Southern Heat

by David Burnsworth

  She hooked an arm over the back of her chair. “You know anyone there who would talk to you about what happened? Maybe what he was working on?”

  McAllister said, “Being a pretty Channel Nine reporter, you ought to be able to get what you want without my help.”

  “Maybe,” she said to him, “but I always work as many angles as I can.”

  “Be careful those angles don’t have any sharp edges.” His mouth formed a slight grin and he took a sip of coffee.

  I said, “So can you help us or not?”

  He chewed on his lip. “Yeah, I’ll see what I can come up with. Now, if you don’t mind I have a tennis match in thirty minutes and need to get going.” He walked us to the door. “Give me a call this evening.”

  I turned to him and offered a hand. “Thanks.”

  He shook my hand and looked me in the eye. “No problem. Someone’s got to make sure things are on the level.”

  Patricia found a home address for Fisher. After some discussion among the three of us, we decided I should go solo. Mostly, it was me saying I should go in solo. Darcy wasn’t giving in so easily. Patricia relented, saying Fisher’s wife probably wouldn’t want to talk to a reporter about why her dead husband was soliciting prostitutes.

  In my bungalow on Sullivan’s Island, I buttoned the one white oxford shirt I owned and tucked it into the pants of my one suit, the Italian light wool I’d worn to my wife’s funeral. I laced polished black shoes, also made in the boot-shaped country, and added a matching belt around my waist. The dark-blue Hermes tie, a surprise gift from Darcy, knotted a perfect Windsor. I slid into the jacket as I walked into the living room.

  Shelby stretched out next to Darcy on the couch, rested his head on her leg, and dangled his paws off the edge. His eyes closed.

  Darcy saw me slide my gun down the small of my back. “All you need is a shoulder holster and a fedora and we could call you Bugsy.”

  Ignoring the reference, I pulled a pen and pad out of a drawer, scribbled something, and placed the note in the inside pocket of my suit jacket. “Take care of Shelby if I don’t come back.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “If you don’t come back, I’m taking him and this house.”

  “How about in the meantime you just take him back to the rental on Folly for me?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I followed Seventeen downtown and parked in front of the Fisher home next to a sign.

  RESIDENTAL NEIGHBORHOOD

  NO PARKING WITHOUT PERMIT

  This wasn’t just any residential area, either. It was Tradd Street, one of Charleston’s oldest. Paved with cobblestone, lined with brick sidewalks, and inhabited by money. Lots of it. And, I guessed, broke accountants.

  The front door’s antique brass knocker made a loud thump. After a few minutes a black woman opened the door.

  I said, “Good afternoon, ma’am. I was wondering if Mrs. Fisher was in.”

  “She is. And who are you?”

  “My name’s Brack Pelton. Tell her I knew David.”

  The woman’s eyes dropped at the sound of his name. “Please come in. I’ll let Mrs. Fisher know you’re here.”

  The entryway’s ceiling was thirty feet high and dressed with elaborate crowning. Wooden chairs flanked a long narrow table holding fresh-cut flowers in a vase. From what I could see, the residence had been furnished with no expense spared. My beach house, on the other hand, had been decorated in late American Goodwill, and much expense had been spared.

  A female voice broke the silence. “May I help you?”

  I turned and found green eyes staring intently at me framed by a pretty face and red hair trimmed just below her neck.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “My name’s Brack Pelton. I knew your late husband.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “You knew David?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We were sort of business partners, you might say.”

  “Business partners?”

  “Um—”

  She folded her arms. “My husband worked in an accounting firm. He never told me about any business he was involved in.”

  “He located important information for me. I came to pay my respects.”

  “The funeral’s on Sunday,” she said. “You could’ve done that then.”

  “I also had a few questions for you, ma’am.”

  “What did you say your name was? Pelton? David never talked about working with anyone by that name. I’m busy with my kids and don’t have time for this.” She pointed to the door. “It’s time for you to go.”

