Southern Heat

by David Burnsworth

  I laid another bill on the table. “For the meter.”

  She looked at it. “And you still don’t want to go back there?”

  “That’s a question with all kinds of answers.”

  “It’s what I’m here for.”

  I said, “Who would know?”

  She put her hand on mine. “No one.”

  “No, I mean who would know how long I’ve been in here?”

  She took her hand off mine to motion toward the front door. “Temp-a.”

  “Who?”

  She stared at her hands. “Temp-a. He runs the show.”

  The AC unit in the window blew cool air and the ceiling fan whirring above our heads circulated it around the room.

  “He’s your pimp?”

  She nodded.

  I raised the beer to my mouth but stopped. “Is he Chinese?”

  “No. He’s black.”

  “How do the Chinese fit in?”

  “You mean the girls?”

  “No. The ones Temp-a reports to.”

  Dora shook her head. “I don’t know about them.”

  “What can you tell me about the girl next door?”

  “She told me her name was Kim Lee.”

  “And the men with her?”

  “They’re regulars. Every Wednesday night. Kim says they’re rough but they pay double. Temp-a’s scared of them. He says they’re connected, whatever that means.”

  I needed to know where I could be attacked from if this turned bad so I asked, “Where is Temp-a?”

  “He stays in the first house across the street. There’s someone else in the house at the other end. They have radios and watch everything.”

  I did a quick calculation. As long as I knew when her pimp would be coming, I had about one minute to prepare for him if it came to that. “I was outside for a while before I walked by.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s a slow night.”

  “They probably saw me too.”

  “Don’t worry. You looked nervous, like a first-time john.”

  I smiled and said, “I am a first-time john.”

  “Not yet.” She smiled back.

  Because I didn’t know how to answer, I rose to leave. On a napkin on her table, I wrote Brother Thomas’s church phone number and hoped he appreciated all the exposure I was getting him.

  As I walked past the Chrysler, I had an idea—a scene from a movie, actually—that seemed appropriate to replicate. More appropriate was the movie’s title—Payback. Remembering the pimps at each end of the street, I didn’t waste any time. I pulled out my pocket knife, got on my back, and scooted underneath the car behind the rear tire, feeling around until I found the gas line. I shuffled left so I wouldn’t get a mouthful of unleaded, reached with the knife, and sliced the rubber line. Gas drained out of the severed hose. Lucky for me the street had the incline. I got to my feet and walked to the rear of the car behind the Chrysler, reaching for my lighter. When the stream of gas exposed itself at my feet, I knelt and lit it.

  Then I ran.

  I made twenty paces before the explosion knocked me off my feet. Debris rained down like a hailstorm. A loud crash shook the ground, the 300 returning to earth. I jumped up, rushed to my car, and got out of there. A mile away, I spotted an abandoned gas station and stopped. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. I had to take a few minutes and calm down. With the disposable cell phone, I made a call.

  “Nine-one-one,” the voice said. “What is your emergency?”

  “Ye-ah,” I said, adding a lazy drawl to my voice. “I want to report two white guys stuck in cracktown with a blown-up car.”

  “What is your name, sir?”

  I thought about the question. “Galston. Michael Galston.”

  “And your location?”

  “Me? I’m fine. It’s the two white guys I’m worried about. When they finish with the hooker—Kim Lee I think her name is—they’re going to need a ride.”

  “I don’t understand, sir. What is your emergency?”

  “It isn’t exactly a nice neighborhood they’re stuck in, ya know?”

  “No, sir. What are you reporting?”

  I looked at my watch. “They’re probably wrapping things up with Ms. Lee as we speak. I’m guessing the explosion blew their interlude. At least I hope so. It sure blew out the windows of all the houses around.”

