Big City Heat

by David Burnsworth

  “Where you gonna be?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure, yet. I need to get another set of wheels.”

  Trish asked, “Then what will you do?”

  Brother Thomas said, “He goin’ to try to right all the wrongs of the world with fists and guns, mm-hmm. And if he don’t get hisself killed, which he think will never happen, he’ll wait for the next time he can go to war.”

  Brack stared at his friend, then blinked. Brother Thomas had always given him the straight answer, but he’d never been this brutally direct. His words would have upset him if Brack weren’t so surprised by his brevity and intuitiveness. He recovered and asked, “What’s wrong with that plan?”

  “One of these days, you are gonna die,” he said, “and leave behind a lot of people who love you, whether you think so or not.”

  Brack’s confusion of feelings was saved by the bell. Darcy called, her timing impeccable as usual. He suggested they meet at Cassie’s house, not telling her who’d come to town.

  Brother Thomas, Trish, Shelby, and Brack arrived at Cassie’s twenty minutes later and piled out of the Volvo. Cassie had said over the phone that she would let her staff open the restaurant and wait for them to arrive. Shelby spotted Darcy and ran to her. If Trish was the dog’s first love, Darcy came a close second, followed by any other female in the vicinity.

  Cassie let out a shriek and ran to Brother Thomas to wrap him in a hug. She hit him with such force that she knocked him back two steps.

  He hugged her as well, petting the top of her head like the father figure he was.

  Mutt stood in the doorway watching everything.

  Brack said, “Let’s all go inside where it’s nice and cool and formulate our plan for taking Vito down.”

  Trish asked, “Who’s Vito?”

  “Kelvin Vito,” Darcy volunteered. “In addition to being a respectable businessman, he pretty much runs the sex trade in the city, among other illegal enterprises.”

  In her kitchen, Cassie poured glasses of iced tea loaded with sugar and lemon for everyone. Perfectly refreshing. She had the kitchen radio tuned to the station Mutt liked, the one that specialized in Motown from the sixties to the eighties. Dionne Warwick, while not technically on the Motown label, sang “Walk on By.”

  To Brack, Darcy’s having left Charleston and any chance for a relationship with him made the lyrics seem sadly appropriate.

  Mutt, quiet until the song ended, said, “Opie and I got this Vito thing, Brother. Why’d you come?”

  Brother Thomas tilted his head back and let out a laugh. “You two? Please.”

  “This ain’t funny now, hear?” Mutt’s dark face became even darker.

  Brack’s friend and pastor was one of the few people not intimidated by Mutt. It could be because they were the same height, but it wasn’t. The three of them—Brack, Brother Thomas, and Mutt—had been through a lot together. Nothing intimidated any one of them. They shared the understanding that only the truth as each knew it would be spoken.

  Brother Thomas said, “As soon as I heard Cassie callin’ for Brother Brack, I know’d there was trouble. Only a matter of time before somethin’ happened, mm-hmm. I just didn’t think he’d lose another automobile.”

  A wise man once said that if someone suspected you a fool, don’t open your mouth and prove them right. So Brack offered no comment.

  All six friends sat around Cassie’s large dining table. Shelby lay at Trish’s feet. To Cassie, Trish said, “This Kelvin Vito is the one you believe has your sister?”

  Brack answered for her. “Mutt and I saw her with him. This isn’t a kidnapping. She’s with the man. There’s no doubt.”

  Brother Thomas asked, “So why don’t we just go over there and get her?”

  “Because,” Darcy said, “our resident Romeo here already tipped our hand. Vito knows we’ll be coming. That’s why a certain brand-new Porsche with less than two thousand miles on it got blown up.”

  Later that night, Brother Thomas took Trish and Shelby back to the hotel, saying he wanted to meet with a pastor friend of his. Because Darcy’s informants had tracked several of Vito’s henchmen to a biker bar on the south side of the city, Brack sat next to her in her old Accord undercover mobile and scoped out the scene.

  It wasn’t his ride, so the radio was set to some modern pop station. A Taylor Swift song serenaded them, but their focus was on the saloon’s front door and the five shiny motorcycles parked at the curb.

  “My source says they hang out until either they pick up women or the clock strikes eleven. If any of them are still on the hunt, they head to Limey’s.”

  “Let me guess,” he said. “Limey’s is one of Vito’s businesses.”

  “Not sure,” she said. “We’ll have to do some digging on that. It’s a few steps lower than the mainstream gentlemen’s clubs. But I hear it makes a ton of money.”

  “There’s always a market for flesh.”

  “Men will be men.”

  “Present company included,” he said.

  A smirk lined the corner of her mouth. “Present company included.”

  They both knew that with Brack’s past he lacked the standing to criticize. After Darcy moved away he tried to become a better man, concentrating on his dog and on running the Pirate’s Cove. He’d lived like a priest. But if he thought about it longer than five seconds, he would realize he had done it because of Darcy. He’d read somewhere that to find someone of quality, he had to be someone of quality. And Jo’s quality was very hard to replace. His late wife still crept into his thoughts. She’d been his everything until a tumor took her away.