  “Mrs. Fisher, I’ll be straight with you. This information your husband located for me. There’s a possibility he got killed over it. I’m not sure.”

  She let her bottom lip drop a few millimeters, but regained her composure quickly. “I think I better call the police.”

  I took a seat in one of the wooden chairs next to the table with the flowers. “Ask for Detective Rogers and his partner, Wilson. They’re the ones saying your husband was killed by a prostitute he solicited.”

  It came out as harsh as I wanted it to, and I saw the sting in her eyes.

  “What exactly do you want from me? You come in here posing as a friend of my husband’s. Then, you insinuate the police are wrong and he might have been killed because of something he gave you.”

  “Sold me, actually. The cops don’t know that, either.”

  “How much?”

  The question came out sharp and caught me off guard. “Huh?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Mr. Pelton. How much did you supposedly pay him?”

  “Twenty grand. In cash. Two bands of hundred-dollar bills.”

  Her mouth dropped further and she lowered herself onto the other chair. She leaned forward and put her head in her hands.

  I said, “Are you all right, Mrs. Fisher?”

  She sighed. “Justine.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She lifted her head. “My name is Justine.” She stood and walked toward the rear of the house.

  “Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Pelton?”

  “Iced tea if you have any.”

  She spoke from down the hall. “I was thinking something a little stronger, but Isata made lemonade for the kids, if that will do.”

  “That’d be fine,” I said, wondering what changed her attitude.

  The chandelier suspended above was brass and crystal and big. It hung by a chain and was exactly what I expected in a place like this. I wondered if Justine Fisher had known how broke they were before her husband was killed.

  Her nearby voice broke my concentration on the ornate fixture. “Are you going to remain in the parlor, Mr. Pelton?”

  She stood at the edge of the hallway holding a tray with two glasses, one filled with lemonade and the other with ice. A bottle of rum completed the tray. I followed her to a sitting area. She sank into a leather sofa and I eased into a chair facing her. She handed me the lemonade, poured an inch of rum in the other glass, and took a long sip. I tasted the lemonade.

  “Isata makes the best lemonade, doesn’t she?”

  “Perfect,” I said, noticing she had already finished her drink. “The right amount of bitter and sweet.”

  She set her empty glass on the tray and poured another. “I found the money in our safe. Two bands of one-hundreds, like you said.”

  Not what I expected her to say. “Could be a coincidence.”

  “Something tells me it isn’t.”

  “Did you happen to find anything else?”

  “Papers. Our lawyer is looking at them.”

  I nodded. “Do you have any idea what you are going to do?”

  “My parents live in Virginia,” she said. “I’m selling this place and heading there.” Her mouth formed a frown and she poured a third drink. “My husband was a good father to his kids, but I didn’t realize he was so bad with money until I got a look at our finances. Large credit card balances, two expensive car payments, and this place.” She gave the drink a rest. �
��Mr. Pelton, do you know what the upkeep is on a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old home?”

  “No.” I barely kept my own place.

  “Neither do I, and I’m not sure I want to find out. My Mercedes is up for sale and I have a realtor stopping by tomorrow. The police still have David’s Volvo, but no one will want it the way it is.” She shrugged. “If I’m lucky, after I pay the bills, I’ll have enough left over from the insurance policy to start again and still be able to stay home with the kids.”

  I stood. “Mrs. Fisher . . . I mean, Justine? I appreciate your time. I think given the seriousness of what’s happened to your husband, moving is probably a good idea. I might suggest leaving sooner than later.”

  It was her turn to nod.

  “The only thing I’d ask of you is to see those documents you found with the money.”

  She stared for a minute, got up, and left the room. Before I could decide what it was about her I liked, she returned carrying a file folder. “I made copies. You can have them. I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything, but I’m not going to ask. I’d rather not know.”

