Southern Heat

by David Burnsworth

  The teller was an older woman with thick glasses, gray hair, and a figure shaped like a Weeble-Wobble. She typed in my uncle’s information and waited. When the account details came up, her wide-eyed stare at the computer screen told me something was not right.

  “Excuse me,” she said, “I’ll be right back.”

  Her rotund physique bobbled past the other tellers and headed into an office. The title beside the door she entered said Branch Manager. It had no windows so I couldn’t see what was going on.

  I tapped my fingers on the counter to an old Stevie Wonder song playing on the sound system and smiled at a young black girl with a pretty face working at the next counter. Her name tag said Wendi. No other customers were in the lobby.

  Wendi said, “Marge will be back in a moment.”

  I nodded and chose a sucker from a candy dish sitting on the counter, peeling off the plastic wrapping before sticking the grape flavored treat in my mouth. More finger tapping followed to the end of the song. A short, skinny man with a bad comb-over came out of the Branch Manager’s office. Marge wobbled close behind.

  He spoke in a nasal voice. “Mr. Pelton, I’m George Wiggins, the manager of this branch. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I shook his offered hand. “Nice to meet ya.”

  “I’ll be happy to review your uncle’s accounts with you in my office.” He motioned me toward the door.

  As I followed him, I caught Marge watching me. Her eyes darted away. Wendi waved.

  Once we were seated in his office,Wiggins explained my uncle had three accounts—a personal checking account, a business account for the bar, and a third account. The first two had balances of roughly five thousand each. The third was the one that must have triggered Marge’s initial reaction because I couldn’t believe the balance, either.

  “Two million, one-hundred fifty-eight thousand, nine hundred and twenty-seven dollars, and eighty-three cents.”

  I swallowed hard. “Huh?”

  “Two million—”

  I held up a hand and sat back. The office had no intra-office windows but a nice-sized one overlooking the parking lot.

  “Mr. Sails took out a mortgage on his restaurant property on the Isle of Palms a month ago. I remember him doing it.”

  I asked, “How much is the mortgage for?”

  “Two million, five hundred thousand. Unfortunately, Mr. Pelton, the police have put a freeze on his accounts during their investigation.”

  I nodded. “When is the next mortgage payment due?”

  “It’s past due by a week. Seventy-five hundred dollars, give or take.”

  The bigger question was what happened in a month’s time to the difference between the current balance of two point one million and the mortgage amount of two point five. And I couldn’t cover the difference.

  Outside the bank, I dialed Wilson’s cell. He, of course, didn’t answer and I left a message, making no mention of the freeze on the accounts, deciding to let it slide for the moment. Instead, I called Paige and told her I’d cover the costs until things were resolved. As I hung up, I realized I should have asked her how much we needed before going all in.

  My dog deserved better than being cooped up. And I wanted the company. I stopped by the beach house and got him.

  Before Reggie was killed, I could not have imagined going to the place I headed next. Thankfully, even after purchasing the Mustang, I still had a decent balance of my combat pay left over in the bank. After I made another withdrawal, I parked in the lot of a strip mall and walked to the entrance of one of the local businesses. At the door to Big Al’s Pawn, I poked my head in and spoke to a huge man sitting behind the counter. Big Al, I presumed.

  I said, “Is it okay if my dog comes in with me?”

  “Sure, as long as you buy something,” he said. “Otherwise, I’m gonna have to charge you a pet fee.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I opened the door wider so Shelby could enter. His nose went into overdrive, leading him around the room like the dog he was.

  Big Al said, “What can I help you with today?”

  “Pistols.”

  “Target shooting or personal protection?”

  “A little of both, I’d say.”

  Big Al rolled his stool sideways to the handgun section. “I’ve got a nice Beretta nine-millimeter and a Colt nineteen-eleven. Personally, I prefer the Colt, but Nines are more popular these days. Six hundred will get you either.”

  In Afghanistan, my M4 assault rifle boomed in my hands and I always hit what I aimed at. If my uncle hadn’t been shot in front of me, I wouldn’t be here looking at a gun. But he was. I peeled four hundreds from my wallet and laid them on the glass counter.