  I gave the operator the street name and the license plate number of the Chrysler and hung up. From where I stood, the hot night air tasted sweet. A minute later, a patrol car cruised by, made a fast U-turn, and accelerated down the street. It headed in the direction I’d come from, roof lights blazing all over the place. I lit a Cuban and leaned against the fender of my car, grinned, and sang, “Happy birthday to me . . .”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Another idea popped into my celebratory head. Before I went through with it, I considered how much I could trust Darcy not to turn me in and decided I didn’t have any choice. I dug out my personal cell phone from a front pocket and hit speed dial. Darcy answered on the second ring and I told her where I was.

  She said, “What are you doing there?”

  I told her the story, leaving out the part about giving Dora two hundred dollars. Darcy didn’t need to know everything, and I’d spend too much time explaining.

  “You blew up their car?”

  I exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Yep.”

  “And called the cops?”

  “Yep.”

  Silence for a few seconds. “And told them you were Galston?”

  “I gave them his birth name in case they didn’t know.”

  Another good five seconds of crickets.

  “Stay where you are,” she said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Fifteen minutes later, a red Infiniti screeched to a halt in front of the abandoned gas station.

  Darcy said, “Get in.”

  I made sure the alarm was on in my Mustang, hopped over the passenger door of the convertible, and landed in the leather seat.

  She accelerated before I could get my seatbelt buckled and busted through a red light. Lucky for us there were no cars because she didn’t look. “Get the camera bag from the backseat.”

  “Camera?”

  “If I’m lucky,” she said, “I’ll get pictures for the morning edition.”

  I pointed to the street where the action was. A patrol car had pulled across the entrance, stopping john traffic from entering. Red and blue lights tried to make the street look like an amusement park. It worked—I was amused. The air was thick with the bitter smell of smoldering rubber and plastic.

  “Yes!” yelled Darcy. “We might still get a shot.”

  She pulled onto the next street and parked.

  I said, “Are you sure you wanna park your car here?”

  “You worry too much.” She leapt out and ran.

  I followed with the camera and we ran through the backyards and alleys of abandoned houses. At least I hoped they were abandoned. The acrid methane and sulfur smell of decomposing garbage was wrenching.

  Seeing the flashing lights ahead, I spoke in a loud whisper, “Hold up.”

  Darcy stopped.

  “You can’t push your way in there like Katie Couric,” I huffed. “There’s a rundown house across from the hooker’s. We can huddle there in the shadows and use the zoom.”

  “Lead the way,” she said.

  I didn’t dwell too long on the fact that she didn’t normally give up authority easily.

  We maneuvered to the position I had taken earlier when I scoped out the street. I hoped all the police in the area had scared off Temp-a and his buddy. Darcy grabbed the bag from me and took out the camera. Two firemen sprayed aqueous film forming foam onto the remains of the smoldering luxury car. We used AFFF in Afghanistan a lot. And like Afghanistan, I wouldn’t be seeing that black menace of a car again. The car behind it was toast as well. Darcy raised the camera and snapped photos. In the flashing lights, I could make out Shor
ty and the man with the goatee standing twenty feet away from their ride, looking puzzled. After a few minutes Darcy and I snuck out of there. Two streets over, she stopped me.

  “I got them all,” she said. “The johns and one of the detectives investigating your uncle’s murder.”

  “Who?”

  “The clean-cut one. Rogers, right?”

  “What would he be doing answering a nine-one-one call?” I asked

  “All I know is I saw him in the zoom.”

  We made it to where Darcy had parked her Infiniti, which, not surprisingly, was gone. Someone had moved it and neglected to tell us where. The police had a term for that—grand theft auto.

  In the middle of the projects and without any streetlights, we had a long walk to my car. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being a walking target. The last time I’d felt eyes on me, I held a machine gun and plenty of ammo. Darcy and I kept to the shadows. Lucky for us, the Mustang, with the alarm turned on, sat where I’d left it. I opened the passenger door and she got in. When I was seated in the driver’s seat, I hit the power door lock button.

  “You gotta report your car,” I said.

