week on a summer retreat and adopted the Pirate’s Cove as their home away from home. Paige delivered a round of tequila shots to them and they toasted their school.
Wilson took in the predominance of females and pulled out a comb. “This is the place to be.” He rerouted what strands he had left on his cranium to areas long ago abandoned.
The girls downed their shots, and fifteen glasses hit the table in unison.
Unaffected by the beauty around them, Rogers focused on the lunch menu. “So what do you recommend?”
“The burger’s the best on the island,” I said. “Get the atomic if you like a little kick.”
“Make mine well done,” said Wilson, “and a Coke. Get us an order of fried dill pickles while you’re at it.”
Rogers closed his menu. “I’ll have a grilled chicken salad, no dressing. Ice water with lemon.”
I put the food order in and had a waiter get the drinks. After checking in with my newfound sorority sisters to make sure they were having a good time, but not so good I’d need to call an ambulance for alcohol poisoning, I rejoined the detectives.
Rogers said, “So, what do you have to say about the shooting on Folly Beach last night?”
“I missed,” I said.
Rogers leaned forward. “I think you’re seeing things, Pelton. Got that post-traumatic stress disorder.”
I knew a lot of men better than me suffering with PTSD. Rogers’s little barb skirted past my defenses. Anger pulsed in my head. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
Rogers flashed a grin. “Don’t worry, Pelton. We’ve all got problems.”
I inched forward in my seat. “Yeah. My problem is you tried to close the case on my uncle’s murder.”
“Whoa,” said Wilson, his attention on the bar.
My eyes followed his. One of the sorority sisters, a big-busted looker, sauntered over to Paige, who listened to the girl, then held up a wait-a-moment finger. The girl giggled and waved at me.
Paige came over. “Seems your girlfriends over there are requesting we change the music.”
Wilson ogled the girls. “Hey Pelton, give ’em whatever they want.”
I frowned.
Paige put her hands on her hips. “Frankly, Brack, we’d all like a relief from classic rock. I mean, isn’t Joe Walsh dead, yet?”
“He’s not, and neither are any of the other Eagles.” I stood and walked to the sorority sister at the bar.
She gave me her first-class pouty-lip treatment. “Do you mind?” A foot shorter than me, she had long brown hair and tanned skin.
I stooped to talk to her. “Mind? Yes I mind. What’s your name?”
Her eyes grew big. “Br-Brandy.”
“Brandy,” I said, “you girls have been camped out here for the past
four days.”
She looked at her sisters and back at me. “Yes?”
“Why didn’t you say anything before?”
She blinked.
“Paige had satellite radio installed this week,” I said. “We’ll change the station on one condition.”
Brandy nodded quickly.
I pointed to Rogers and Wilson. “We happen to have two of Charleston’s finest police detectives sitting right over there. What do you say you girls dance with them for a song or two?”
Brandy clapped her hands, let out a squeal, and ran to her friends. A hip-hop variation of a seventies disco song replaced “Life’s Been Good.” The sisters clapped and squealed and pulled Rogers and Wilson out of their seats.
Along with the satellite radio, Paige had decided on a webcam. I turned it toward the dancing group on the deck to make sure anyone logging in would see what a party it was at the Cove. Then I went inside.
Jason, one of Paige’s College of Charleston classmates, sat in my uncle’s chair in front of a laptop and nodded at me when I entered. “I just put the finishing touches on the website.”
I said, “Pull up the webcam for me, would you?”
Jason clicked the mouse a few times and the dancing group appeared on the monitor in front of him. “Looks like there’s a party out there.”
“It surely does.” I pulled out my cell and the business card Wilson had given me the night my uncle was murdered and dialed the main switchboard of the Charleston Police Station. The dispatch operator answered and I asked to be transferred to the police chief. When his voice came on the line, I told him it might be in his best interest to log into our website. I gave him the URL.
Jason’s eyes went from me to the screen and to me again. In the amount of time it would have taken the chief to find us on the Internet, his detectives, surrounded by twenty-one-year-old I-hoped-for-my-liquor-license beauties, had gone from reluctant stiffs to willing participants. The girls moved their hips in NC-Seventeen fashion, arms raised in the air, and worked their way toward Unrated. Detective Rogers did the electric slide, pointing at the sky in perfect disco stance. Detective Wilson was another story. Hunched down, butt shaking, one arm extended out and the other folded in, he was doing his version of the garden sprinkler—which included two sisters dancing back-to-back with him. When Brandy jiggled by he grabbed her hand and spun her around. She moved in front of him, joined his boogying harem, and led him like a puppy.
Southern Heat Page 16
