Burning Heat

by David Burnsworth

“Gee, Brack. You know me. Always flying off the handle and spouting conspiracy theories.”

  Cussing myself because I’d taken the bait, again, I asked, “She called you, didn’t she?”

  “Bingo.”

  “What did she say? She need help?”

  “She’s hiding at a friend’s house. That’s all she’d tell me. I didn’t get a chance to ask if she needed anything. She said she’ll call me later. In the meantime, I think we need—”

  “To get over to the rehab center and see who paid her a visit,” I said.

  “Two for two,” she said. “You’re on a roll. I don’t know what I’d do without all that cunning brainpower of yours.”

  At the rehab center, we pulled into the same visitor parking spot we’d been in earlier. Darcy got out and walked inside. Our plan was for her to do the sweet talking.

  I got out, stretched, slid a new cigar out of my pocket, clipped the end, and lit up with my uncle’s Zippo. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The heat from the asphalt baked my feet while the sun overhead cooked the rest of me. A regular convection oven. Shorts and a T-shirt were still too much clothing. I tapped the toe of a sandal on the hard road surface to get a pebble out from under my foot while I puffed away on the stogie.

  “Excuse me,” a young voice said. “Are you with the News?”

  I turned around. A little white girl who looked about twelve, with thick glasses, twin pigtails, and freckles, stood ten feet away. Her navy T-shirt carried a private school logo on the front. Khaki shorts, brown sandals, and a backpack rounded out her ensemble.

  “No,” I said. “Apparently I’m the brains of the operation.”

  “That was Darcy Wells with you, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. We’re here in sort of a non-official capacity.”

  The girl asked, “She checking you in?”

  Lots of thoughts spun around in my head. One of them wondered why I looked as if I needed rehabilitation. “No. A friend of ours was staying here.”

  “Who? Maybe I know them.”

  “Are you a guest?” It came out sounding like disbelief—not that I doubted a twelve-year-old who should be home doing her homework needed to be in rehab.

  She kicked at a loose chip of asphalt. “For the second time.”

  Around the cigar, I asked, “Second?”

  “First time was about a year ago. My parents caught me with a bottle of vodka.”

  “And this time?”

  “My mom noticed some of her Percocet missing.”

  “You didn’t learn from the first time?”

  She shrugged. “I couldn’t get to my dealer and I needed a fix.”

  I took a puff of the cigar and blew out a cloud of smoke. A slight breeze took it away.

  “You needed a fix,” I said. “Of course.”

  “I slipped up and now I’m back here again.”

  “Have we learned anything since the second time? And don’t say something stupid like ‘Yeah, I learned not to get caught.’”

  Pulling on a strap dangling from her backpack, she said, “So, are you going to tell me who Ms. Wells is investigating?”

  “Actually, we found out the person is no longer here. Her name’s Camilla.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “I know Camilla. She was nice to me.” She unslung her backpack, set it on the ground, unzipped the top, and pulled out a leather-bound journal. “She gave me this before she left. It’s for my poems.”

  “You write?”

  She nodded. “Isn’t this nice?”

  The book was lavender-colored.

  “It sure is.”

  “Camilla was the only one who ever asked to hear my poems.”

  I smiled.

  She said, “Are you sure you don’t need to check yourself in? You look like you’ve got some problems. I can tell.”

  “My wife died a few years ago,” I said, not sure why I was telling this to a stranger—and a kid, no less. “Last year, my uncle was killed. Between those two losses, I spent some time in Afghanistan.” I looked down at the cigar. “I don’t have problems. I have baggage.” Two storage containers full—one with my wife’s belongings, the other with Uncle Reggie’s.

  The girl laughed and said, “You’re funny. That’s good. You’ll need it. One of the first things we learn here is not to take ourselves too seriously. You do and you’re dead.”

  “So why the booze and pills? Cookies not cutting it for you?”

  She shrugged again. “My parents do it. I wanted to see what was so great about it.”

  “And what’d you find out?”

  “They seem to think it’s okay for them to drink all day and take pills, but I’m a disgrace if I do it.”

  “When my wife died, I didn’t want to hear another person tell me how sorry they were. I was just really angry. I drank a lot for a couple of months. Started out as one drink before bed to help me sleep. Then it was one when I got home from work and one before bed. Then it was several. Then it was all night. One day, I looked in the mirror and decided that killing myself slowly wasn’t enough. I wanted to kill someone else. Or be put out of my misery. So I joined the Marines and got what I asked for. More than enough.”

  Birds chirped in the trees.

  She asked, “Is this supposed to be a pep talk or something?”

  “All I’m saying is that you can blame your parents all you want. Unless they poured the drink for you and shoved the pills down your throat, you’re just lying to yourself.”

  The cute little smile on her face tightened. I puffed on my cigar some more. She looked away. I wondered if she still thought I needed to check myself in.

  “You’re not a very nice person,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes.

  “And you’re too smart to be doing what you’re doing.” I took a business card for the Pirate’s Cove out of my wallet and handed it to her. “When you get out, come by. We make the best Cherry Cokes around. Hamburgers, too. My name’s Brack. I’m the owner.”

