Southern Heat

by David Burnsworth

  Jason said, “What was that call about?”

  “It’s time for some new detectives.”

  Paige walked into the office shaking her head. “You’d think those guys were auditioning for a dance show on TV. What are they doing here?”

  “Beats me,” I said.

  She pointed at the screen. “Hey, you’ve got the webcam working.”

  “We’re testing it right now.”

  Jason smiled.

  I told Paige I’d see her later, thanked Jason, and snuck out the front door, taking the stairs to the sidewalk two at a time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Michael Galston stepped out of his long-wheelbase Cadillac Escalade and stood by the open door, surveying the surroundings. His aviator sunglasses glistened in the late afternoon sun. The wide collar of his triple-XL Hawaiian shirt displayed a gold chain nestled in overgrown chest hair. He spoke briefly to his Mexican driver, who had opened the SUV’s door for him, and strolled toward a seedy red brick motel.

  Seated inside an inconspicuous Ford Fusion rental, Darcy and I spied on Galston from the back parking lot of the motel. A fluorescent sign tried to spell vacancy but stopped a few letters short. The lodging would not have been recommended in any tour book unless the listing was for places that rented by the hour.

  I watched through binoculars, wondering why Shorty and Goatee weren’t with their boss. “You said he comes here two days a week?”

  “That’s what the source told me,” Darcy said.

  Someone had called the paper and left a message on her voicemail saying he knew she was investigating Galston and that he’d be at this location at this time Friday afternoon. The door to the no-tell motel room Galston approached was faded brown. Orange curtains covered a large window. A tall Asian woman answered his knock wearing a silk robe open in the front to show off her thin figure clad in a lace bra and panties. She kissed Galston on the cheek and held the door for him to enter. When he was inside, she eased the door shut.

  Darcy captured it all in digital. The thought of a picture of Galston in a compromising position on the front page of Patricia’s paper was too sweet to hope for.

  I lowered my binoculars and took in the wider scene. In the seconds it had taken the fat man to go inside, the Escalade had vanished. My spider-sense tingled. It had gotten me out of too many hot spots in Afghanistan to ignore. “Something isn’t right.”

  “You’re paranoid,” she said.

  “We better get out of here.”

  Gunshots exploded behind us. The back window of the Fusion shattered. Darcy jerked forward and bounced off the steering wheel. Her camera skidded across the dash. Blood sprayed everywhere.

  “Darcy!”

  The horror of seeing her shot brought out the training the Corps had drilled into me when fired upon.

  Return fire. Secure the position. Tend to the wounded. In that order.

  More shots came from behind and exited out the windshield. Darcy must have bumped the rearview mirror out of place because it was angled toward me. In it I saw two figures approaching from behind with guns aimed at us. Something was familiar about them but I didn’t have time to ponder. Darcy’s bag had spilled open and my eyes landed on her thirty-two pistol. Grabbing it, I released the clip to make sure it had bullets and shoved it back in. I clicked off the safety, jacked a round in the chamber, and rotated my arms over the seat in one motion, returning fire through the open rear window. My bullets hit one of the men in the chest. He fell against a parked car before crashing to the ground. The other man leapt behind a dumpster. The sun glinted off something metallic around his neck.

  My drill sergeant’s voice overpowered the commotion. “Don’t get your ass pinned down, Soldier!”

  I swung the Fusion’s door open and the shooter blew the glass out. Two more shots decorated the door panel. Ducking low in my seat, I tried to spot him in the rearview mirror.

  He shot it out.

  The distant wail of a police siren told me they were too far away to help. More shots thumped into the back of the Fusion. The guy was aiming for the gas tank, which meant our time was about up.

  I took Darcy’s arm, dragged her out with one hand, and fired at the shooter with the thirty-two in the other hand. My shots clanged on the side of the dumpster he was using for cover until the thirty-two was empty and I’d gotten Darcy safely around the side of the motel building. No more shots came our way.