  Darcy interrupted his internal monologue. “Earth to Brack.”

  “Yes?”

  “Deep in thought over there?”

  He angled the rearview mirror to make sure no one was sneaking up on them. “Sorry, only reminiscing.”

  As if by instinct, her hand went to her shoulder, where two years ago a round from a Sig nine millimeter had torn through. It happened on a stakeout a lot like this one. “Don’t remind me.”

  “How about if you watch the front and I’ll keep an eye on our six?” he asked.

  “That’s military speak for behind us, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “And you aren’t antsy to head inside the bar?”

  “The old Brack would have stormed in there and gotten his head taken off. You’re dealing with two-point-oh.”

  “Wow,” she said. “Color me surprised.”

  “I’m trying.”

  Brack took his eyes off the rearview mirror to look at her. She was so beautiful sitting close to him with a broad smile on her face. It pained him to know he’d not been able to win her heart, not that he’d been in any shape mentally to try.

  “Keep your eyes on our six, Romeo.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  When the dashboard clock displayed eleven p.m. Darcy’s informants proved themselves spot on. Their targets exited the building, sans female companionship. Firing up their Harleys, they roared away in a staccato of unmuffled straight-piped American glory.

  Darcy gave them a city block’s lead before starting the Honda and easing out of the metered spot on the street. Knowing where their targets were headed kept them from behaving in a hurry.

  As an afterthought, Brack said, “Does Justin know where you are?”

  “He knows I’m working.”

  He turned to her. “I’m not trying to be smart or get your goat, but it might be a good idea, given our objective, to let him know what’s going on. Maybe even give him a way to track you.”

  Letting another smirk cross her face, she said, “I almost believe you’re being genuine.”

  “I’d want to know, if for no other reason than a little peace of mind. Just thinking out loud here.”

  They rode in silence
through two intersections before she spoke again.

  “That has got to be the most unselfish thing you’ve said to me since you’ve been in town. Or ever.”

  “I have my moments.” Brack’s smile hid gritted teeth. On the one hand, he was trying to be accepting of the situation with her and the peckerwood. On the other hand, he really wanted to be anything but.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Monday, eleven fifteen p.m.

  As predicted, they found the motorcycles in question leaning on their kickstands in front of Limey’s. Business at the strip-club-slash-brothel was booming, given the steady stream of men of all ages and ethnicities entering and exiting the run-down establishment.

  “Popular place,” Brack said.

  “The question is, what do we do once they leave? It’s not as if we can run them down.”

  “I have an idea.”

  He opened his wallet and took out Detective Nichols’s business card. Dialing with his thumb, he hit the call button and held the iPhone to his ear.

  On the second ring he heard, “Nichols.”

  “Detective, this is Brack Pelton. I thought you might like to know that Vito’s henchmen are at Limey’s right now. If you were looking for something to add to your file on them, this could be it.”

  Nichols didn’t reply right away.

  Brack waited.

  Eventually, the detective said, “We’ve actually got two units in the area. This might work. Did you happen to see if they were carrying concealed weapons?”

  “Didn’t get that close, but if you’d like I can scope out the situation.”

  “I don’t want you to put yourself in harm’s way—again—but any intel you can give us would be appreciated. I’ll call you back in five minutes.” Nichols hung up.

  Darcy asked, “What did he say?”

  “He wants to know if they’re carrying.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “He’s coming to get them, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe,” Brack said. “In the meantime, I’m going in.”

  “You’re what?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped out of the car. The front doors to the house of ill repute stood wedged open. Several men exited past Brack as he made his way into the cheap brothel. He knew Charleston had its own share of these places. But thanks to his actions a few years ago in tracking down the man who killed his uncle, Charleston now had at least one fewer. That loss hadn’t exactly won him friends in certain circles.

  Some hip-hop recording played on the sound system as he entered the building. Inside and to the right, a very large round black woman wearing a red brassiere and some sort of sheer flowing cape over her shoulders stood behind a raised desk. She gave Brack a huge smile to match her proportions. “How you doin’, sugar?”

  Other women, large and small, paraded around wearing not much of anything. Some of them were actually attractive, but probably had been judged not good enough for the classier places.

  It had been his experience that places like this were always protected by men with guns. Sometimes they watched everything from behind the bar. Other times they kept out of sight or attempted to blend in.

  Because most of Limey’s clientele here was on the rough side, Brack had to scan the room twice until he found the pair he thought were the guards. In a back corner sat two black guys sipping drinks from glass tumblers. Their attention on the entryway and lengthy sideways glances at him gave them away.

  Brack showed the lady in red a big smile. “I’m a little lonely this evening.”

  She leaned over the desk, any pretense of modesty vanishing. “Pretty boy like you shouldn’t be that way. What can I do for you?” She placed a lot of emphasis on “I.”

  Standing close to so much flesh, as well as surrounded by the semi-nude women in the room, he felt his face redden. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well,” she said, batting her eyes, “why don’t you make yourself at home. Maybe something will come to you.”