  She looked at the card and then up at me. “I’ve been here before. My friend Kristin’s birthday party.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “My mom and dad got drunk in the bar and I had to spend the night at Kristin’s.”

  I said, “Oh.”

  “My favorite part was the parrot.”

  “She’s a macaw,” I said. “Her name is Bonny.”

  “She’s really pretty.” Her expression changed, her eyes getting this dreamy look to them.

  “You like animals?”

  She nodded. “I want to be a vet some day.”

  “Good. The next time you want to use, decide for yourself what is more important, helping animals or getting loaded. You can’t do both.”

  “Jeez. I know, already.”

  Locking my eyes with hers, I said, “Then I want you to say it.”

  She took a step back. “Say what?”

  “I want you to say ‘I can’t do both.’”

  She huffed.

  I waited.

  Finally, she said, “I can’t do both.”

  “All right. And when you get out, you and Camilla can come meet Bonny.”

  She asked, “Do you know where Camilla is?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “She came by my room and gave me the journal. She hugged me and told me to be strong. Then she whispered that she was leaving but that she would stay in touch.”

  I took a second card from my wallet and found a pen in Darcy’s car. On the back of the card, I scribbled a message and handed it to the girl. “If she comes by and sees you or calls, can you give her this?”

  “Okay.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be late for my group.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You never told me your name.”

  Her cheeks became big dimples. “You never asked. I’m Megan.”

  I shook her hand and watched her walk away.

  Darcy stormed out the front door. “The guy at the front desk was a real piece
of work,” she said. “A first class jerk.”

  I dropped the cigar butt on the ground and got in the car. Darcy hadn’t opened her door yet. Her hand was on the handle but she seemed troubled.

  I said, “He didn’t respond to your feminine wiles, huh?”

  “No.”

  “Wow. The guy must not be an Elizabeth Shue fan.”

  “I do not look like Elizabeth Shue! She’s like thirty years older.”

  “Actually, you look better than she did at your age.”

  “At my age?” Hands on hips, she said, “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I—”

  “I’m a lot younger than you are.”

  “Um—”

  “And that jerk back there kicked me out.”

  I decided I should stop baiting her and let her calm down.

  She said, “He wouldn’t tell me anything. Maybe he thought I was too old, too.”

  Frankness grenaded any semblance of a working relationship with the fairer sex. Loose lips sank ships. I tried to give her nothing else to rile her—no tell. No hint of what I was thinking or wanting to say. Nothing. Nothing but a big black hole. That was me, a big black hole.

  Darcy got in the car and shut the door. Then she slapped the steering wheel.

  I decided to take a risk.

  “I might have found a lead,” I said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At the offices of the Palmetto Pulse, Darcy and I sat across from my Aunt Patricia in the conference room. Miss Dell, a heavyset African-American woman about fifty who worked as the receptionist, walked in with a tray of iced coffee.

  “Thank you,” Patricia said. Her business suit was dark, wrinkle free, and looked very expensive. Over sixty, but I wasn’t sure by how much, she kept herself in great shape with a healthy diet and personal trainer appointments.

  Miss Dell said, “I didn’t do it for your old wrinkly butt. I did it because we got us a man in here, yessir.”

  “You can have him,” Darcy said, still riled up. Not her usual response to broken leads or bureaucratic obstinacy.

  Miss Dell set the tray down and looked at her. “So can you if you’d just get over yourself. A man like that don’t grow on no tree.”

  My favorite news girl opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, reconsidering. Probably a good move.

  Patricia, Darcy, and I watched Miss Dell walk out, her large hips swaying with serious attitude.

  Patricia turned back to face us. Her expression was anything but ecstatic. “So, anyway, the big lead you managed to get after losing the only good source we had is a twelve-year-old junkie?”

  “Alcoholic junkie,” I said. “And she’s really a sharp kid.”

  “Not sharp enough to stay out of trouble,” Patricia said.

  I clapped my hands together. “It must be nice to walk around on water all day.”

  Patricia tapped a finger on the table. “You said it, yourself, Brack. She’s twelve years old with a substance abuse problem. That doesn’t lend itself to Emmy award–winning journalism.”

  I said, “Is that what this is all about? I thought we were trying to solve a brutal murder.”

  After the unproductive meeting, Darcy dropped me off at the airport. My reluctant insurance company had arranged for me to have a rental car while my bullet-strafed truck was being torn apart by the police.

  The next day, around noon, a certified letter arrived at my residence by mail. The envelope bore the letterhead of the state of South Carolina. My cell phone rang as I read the notice that my license authorizing me to sell alcohol was being suspended. Disheartened, I didn’t look at the caller I.D. but simply answered.

  “Well,” I heard, “if it isn’t quick-draw McPelton.”

  I lowered the sheet of paper that announced my bar’s demise. “Detective Wilson. To what do I owe this honor? It’s not every day we little people get to hear from an honest-to-goodness hero.”

  Wilson had pulled the trigger ending the life of a shady character named Michael Galston and had to resign from the Charleston Police Department. Lucky for him, he’d gotten a job with the Myrtle Beach P.D.