  The big man looked at the money and at me. “Five and I’ll throw in a nice nylon case.”

  “And a box of shells.”

  “Don’t carry ’em. But I know a place where you can get a good deal.”

  The watches in the display case caused me to think of my crushed timepiece.

  Big Al scooted along, keeping up with the wallet in my hand like Shelby did when I carried one of his bones. A bead of sweat formed around the big man’s receding hairline from the exertion—or from anticipation.

  After I passed the background check, Shelby and I walked out of Big Al’s with the Colt and a pristine vintage Monaco watch like the one Steve McQueen wore in Le Mans. Eight hundred bucks for both and the big man still threw in the gun case. All of it probably hot. Uncle Reggie would’ve been proud.

  It was a ten-minute drive to Plug It and Stuff It, the place Big Al had suggested I could buy ammunition. I parked next to an old Ford F-150 with faded “W” stickers on the tailgate along with less-than-flattering statements about the current administration. On a wooden sign in front of the business, someone had painted:

  We can help you load it and shoot it. If your pistol still don’t fire right, see a doctor.

  The owner greeted us with a lined, white face. He held my Colt in wrinkled hands poking out of a long-sleeved flannel shirt. “You say Big Al sold you this?” He racked the slide. “Nice action.”

  I nodded.

  A little girl dropped to her knees on the floor beside Shelby and scratched his back. He licked her face in appreciation.

  The man said, “That’s my granddaughter.”

  Her naturally brown skin and African features complimented a thick black mound of beautiful curls. The rebel flag patch on the man’s ball cap had me picturing him in a white hood. Reunions in his family must be interesting.

  I said, “Do you have any lanes open? I haven’t shot in a while.”

  He raised his eyebrows, picked up a burning cigarette from an overflowing ashtray, and took a drag. “Why didn’t you start with something a little tamer? Forty-fives have kick, ya know.” Smoke trailed out of his large nostrils.

  He’d probably love to hear about my time in the war, but I didn’t want to talk about it. Back then, all the anger of losing Jo had come out as the carnage I inflicted on everything in my path. My uncle had taken it upon himself to bring me back to reality, and he did. But he wasn’t here anymore.

  I left Shelby with the girl, his new friend, and followed the man to the shooting stalls. Half the lanes were occupied and he set me up at the end, away from the others. He pulled a box of shells from his pocket and two extra clips he’d sold me.

  “I had one of these in ’Nam,” he said loud so I could hear over the shooters. “I was there in sixty-five.” The slide clicked shut when he shoved the clip in and thumbed the release. “Mind if I try it out first? I’ll replace the ammo.”

  “Be my guest.” I stepped back and slipped on ear protection.

  He aimed down the lane at a silhouette of a bad guy with a turban on his head hanging twenty feet away and unloaded the entire clip. The shots were grouped in the center of the torso.

  He handed me the empty weapon. “You got a good one. Army surplus, most likely. Not too old, either. But anything under forty’s new
to me.”

  I changed clips, thumbed the release, and walked to the tape line on the floor. The Marines had taught me everything. How to sight. How to breathe. Squeeze slowly. Ride the recoil.

  With the safety off, I put three shots in the center of the paper terrorist’s forehead. I took a few silent breaths and pulled the trigger four more times. The slide locked back.

  The old man said, “Haven’t shot in a while, my shorts. That camel jockey ain’t got no brains and no testicles left.” His look was one of admiration.

  With nothing but revenge on my mind, I didn’t feel all that admirable.

  He slapped my shoulder. “I’d love to be over there in the Middle East picking off what’s left of them Al Qaeda. Wouldn’t you?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  In the parking lot of the shooting range, I propped a foot on the front bumper of my Jeep while I checked my cell. The message symbol showed I had a voicemail from Detective Wilson, asking me to give him a call.

  This time he answered. “I’m sitting in your living room, Pel-ton. Nice view. You left your door unlocked.”

  I watched the traffic pass by on the four-lane. “There wasn’t anything left to break or steal.”