  Brack strolled to the bar, took a seat three chairs away from the guards, and gave them a nod, figuring he had less than a minute left before Detective Nichols called and his men stormed the fort. Pretending to check out the merchandise, he watched for the bikers. Apparently they’d wasted no time in choosing their partners because he didn’t see them.

  A hand touched his thigh, breaking his concentration. It belonged to a small white woman who could have been forty, or a very rough twenty. Her pleasant smile accentuated the age lines on her face. She wore a full-length dress that separated across her legs when she took the seat next to him.

  Brack said, “Hi.”

  She said, “Hi back at you.” Her hand stayed put.

  Not sure what to do, especially with the two guards a mere two seats away from her, he said, “Buy you a drink?”

  “If that’s what you want to do.” She signaled the bartender, an Asian woman, who sauntered over, displaying an even smaller version of the attire barely clinging to the hostess. When the barkeep got close enough to hear, Brack’s “date” said, “I’ll take a gin rickey. Mr. Gorgeous here needs something to loosen him up.”

  Miss Asia nodded and got to work on their libations.

  “That obvious, huh?” he asked.

  “It’s my job.”

  Before he could reply, one of the bikers walked by with a chubby Latina.

  To the guards, Brack said, “Was that a gun I saw on him?”

  They sized up his target and one of them said, “They know they can’t come in here with gats.”

  The other one said, “In fact, the only one I’d question here is you.”

  The woman beside Brack slid her hand farther up his thigh. At the moment she touched the iPhone in his pocket, it vibrated.

  She jerked her hand back.

  He stood and took the phone out of his pocket. “It’s the wife,” he said, looking at the display, and walked toward the front door.

  Nichols said, “Storm Troopers in about twenty minutes.”

  “The five stooges are empty handed, but there are two near the bar who probably aren’t.” Brack ended the call, walked down the two steps to the sidewalk, and made it across the street before he encountered two men he hadn’t seen before. They nodded to him as they passed. He guessed they were the reconnaissance team.

  Darcy had the passenger door open and waved Brack to hurry up. When he got in, she took off down the road.

  “Is there a fire somewhere?” he asked.

  “Detective Nichols said it would be best if we weren’t around when they raided the place.”

  “And you’re following his orders?”

  She never followed orders.

  “He offered me an exclusive on the bust. I have a cameraman on the way. They’re going to give him an all-access pass, thanks to your intel.”

  “I’m glad I was good for something,” he said.

  At an all-night diner, Darcy and Brack took a booth by a window. Hungry from the night’s activities, Brack ordered a large breakfast and juice and Darcy got a BLT. They picked up where they’d left off a year ago, and although he tried not to read too much into it, he did enjoy their comfortable familiarity.

  When the waitress delivered the check, a guy about thirty approached their booth. Tall, lanky, with wire-rimmed glasses, he had a backpack draped over his left shoulder.

  Darcy said, “Did you get some good shots?”

  The walking stick-figure grinned.

  Brack held out his hand, “Brack Pelton.”

  The stick figure took it. “Jack Roman. Detective Nichols sends his regards.”

  “How’d they do?” Darcy asked.

  “Thirty-five arrests.”

  “No gunfire?” Brack asked.

  Roman slid next to Darcy. “Nada.”

  “Nichols told me earlier they had two unit
s in the area. That’s only four officers.”

  “Actually,” Roman said, “they had ten. Thanks to you they got the two near the bar first. Vito’s bikers were otherwise preoccupied and couldn’t put up much of a fight.”

  “Vito’s men will be out by morning,” Brack said.

  The waitress came by and Roman ordered coffee.

  Darcy asked him, “You send me the pics?”

  “They’re already in your inbox.”

  She pulled a tablet from her purse, slid her fingers across the glass, and began to type.

  “You’re writing the story now?” Brack asked.

  Without looking up from the screen, she said, “Yes.”

  Roman glanced at his watch. “If we get it posted before four a.m., we’ll make the headline.”

  Brack stood and dropped a twenty on the table. “I wonder if their bikes are still there.”

  “Who cares?” Roman asked.

  “They may contain something interesting.”

  “That’s tampering with evidence.”

  The way he said it made Brack curious about his intentions. So he said, “Wanna come?”

  “Of course.”

  “You boys go ahead,” Darcy said. “I need to finish this. Call me later.”

  The men exited the diner. Roman’s car, a dark-colored Altima, sat in a spot a block away.

  “All you news people drive incognito?”

  Roman frowned. “Most of us can’t afford Porsches.”

  “I probably can’t anymore either.”

  Roman unlocked the doors, they got in, and he started the car. “I’m not sure whether I’d rather never know what it’s like to drive one and therefore not miss it, or have had one and lost it.”

  “Just shut up and drive,” Brack said.

  “Yessir.” The old Nissan sputtered and coughed, but got them on their way.

  Shortly after, they parked at a meter and walked to the house of ill repute. The police were gone, as were all the patrons and staffers. So were the bikes. Someone must have worked really fast to get them collected in the narrow window of time between the cops’ departure and the arrival of Brack and Roman.