  She stared at the camera in her hands. “Later. Let’s get to the office and check these out. I think we have a story.”

  “Stop the presses,” I said.

  She gave me the same look Jo used to when I was out of line.

  I started the engine the Ford engineers code-named Coyote. With the traction control turned off, the only way I rode, I laid two solid tracks of rubber through first and second gears.

  At the Palmetto Pulse, I made coffee in a nearby kitchenette while Darcy booted up her computer and explained our adventure to Patricia. My uncle’s ex-wife stood looking over Darcy’s shoulders, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a polo shirt. “You mean you woke me up to meet you here because Brack blew up a car belonging to two white guys having sex with a prostitute?”

  “Not just any white guys,” Darcy said. “They’re connected with Galston.”

  I handed each of them a full cup and placed the sugar and powder creamer on the desk beside them. The one thing I knew for sure about women was they always put cream and sugar in their coffee. Darcy plugged the camera into the USB port of the computer and downloaded the pictures. When the images appeared, she double-clicked on one and enlarged it. Patricia took a sip of black coffee and held the mug close to her face. Darcy did the same. The cream and sugar remained untouched.

  We stayed at the Palmetto Pulse until three o’clock Friday morning working on the story, holding up the morning edition until the last minute. The printer was not happy. But the excitement level of the staff could be felt as we hammered out the details.

  I fell asleep on the couch in the Folly Beach rental, my dog lying on the floor beside me.

  Just before lunch, I drove back to my home on Sullivan’s Island and worked on my stack of mail, my gun a constant companion now. Sitting in the rocker on the front porch with a glass of iced tea beside me on a small table and the current issue of the Palmetto Pulse open on my lap, it felt good reading the words we’d written just hours before. Shelby lay at my feet. The perfect cloudless blue sky intersected with the span of marsh grass bordering the Intracoastal Waterway directly in front of me. A white Toyota Solara convertible cruised by heading for the beach-access parking a block away. The four girls in it wore cutoffs and bikini tops and waved as they passed. I waved back, feeling good about life, for a change. My shorts vibrated, and it took me a moment to realize it was my cell phone. Brother Thomas wanted to meet me at Cassie’s for dinner.

  Once again I turned my attention to today’s Palmetto Pulse. The front page was a beautiful enlarged photograph of Shorty and Goatee standing in front of Kim Lee’s house. Shirts untucked, hair disheveled, looking guilty as sin. It was pitiful the way they stared at the charred remains of their car. The headline read:

  CAR EXPLOSION TRIGGERS POLICE INVESTIGATION INTO SEX CRIMES

  Darcy wrote a scathing piece full of anonymous sources divulging what the homes on the street were used for and suggesting the two johns, who could clearly be seen in the photo, might be linked to Charleston high society. She was careful not to print any names, especially Galston’s. Patricia had blocked out the ever-present monograms of Galston’s company displayed on their shirts as well. Though the truth was stretched to the point of being irrelevant, Patricia didn’t want a lawsuit. Besides, this would likely end up in Galston’s lap anyway thanks to my phone call and sweet southern drawl.

  The only fly in the ointment of my day, so to speak, was the group of mosquitoes nipping at my ankles. The bloodsuckers must have thought the scent of my citronella candles was their dinner bell. I lit a Cuban and hoped the heavy smoke would keep them away.

  An unmarked Crown Vic parked in front of my house. Rogers and Wilson climbed out and headed for my porch. Shelby growled at Detective Rogers but let Detective Wilson pat his head.

  I said, “You fellas out enjoying the sunshine, too?”

  “We gotta talk, Pelton,” Wilson said.

  Shelby watered the bushes closest to Rogers, causing him to step back.

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “I was about to boil some shrimp. Y’all want some?”

  Rogers’s face squinted like a prune. “You wanna tell us where you were last night?”

  Shelby returned and sat by my chair.

  I took a drink of iced tea. “Here, mostly.”

  Rogers pulled a notepad out of his pocket. “What do you mean you were here mostly?”