  He said, “All I gotta say is the more things change, the more they stay the same.”

  I tried to think of what that might mean, but most of my mind was on my bar. “Huh?”

  “I got a buddy that works for the state. He said you got a mess on your hands. Don’t answer your door. They suspended your—”

  “Liquor license,” I said. “I’ve got the notice right here.” I crumpled the notice. “I can’t close my place. Too many people relying on the income.”

  “I heard the Gardners are behind it,” he said.

  “Just great.”

  “Don’t worry,” Wilson said. “I got an idea.”

  I called Paige at the Cove and when she answered said, “Remember going over the profits with me and the accountant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember what she said we make the most money on?”

  “Yes, Brack. Liquor sales. What are you—” She cut herself off.

  “That’s right. Well, guess what we can’t sell anymore?”

  The phone was so quiet I heard crickets.

  I said, “Not even a peep, huh? Well, that’s okay. Save it up for later. I got a plan. Actually, it’s Wilson’s plan, but it’s a good one.” I laid out the details.

  Paige listened without saying anything, even when she gently hung up.

  My next call was to Chauncey. He did not like Wilson’s idea but would pursue an appeal of the suspension immediately. While I knew he would fight the good fight, something told me we were in trouble.

  Wilson’s idea had an air of “sticking it to the man” that I found most appealing. If they were going to fast-track my license suspension through the usually lethargic system, they didn’t know who they were messing with.

  Paige put the kitchen to work cooking up as many hors d’oeuvres as we had supplies for. She mobilized her single-mom army to get the word out via social media that we were having a BYOB party. All anyone had to do was show up with the beverage of their choice and we’d take care of the rest. The party started at eight.

  By ten the crowd was so thick, the only way I could get to the back deck was to walk around the outside and climb the back stairs. Over the sound system, I heard Paige say, “Make sure you support your servers. Just because the grub’s free doesn’t mean their service has to be.”

  I watched wallets open and cash flow into the pockets of the wait staff.

  The Isle of Palms Police Chief wove his way through the crowd and approached me. “You better explain to me what’s going on.”

  Before I could respond, Paige came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Hey Chief,” she said. “If you open up the backseat of your car, we’ve got some trays of food to take back to the station.”

  Chief Bates looked at her, then at me. A big grin crawled across his face. He said, “You better do whatever you can to keep this one, Pelton.”

  “You bet.”

  “This isn’t going to help your cause with the state, you know.”

  “But it sure is fun,” I said.

  I spent the next morning picking up trash on the street in front of my bar. As the owners of the neighboring businesses and their employees arrived for work, they saw me and grabbed trash bags to help. All had enjoyed themselves freeloading at my place last night. It didn’t take long before we were laughing and cutting up while we made our way down the sidewalk, filling our bags with trash and singing the Toby Keith lyrics about red Solo cups.

  An unmarked cruiser came up Ocean Boulevard, slowed when it got to our group, and parked.

  “You’re in trouble now, Pelton,” said Jesse, a woman who works as concierge for the hotel down the road.

  Meredith, one of my waitresses, said, “Looks like our little stunt caught up with you.”

  Detective Warrez got out of the car and leaned her elbo
ws on the opened driver’s door.

  One of the men behind me whistled.

  I smiled, waved at the detective, and announced, “My ride’s here.”

  With everyone’s eyes on me, I approached my new favorite detective.

  Detective Warrez watched me walk up to her car. “I got one question,” she said when I was close enough.

  “What’s that?”

  “How does someone who gets his liquor license suspended think it’s a good idea to throw a party and close down the whole street?”

  “Seemed like a great idea to me.”

  “You can’t afford to go to jail.”

  I smiled, then said, “Sure I can. Got a good lawyer.”

  “I know.” She rested her foot on the rocker panel of her car. “You doing okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The state doesn’t know what they started.”

  “I’d say last night gave them a good idea. I heard you had members of the Isle of Palms police force swing by for a plate of food, and even shipped some back to the station with the chief.”

  I nodded.

  “Smart move.”

  “I know it’s early,” I said, “but I still have some food left, if you’re interested. We make a mean burger.”

  “Well, I haven’t had breakfast yet.” She shut her car door and walked with me into the bar. My helpers had not left yet, nor had they bothered to pick up any more trash. They stood and stared.

  Detective Warrez stopped and faced the gawkers. “Get back to work!”

  The authority of the badge was evident as everyone bent in unison to gather more trash.

  Inside, I carried a barstool into the kitchen for her. Two of my waitresses were cleaning up when we walked in. They looked Detective Warrez up and down, then gave me a thoughtful eye as they left.

  I set the stool down at a table in the middle and fired up the grill. “So how do you like your burger cooked?”

  “Well-done,” she said. “Sorry about your license suspension.”

  In the fridge sat the platter that at the beginning of the evening held a mound of uncooked patties. Two remained and I set them on the grill. Her dark brown eyes watched me as I sliced two potatoes and dropped them into the still-hot fryer. When she didn’t say anything else, I said, “You come here to ask me some more questions about Willa Mae?”