  With the position as secure as I could make it, I dropped the empty thirty-two and tended to the wounded. Darcy was unresponsive, her pulse faint. The front of her dress soaked with blood around her right shoulder. I took out my pocket knife and cut her shirt away from the wound, which gushed blood. Tearing off my shirt, I used it to apply pressure to stop the flow.

  The police siren was finally close enough to believe it was headed our way. I scanned the area. No movement behind the dumpster where the shooter had been. Two patrol cars slid to a stop next to us.

  I yelled at the gun barrels pointed at me, “She needs an ambulance!”

  My one allotted phone call did not go well.

  Patricia’s voice screamed out of the receiver and echoed around the concrete block walls of the holding cell. “What were you two doing outside that motel?”

  Nothing came to mind so nothing came out of my mouth. I looked down at the dull floor.

  “Answer me!”

  All I could see was the blood. Darcy’s blood. On the dashboard. On the front of her dress. On my hands.

  She said, “You don’t care about anything but yourself, do you?”

  With my free hand I gripped one of the bars from the cell closest to me but still didn’t speak.

  Something must have clicked inside of Patricia because she began to cry. The quiet sobs were worse than the screaming.

  Detective Rogers and the holding-cell guard walked in. The detective said, “I have an update on your friend.”

  Through the receiver, Patricia said, “Oh, God.” She must have heard the detective.

  “Ms. Wells lost a lot of blood and is in critical condition,” he said. “But she’s stable at this time.”

  The holding-cell guard escorted me to an interrogation room and left me alone with a bad cup of coffee. The police had confiscated my watch and phone when they booked me so I had no idea how long I sat there. The door opened and Chauncey walked in with Detectives Rogers and Wilson. Rogers carried a file folder. Chauncey sat in the chair beside me. The detectives took the seats in front of me, Wilson smiling as if he’d won the lottery. My webcam plan hadn’t worked out like I wanted it to.

  “Brack,”Wilson said, “your file says you were in the Marines.”

  I looked at my lawyer. He nodded.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Wilson continued, “First of all, thank you for serving the country, and I mean it.”

  “Thanks,” I said, thinking about Rogers’s PTSD crack at my bar earlier.

  Rogers said, “Says you went in at twenty-nine.”

  “And?”

  Wilson said, “You just made the cutoff.”

  Rogers said, “Why so old? I mean, most screw-ups join straight out of high school when they figure out college won’t be on their agenda.”

  Chauncey said, “I hope you’re not insulting my client for serving his country, Detective.”

  Rogers said, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  I said, “Afghanistan sounded like the place to be.”

  “Yeah, right.” Rogers leaned forward. “You mind going over what your responsibilities were?”

  I took a long breath, counting the seconds on the inhale and exhale. The detectives would find it interesting that my self-imposed responsibility was death, whether my own or someone else’s. “My duty back then was to the Corps and the safety of my men. Not that you seem to care about duty and things like that.”

  Rogers asked, “What do you mean?”

  “My uncle, a good man and probably my only friend, is dead. Two weeks ago t
omorrow some coward gunned him down in cold blood. Three days ago, an accountant was murdered in North Charleston. And today someone shot the Channel Nine News girl. I’m not having a good month, but the safety of the city is not my responsibility. It’s yours. And frankly, compared to you guys, I’m golden.”

  “We’re trying to do our jobs,” Wilson said, “no thanks to you and that stunt you pulled at your bar.”

  Chauncey said, “Is there a question coming or are you badgering my client again?”

  “I meant to comment on your dancing skills, Detective.” I pointed at Rogers. “And the disco duck here.”

  “Real funny,” Rogers said.

  Wilson asked, “Do you own a weapon?”

  “You already have my pocket knife.”

  “Don’t get smart now, boy.” Rogers was looking for a fight. He wanted me to take a swing at him—was daring me to.

  “Folly Beach P.D. confiscated my gun early this morning. You can check with them.”