  “You’re lucky they didn’t do worse,” he said, “and you really need to file a complaint with Sullivan’s Island P.D.”

  “Yeah. I’ll get right on that.”

  “I’m not sure why you want me here. Unless it’s for my health. You know, the beach air and all.”

  I felt myself get rigid. “You don’t see a connection? What do you want, a map?”

  “Look, Pelton, I’ve got some news.”

  I had a bad feeling.

  “All the evidence in your uncle’s case points to a mugging.”

  “He knew the killer,” I said, my voice getting louder. “Remember? Ray?”

  “I wish there were something else I could do. Just isn’t enough for us to go on. The coroner’s office is ready to release your uncle’s remains.”

  “Isn’t it a crime to slice through the evidence tape you guys put on his door?”

  The detective said, “It could be you got a jealous family member or friend looking for some precious heirloom.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” My standard response to news. “You’ve seen the bar and his house. Does it look to you like he had any precious heirlooms?”

  Silence.

  I said, “What about the gambling connection reported on the news?”

  “We didn’t find anything to support that. If a TV station wants to go a certain direction on a story, it’s not our concern.”

  I couldn’t control myself anymore. “Seems to me the only concern you got is how quickly you can get the file shut on this one. But it’s not going to happen. I’ll let you in on a little secret you probably already know. My uncle was back with his ex-wife. You know who she is, don’t you? You say it’s not your concern if a station decides to go a certain way on a story? Then you better be ready for World War Three in the media ’cause it’s coming to a Channel Nine broadcast near you.”

  I hung up and called Chauncey Connors to tell him about the police releasing Uncle Reggie’s body. It was a harder conversation than I’d anticipated. The whole concept of talking about Uncle Reggie as “remains” was too much.

  I stood in the parking lot for at least ten minutes after these calls to shake off the anger.

  Three teenage girls arrived in a yellow Beetle convertible and parked by the curb to the convenience store next to the shooting range. The aroma of suntan lotion and cigarettes wafted my way. When the girls spotted Shelby, he barked and wagged his tail and they surrounded him. He rolled over on the sidewalk and let them scratch his belly, his tongue hanging out.

  “You’ve got a sweet dog,” one of the girls said.

  “Thanks.”

  My dog received attention from every female in close proximity. I couldn’t even get the police to pursue a murderer in the middle of the tourist district. The girls went inside the store and Shelby perked his ears, curled his tail high, and danced around in victory.

  “Go ahead and gloat,” I said. “They’re nothing but heartache.” Sometimes forever.

  Unlike the natural surf of Sullivan’s Island, Folly Beach had empty beer cans and the occasional used condom washing on shore to uphold its reputation. The warm ocean breeze blew inland as Shelby and I walked the sand. I thought about the arrangements for the wake. Chauncey told me my uncle’s wishes were cremation and no funeral. Typical Uncle Reggie to make it easier for me.

  I wore the ball cap and sunglasses I’d bought and led Shelby to Folly’s main drag to find lunch. The gun rested under a folded stack of boxer shorts at the rental because I wasn’t sure I’d need it just yet. At a food joint with an outside counter, whose health code score I purposely didn’t look at, I bought a couple of chili dogs and a root beer and sat on a bench close by. The teenage girl who served us had a cheery personality. She slid over the counter, got down to pet Shelby, and gave him a bowl of water, talking nonstop the whole time. With my hunger satisfied, listening to how a younger person views the world made me realize there might still be hope. I gave the girl a ten-dollar tip and walked away. My phone chimed and I checked the caller I.D.

  “Hello, Darcy.” I put a King Edward cigar in my mouth.

  “Got your message about the police putting the case on the back burner,” she said. “I did some checking and couldn’t find out anything new. My sources said they’d get back to me. Where are you?”

  “Tell you what. I’ll meet you at the news office.”

  “You holding out on me?”

  “You’re the reporter.”

  “Maybe so, but there’s one thing I know for sure.”

  I said, “What’s that?”

  “Your fly’s open.”