  I handed her the note I’d put in my inside jacket pocket at my house earlier. On it was the number for the Church of Redemption. “If you need someone to talk to, Brother Thomas is a good man. My wife died of cancer three years ago so I know what it’s like. Don’t try to get through this alone.”

  Justine said, “Did you have any children?”

  “No.” I drank the rest of my lemonade.

  She held out her hand as if to take the glass from me. “Can I get you some more?”

  I found myself counting the few freckles on her cheeks and nose and thinking she was attractive without a lot of makeup. Instead of finishing the thought, I gave her the glass and said, “No thanks. I’d better get going. I am very sorry about your loss.”

  Tears formed in her eyes. “I’m . . . I’m—”

  She collapsed into my chest, buried her head in my shoulder, and shook. I put my arm around her to let her get it out, and there was a lot. I knew because there had been a lot for me to get out when Jo died. But my relief had come in bottles, not tears. I thought about what I’d been through in the past three years and felt very sorry for Mrs. Fisher. If she was strong, she’d make it. If not, she could always sign up for the next war.

  After her whimpers faded, she spoke softly. “Thank you.”

  Her hair smelled like flowers and felt soft as it fell over my hand. She moved away, slowly. I watched her wipe her eyes with a Kleenex from a box on the table and try to regain her composure.

  “Take care of yourself,” I said. “Your kids need you.”

  She followed me to the door, not saying anything. I looked at her one last time. She waved goodbye and I walked out, scanning the street as I loosened my tie. Someone had stuck a parking ticket under the wiper of my freshly washed Mustang in the same spot David Fisher had left his message. Even the meter maid knew I didn’t belong here.

  At my house on Sullivan’s Island, I found Darcy had left me a note on the counter saying she’d call me later. I changed out of my suit and was about to head to the Folly Beach rental when my phone rang.

  McAllister. He said, “Your boys are at Domingo’s this very moment. It might be a good idea to see where they go for dessert. If I’m right, you’ll find yourself some payback. Bring a camera.”

  The Mustang roared to life and I sped off. I thought about calling Darcy but decided against it. This was for me.

  At a swing bridge ahead, yellow lights flashed as I approached, signaling it was closing to cars and would rotate to allow boats on the Intracoastal Waterway to pass. I dropped down two gears and floored it to beat the road barrier. Four-hundred-and-twenty horsepower shoved me back into the seat as the speedometer arced into the triple digits. When I crested the bridge I felt the tires leave the pavement. The sensation of levitating above the ground felt surreal for the few seconds I was airborne. The tires chirped back onto the road and the suspension soaked up the impact. I floored it again and the car went into hyperspace.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Downtown, I circled Market Street looking for a black Chrysler 300 and found it parked in front of the Italian restaurant McAllister told me about. Pulling into a spot by a meter where I could watch their car, I got out of the Mustang and ducked into a nearby tourist trap for a can of Coke and a disposable cell phone. While quenching my thirst in the front seat of the Mustang, the only break from the heat was a slight breeze blowing through the open windows. “Brown Sugar” played on the classic rock station, reminding me of Uncle Reggie. He loved the Stones. I remembered the hot summer night when he took me and four friends to an outdoor concert in Columbia. We piled into his Shelby convertible. My friends and I had barely turned thirteen but Uncle Reggie was always good about not treating us like kids.

  The next song came on, Crosby, Stills, and Nash’s “Southern Cross,” and my thoughts drifted farther back. When Uncle Reggie got out of the service and bought the Pirate’s Cove, it was like a Deadhead oasis. Hippies everywhere. Uncle Reggie let his hair grow long. He sported a shaggy beard and a tie-dye ensemble, and he sat on his stool at the bar smoking a King Edward cigar with Bonny on his shoulder. Together, they welcomed the disconnected.

  My reminiscence ended abruptly when I saw movement in the doorway to the Italian restaurant. Shorty and another man came out and stood, talking for a few minutes. They chuckled and slapped each other on the back. My fingers impatiently tapped the steering wheel. Three more men came out of the place, the man with the goatee being one of them, and they stood around talking and laughing.