  Wilson said, “Whose gun was with you when the officers arrived at the scene?”

  Chauncey touched my wrist. “My client is declining to answer—”

  “I found it in the glove box. Must have come with the rental car.” Not sure if Darcy had registered it or if she had a carry permit, I decided to lie.

  Rogers pounded fists on the table. “Don’t think you’re getting away with this.”

  Chauncey stood. “Enough! Is there a charge here or is this a fishing expedition?”

  I stood, too. “Getting away with what? Defending myself?”

  “You said there were men with guns at your place on Folly,” Rogers said, “but there was no evidence to support it. Earlier today, two patrolmen responded to an emergency call and found your girlfriend with a gunshot wound, you with a pistol, and no one else around.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Like I said, it hasn’t been a very good month.” I let my anger soak up the emotions I couldn’t and wouldn’t express.

  Chauncey lifted his briefcase. “I’ll have my client out of here in two minutes and your badges in three.”

  I said, “I hit one of them today.”

  Chauncey said, “Don’t say another word.”

  In for a penny, I thought, and said, “Put at least two rounds in him.”

  Chauncey yelled, “Brack!”

  “Why don’t you go looking for someone with a couple thirty-two slugs in him?”

  “We found him,” Wilson said.

  I sat back in the chair. “Then why aren’t you giving him the good cop, bad cop routine?”

  Rogers said, “He’s dead.”

  “That’s a real shame,” I said, definitely not meaning it. “Where’d you find him?”

  “In a dumpster behind a strip mall about an hour ago,” Wilson said. “The dishwasher taking out the trash opened the lid and there he was. The vic’s name was Johnny.”

  Chauncey said, “This conversation is over.”

  “Relax, counselor,” Wilson said. “Lucky for your client there was a security camera on the back of the motel. Got most of the shootout on video. We ain’t gonna press any charges.”

  Rogers looked me in the eye. “Yet.”

  Galston must not know about the video feed. Either that, or he wasn’t in it. I said, “So why am I here?”

  Wilson said, “Because we’re tired of cleaning up your messes.”

  I had a few choice words ready, but my lawyer guided me out of the interrogation room, down the hall, and through the exit doors. Outside, in the balmy night air of the little slice of paradise we called home, Chauncey didn’t say anything about me ignoring every piece of advice he’d tried to give. He had every right to drop me as a client and I wouldn’t blame him if he did. Instead, he offered to give me a ride somewhere. His Audi waited by a parking meter.

  I shook my head no and walked away. Patricia was right—I didn’t care about anything. I hailed a cab and went to the safest place I knew.

  The neon sign in front of Mutt’s Bar lit the dirty glass and sent yellow and red colors across the cracked sidewalk. A man straddled a backwards-facing metal folding chair underneath the light. His baggy shorts and Nike Air Jordans stuck out from the sides of the chair.

  Another man leaned against the side of the building watching me through cheap sunglasses. “You lost, white-bread?”

  Ignoring them, I grabbed the handle of the rusty screen door and walked inside. Two men wearing stained wife-beaters shot pool at the worn-out table under a crumpled green lighting fixture. Both had cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. The ever-present window AC unit blew unbearably hot air. It mixed with the thick fog of tobacco smoke inside the place. My forehead dripped with sweat when I pulled out a stool.

  Mutt came over. “What’s up, Opie?”

  “I need a place to crash,” I said, “and a double-shot of grain.”

  Darcy almost died so I wanted a drink.

  Mutt lived in one of the two-story shotgun homes with a front porch overlooking the God-awful main street of the projects. After he closed his bar for the night, we sat outside his rental in wobbly rocking chairs on mildewed cushions and sipped clear hooch from unmarked bottles until I passed out.

  Jo stood before me in a flowing-white wedding dress, her eyes the green they became whenever she was happy. Her full lips opened with a big grin, showing off white but slightly crooked teeth. The pastor read from his bible. People cheered behind us as I took her in my arms and kissed her. She tasted like the fragrance of roses. I carried her through a doorway into our honeymoon suite. We were naked. The touch of her skin on mine was so real, perfect as always.