  Without thinking, I looked down to see if she was right. A car horn blew. Across the street sat a shiny red Infiniti convertible, with Darcy waving from the driver’s seat. She held a phone to her ear. “Gotcha.”

  I pressed End on my phone as she made a U-turn and pulled to the curb in front of me. The grin on her face said it all.

  “Nice,” I said. “Real nice.”

  “I spotted your dog as I was driving by a while ago. At first, I couldn’t tell for sure if it was you with him.”

  So much for low profile.

  She said, “I went by your house and it was roped off with crime-scene tape like your uncle’s. By the way, your neighbor is crazy. She told me to stay off your property and away from you. Eleven in the morning and she was sucking down highballs.” Darcy shook her head. “Reminded me of a drunk Daisy Duke.”

  “Everybody likes Daisy,” I said.

  Darcy rested her elbow on the top edge of her car door. “I’ll bet.”

  Darcy, Shelby, and I sat on the back deck of the beach rental. A flock of pelicans flew over the vast expanse of ocean in front of us, their V-formation reminding me of fighter ships in a Star Wars movie. A school of dolphins cut through the surf fifty yards out, their silver-gray bodies arching in and out of the water as they swam.

  “You’ve got a killer view,” she said, “but this place is a dump. How’d you get it on short notice?”

  “Cancellation. You’d think they would give me a reduced rate for filling it.”

  She laughed and I caught another glimpse of Jo and felt the need to change the subject.

  I asked, “You own a handgun?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “An important one.”

  She pulled a thirty-two semiautomatic out of her purse. “Of course. Why?”

  “Know how to use it?”

  “My father taught me.”

  “Good,” I said. “I’d like to check out a property downtown, but it’s not exactly on the Battery.”

  Notorious for summer afternoon downpours between four and five o’clock, Charleston apparently enjoyed drenching her residents as they dashed to their cars after a long
day at work. Lowcountry inhabitants learned early to plan around this meteorological practical joke. Unfortunately for me, my arrangements weren’t planned as skillfully as others. The sole protection for my Jeep was an old strip of canvas strung from the windshield to the roll bar. Called a bikini top, it functioned like the apparel—it barely covered anything. The top worked except when the wind blew the rain sideways.

  I parked underneath an overpass and waited out the monsoon. Darcy had decided to give up a little control and let me drive. She stayed busy in the passenger seat making phone calls. Shelby stretched out in the back, oblivious. My gun was locked in the glove box.

  Inactivity gave me time to contemplate my life. Until a week ago, I was content to work at the Cove with my uncle and let thoughts of Jo consume me. Before that my goal consisted of suicide missions in Afghanistan, so I’d made improvement. But unlike my wife’s death, someone was responsible for Uncle Reggie’s, and I had the feeling the cops thought it was me. They wouldn’t have frozen his accounts otherwise.

  Someone tore up the houses looking for something. If it wasn’t to find and take the jump drive and files, I was in trouble because I hadn’t a clue what else it could be. I pulled the pack of cigars out of my soaked shirt pocket and pressed the Jeep’s cigarette lighter. The cigar lit nicely. Darcy coughed and fanned at the smoke with her free hand. I blew a ring in her direction.

  Forty-five minutes later, Darcy and I arrived at the property Brother Thomas and I had checked out Tuesday night. On the rusted chain-link fence in front of the place hung a white sign with green lettering obscured by kudzu. I got out and brushed away the invasive vine and read: U.S. EPA SUPERFUND CLEANUP SITE. Back in the Jeep, we bounced over a rough and muddy drive on the side of the property I’d missed before. A faded business placard could still be read: CHEMCON. Using a pen and scratch pad I found in the glove box, I wrote down the company name and what the white sign out front stated. Darcy used her phone to take pictures of everything. Busted windows lined the sides of a large steel and brick building near the roofline. Weeds poked through cracks in the asphalt of the parking lot. The landscaping had long ago been taken over by undergrowth. We walked the fence line. The ground still damp from the rain, my sandals had trouble finding traction as we traced the property—at least ten acres by my estimate. Shelby had a field day marking the turf.