  Ten minutes passed before Shorty and Goatee got in the 300 and drove off. As soon as the others went inside I followed my targets. The slight delay let me settle in behind several other cars. It wouldn’t be pretty if Galston’s muscle spotted me. And I’d ruin my chance to get revenge. The 300 drove through the tourist traffic, made a few turns, and ended up in the projects. On Harmon, a side street two blocks from Mutt’s bar, I stopped at the curb and watched Shorty and his buddy park across the street and walk into a small, light-colored house. The drapes were pulled. I parked behind an old van and chambered a round in the forty-five. The street had a slight incline to it, which was odd in Charleston.

  Half an hour later, the men were still in the house. The Chrysler hadn’t moved from under the light on the other side of the street. I wiped sweat from my forehead and dried my hand on my shorts, put my cell on vibrate, and got out of my car. Using the shadow of a vacant shack surrounded by thick weeds for cover, I stretched my neck. Dead leaves crunched under my feet.

  Lights inside the house made the closed drapes glow orange. No shadows of figures moved past the windows and I wondered if the men had entered and disappeared. I walked past five or six houses before I crossed the street and reversed direction.

  “Hey, there,” crooned a female voice from a porch.

  I stopped. A single red bulb glowed from somewhere inside the woman’s open front door.

  “You wanna come in?”

  I still couldn’t make out what she looked like, but it occurred to me this might be the village that Suzy, the teenage prostitute from the Chinese brothel, had referred to. I pointed to the house next door I was staking out.

  “She’s busy right now,” the voice said. “Be busy for a while.”

  The long wait in my car for Shorty and Goatee to come out, and McAllister’s comment about payback, made sense now.

  “You wanna come in or not, handsome?”

  I thought she might know something about my targets. At least that was the excuse I gave myself as I stepped onto her porch. The woman got up from a chair, the silhouette of her figure outlined by the glowing red light. Long curly hair, slender arms and stomach, and slightly plump hips and thighs. The scent of vanilla and lust filled the air. Inside the doorway, she turned, and waited. I followed. After closing the door, she pulled the drapes across the front windows and turned toward me, her
petite face illuminated by the amber light. The negligee she wore left little to the imagination.

  “You nervous, handsome?”

  “A little, I guess.”

  “You’re cute,” she said.

  I tried to figure out how to play this.

  “And shy, too,” she added. “You like me?”

  I nodded, not wanting to scare her with questions yet.

  She motioned to a room in the back. “You wanna go in there where it’s a little more comfortable?”

  I nodded again.

  She reached her hand out and I took it. Her mocha skin was soft and warm. She giggled and led me to a small room lit by a tiny “princess” night-light close to the baseboard. I sat on the edge of the mattress.

  She stood in front of me. “Why don’t you tell me what you like, handsome.”

  I felt as if I was in a private club where there were no rules.

  She walked closer to me and placed a hand on my chest. “I like you. If you want, you can like me too.”

  I stopped myself from nodding.

  She leaned in and kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear, “All I need from you is a hundred dollars.”

  I reached for my wallet and handed her the bill. She took it, walked to the dresser, and placed it in a wooden jewelry box.

  In the mirror, I caught her eyes. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  She turned to face me and leaned against the dresser.

  I found the sheerness of her attire distracting and wiped a hand across my forehead again. “I’m following the guys visiting your neighbor. What can you tell me about them?”

  She bit her lip as if to consider.

  We sat at a small table in the kitchen at the front of the house. Her name was Dora. She said she didn’t know why she told me her name. That was against the rules.

  I rotated the can of beer she’d given me with my palms. “Rules? I got the impression there weren’t any rules.”

  She raised her dark eyebrows and looked at a clock on the wall. “Of course there are. Like, if you aren’t outside in five more minutes, I have to charge you more.” She wasn’t mean about it. More like matter-of-fact.