  “Can I offer you guys something to drink? Iced tea? Coke?”

  Wilson looked at his partner. “We’d love a couple of Cokes, wouldn’t we?”

  Rogers sucked in a breath and exhaled. “Sure.”

  Shelby and I went in to get the Cokes. When we returned to the porch, the detectives’ attention was fixed on Maxine Schell, who happened to be strolling past my house with her kids. She waved at us and we waved back. Even Shelby. Maxine’s short shorts and halter top kept my visitors distracted until she’d gone out of range. Wilson looked like he’d forgotten his own name.

  I handed the detectives their drinks. “So, what were we talking about?”

  Rogers cleared his throat. “Last night.”

  I scratched behind Shelby’s ears. “What about it?”

  The clean-cut detective asked, “You want to tell us what you were doing?”

  Shelby circled my feet twice before lying down. I sat in the chair. “What are you concerned I was doing?”

  Wilson pointed to the newspaper on the porch. “The story in your aunt’s newspaper this morning. Wanna tell us what you know about it?”

  I nodded. “Pretty interesting reading.”

  Sweat beads formed on Wilson’s forehead and he gulped a mouthful of Coke. “What else?”

  My cigar was still lit and I took a hit. “I’d say the newspaper covered everything as far as I can tell. It was pretty thorough.”

  Rogers fixed his eyes on mine. “Know anything about a nine-one-one call?”

  I worked the rocker back and forth. “What nine-one-one call?”

  “Just answer the question,” said Rogers.

  A mosquito buzzed by and I swatted at it. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about?”

  “We got a recording,” said Wilson. “Sounds an awful lot like you.”

  I exhaled a cloud of smoke.

  Wilson hooked a thumb in his belt. “Know anything about it?”

  I picked up the Palmetto Pulse. “There isn’t anything about that in here.”

  “So,” said Rogers, “you didn’t make any nine-one-one calls last night?”

  I shook my head no. “I didn’t have any emergencies last night. I told you, I was here. Minding my own business.”

  Rogers stopped the rocking of my chair with his foot. “Look Pelton, implicating Galston in a prostitution sting is not a good way to win friends and influence people.”

  “Sounds lik
e you read books without pictures, Detective.” I threw the paper on the table.

  Rogers picked a piece of lint from his immaculately pressed slacks. “You better hope we can’t place you at the scene.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No, we’re not,” said Rogers.

  Wilson asked, “How do you think that reporter broad happened to be there?”

  I shrugged. “She’s that good?”

  “She’d have to be psychic to be there at that particular time,” said Rogers.

  “Guys,” I said. “The paper said this happened in a bad part of town, right?”

  They didn’t say answer.

  “Do you think a young, pretty blonde without a bad habit would be caught dead in cracktown at night?”

  They still said nothing.

  “My guess is someone else was there and they fed her the story.”

  “So,” said Rogers, “you take the picture?”

  “I took no pictures last night.” I tapped ashes into an ashtray. “Truth is I’m getting over a cold.”

  Wilson said, “Cold?”

  “Yeah,” I puffed on the Cuban some more. “You know, one of those summer bugs. Really took it out of me.”

  The detectives shook their heads and walked to their car.

  After dropping Shelby off at the Folly Beach rental, I found a parking spot in front of Cassie’s and stuck the gun in the glove box. When I got out of my car, a black man about my age walked out the door of the restaurant with a thickset woman and stopped in mid-stride.

  He said, “That is one nasty car you got there.”

  The woman joined in. “It sure is. Pretty, too.”

  I tapped the roof. “Thanks.”

  The man shook his head. “Nas-ty.”

  The woman said, “You here to see Brother Thomas, ain’tcha?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She hooked her thumb toward the door. “He inside.”

  “Thanks.”

  The man asked, “You the one popped Mutt and took his gat?”

  This couldn’t be good. “Um, yeah. I’m the one.”