  Then I was alone, running in a field. I called to Jo but she wasn’t there. A white dove flew overhead, contrasting with the blue sky. Night came in like an old-school photographer’s darkroom and didn’t leave.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Daylight revealed surprise. Even for a Saturday morning in the projects. Unlike Mutt’s bar, or his front yard, the house was neat, clean, and sparse. Aside from the couch I’d slept on, the only other item in the living room was a small flatscreen TV on a stand.

  Mutt walked into the living room where I stood. “Easy there, Opie. I didn’t see all that on you last night.”

  I looked down and saw Darcy’s blood on my shorts and undershirt and hands.

  He said, “You okay?”

  The hooch had been sufficiently potent. It felt as if someone were tattooing a Hawaiian girl doing the hula on my brain. “I’m fine.”

  “I got coffee or more nitro. Take your pick.”

  I took the offered mug of coffee. It smelled like burnt motor oil but the jolt was pure electricity.

  I said, “You mind if we sit on the front porch?”

  “I don’t know, Opie. You mind being stared at by every brother on the block?”

  “What? You don’t want to be the first to integrate Cooper Street?”

  “How! You pretty quick for a white boy. Lemme get you another shirt.”

  Mutt boosted his thick eyebrows as if to reconsider the front porch idea but went into his bedroom. I wondered what kind of shirt I was going to get but he returned with a crisp white T and tossed it to me.

  “My daughter loves to run,” he said. “This is from that crazy thing they do across the Cooper every year.”

  “You mean the Bridge Run?”

  “Yep. She got this for me when she did it last year. It’s an extra large.”

  I looked at it. “Are you sure you—”

  “Take it,” he said and handed me the shirt.

  “Where is she?”

  “With her mother in Atlanta.”

  It had never occurred to me Mutt might have obligations outside of keeping the men of the projects in cheap booze. I cleared my throat.

  “What?” He took a swig of coffee.

  “Brother Thomas said my uncle might have been helping you.”

  Mutt held his cup in both hands. “Yeah?”

  “He would want to
keep it going. I guess what I’m asking is . . . what can I do for you?”

  “You can clean yourself up.” He flipped on a light in an adjacent room. “Bathroom’s in there.” He took his cup of coffee onto the front porch.

  Through the front window, I watched him wave at someone on the street and wondered if I’d done something wrong. Patricia had said I could be a real piece of work and I might have just proved her right. Again.

  Mutt didn’t own a car and mine was at the newspaper office. Cab companies avoided the projects so I had to improvise. A phone call got me the ride I needed.

  Brother Thomas pulled to the curb and I opened the door to David Fisher’s Volvo, the one he’d been found shot in.

  I slid into the passenger seat and closed the door. “Nice ride.”

  “Mrs. Fisher donated it and a bunch of other stuff to the church. It sure do the job, mm-hmm.”

  I couldn’t tell anything so terrible had happened in it. “Who fixed it up?”

  “Some talented boys from the neighborhood. ’Course, I think they’re more experienced taking cars apart than fixing ’em.”

  “Maybe you can give them a reference if they ever decide to shoot straight.”

  “I do what I can, Brother Brack,” he said. “I do what I can.”

  He wheeled us onto Lockwood, which was a little too far west for heading directly to the newspaper.

  “We taking a detour?”

  He stared ahead at the road. “I thought you might want to visit your friend . . . that reporter girl, mm-hmm.”

  I felt the heat build. “I don’t like it when people think they know what I want.”

  At the entrance to the hospital, Brother Thomas put his turn signal on.

  “The beauty of this situation,” he said, “is I’m driving. And you ain’t.”

  We pulled into visitor parking and found a spot. He turned to me. “You coming in?”

  I sat there for a few seconds before unbuckling my seatbelt. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice now, do I?”