Southern Heat

by David Burnsworth

  She dug into her purse. “How much do you need?”

  “Who knows what this guy wants? Give me at least another couple hundred just in case.”

  Without blinking, she handed me two fifties and ten twenties. I put a fifty in each back pocket and split the twenties between the two front ones. We walked into the front door of the church. The inside was dark, but I suspected Gerald was already here because the acrid smell of body odor hung heavy in the air.

  Brother Thomas turned on a light and we found Gerald standing at a table in the front with a dirty green duffle bag on the floor by his feet. The odor did not get any better as we approached the homeless man.

  I held out my hand in greeting. “Brack Pelton.”

  Gerald recoiled. “Get your hand away from me, boy!”

  Brother Thomas said, “You want to do business or not?”

  Gerald was a little shorter than me and I would guess at least ten years older. Although, considering his life on the street, he could be younger. He wore a gray shirt, long coat, and ripped brown pants, and his leather boots were scuffed and worn through in places. His dirty face could not hide the brown eyes that took in everything all at once. His stare seared through Brother Thomas. When the homeless man spoke, his words came out like a snarl. “Well, well, well. So this is three against one, I see. Ha! Cowards.”

  I turned to Brother Thomas. “Why don’t you show Patricia around the place?”

  When I showed no hint of resignation, Brother Thomas held out his arm for Patricia. “Care for a behind-the-scenes tour of our little house of worship?”

  “Um,” Patricia said.

  Brother Thomas opened his mouth to say something.

  Before he could I said, “Go ahead.” The homeless man was going to try something, I knew, and it would be better if Patricia were out of harm’s way.

  Patricia took Brother Thomas’s arm and they walked to the hall leading to the offices. At the doorway she cast a glance back at me. Then they were gone.

  Gerald sprang on me like a cat. “You’re gonna die, rich boy!”

  I was ready.

  A glint of steel in his hand reflected the light. I jerked back. The knife whipped through the air, missing me by inches. He’d swung wide from his left side to his right, leaving his torso unprotected. I stepped in and delivered a hard uppercut. It went into the soft spot below his diaphragm. A whoosh of air smelling of spoiled eggs escaped his mouth. His eyes bugged out. I wrenched his arm back and twisted his hand. He released the knife. It clanged on the floor and Gerald dropped to his knees. I drew my fist and aimed for his face. All I saw was a pool of blood seeping between the cobblestones in an alley off Chalmers Street. I wanted to end the pain. End the nightmare. End the battle. I felt I could end it all here.

  A voice boomed from the corner of the room. “I think you’ve made your point, Brother Brack.”

  I looked away from the angry man gasping for breath in front of me to a face of peace, of righteousness. The face of Brother Thomas. Behind him, hanging on the wall, was a cross.

  I stepped on Gerald’s knife, let go of his arm, and moved back, sliding the knife across the linoleum with my foot. Gerald slumped to the floor, inhaling large gulps of air. When the knife and I were a safe distance from him, I stooped and picked it up. It was a pretty decent survival knife with a six-inch blade, serrated on one side, and a stout guard. The handle was wrapped in leather. Brother Thomas approached, Patricia following. I handed the preacher the knife and lowered my hands to my sides.

  Brother Thomas looked at the knife and at Gerald. “I thought we had an understanding, Gerald. You go and disgrace yourself in the Lord’s house?”

  Some of the fight came back into Gerald’s eyes. “You was supposed to leave. I wanted what was mine.”

  Gerald winced when I moved toward him.

  Still unwinding, I said, “What do you think I’ve got that’s yours?”

  The fear and hatred painted on his face were deeper than the lines of grease and dirt. “You got money. I can tell it a mile away. It’s supposed to be mine.”

  “You kill my uncle?” I said, knowing he didn’t.

  Gerald gave me a crooked grin, exposing black and green slime between his rotted teeth. “Maybe.”

  “ ‘Maybe’ will get you gutted like a fat little pig,” I said. “I’ll stuff an apple down your throat and throw you on a bed of coals.”

  “You ain’t man enough to do nothing,” Gerald muttered.

  I took another step forward.

  “Brother Brack.”The steel in Brother Thomas’s voice stopped me.

  “You two need to stop acting like children,” Patricia said, “and get down to business. That is if you’re still interested in money, Gerald.”

  Gerald showed his slimy teeth again. “I’m always interested in money.”

  “Good,” she said. “Then we’re ready for you to show us what you’ve got.”

  He said, “You got the cash?”

  “Of course we do,” she said.

  “Prove it.”

  Part of me wanted to just take the bag and leave. But I knew the man wasn’t all there. I pulled out a hundred dollars in twenties from one of my front pockets.

  “If that’s all you got, you’re wasting my time,” Gerald said.

  “We may be able to get more,” Patricia said. “It’s your turn. Show us what you’ve got.”

  Gerald huffed and grabbed the duffle bag.

  I said, “You better open the bag slowly so no one gets the wrong idea.”

  The homeless man grunted as he unhooked the clasp and reached inside. He dug around like he was looking for something specific, growing angrier by the second, and dumped the contents on the floor. Dirty silverware and empty cans clattered on the linoleum along with filthy clothes and old magazines. A few cockroaches scampered out of the pile and Brother Thomas stepped on them before they could procreate.

  Patricia said, “Why don’t we start with the necklace?”

  “ ’Cause I don’t wanna sell it,” Gerald said. He continued to dig through the mound.

  “Now Gerald,” Brother Thomas said, “if it wasn’t for the necklace, we wouldn’t even be here.”

  “Two hundred,” Gerald said.

  I laid down forty bucks.

  He grabbed the necklace with one hand. “That’s not two hundred.”

  “Take it or leave it,” I said.

  Gerald looked at the money for a long moment before slipping the necklace over his head and laying it on the floor. He snatched up the money and stuffed it in a pocket.

  “Good,” Brother Thomas said. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

  “Let’s make this easy,” I said. “How much for everything you got?”

  “Everything’s not for sale,” Gerald said.

  I thought I saw a hurt look in his eyes, but it didn’t stay long. He arranged his junk in piles, talking to himself as he did it. I realized how far gone the poor street bum was when his dialogue turned into a two-sided argument where he played both sides, getting louder and louder with each reply.

  Patricia spoke in the sweetest voice I’d ever heard from her mouth. “Gerald, what is for sale?”

  Her words brought him back to reality. He looked at us as if trying to figure out who we were. His focus landed on the bag. “I got lots of things for sale.”

  She said, “Like what?”

  Gerald picked up a dinged butter knife. “I got the best silverware in Charleston.”

  Brother Thomas said, “What else?”

  “Aluminum cans,” Gerald said. “The price of aluminum is at an all-time high these days, you know.”

  “Sure,” I said. “How much?”

  “A hundred.”

  I laid down another two twenties.

  Gerald said, “I guess you can’t add good.”

  “How about you show us what else you got before I lose interest,” I said.

  Gerald stood and lunged at me.

  Brother Thomas grabbed him
by his collar and shoved him back onto the floor. “How about we finish this up, what do you say, Brother Gerald?”

  Gerald sneered at the preacher.

  Brother Thomas didn’t blink.

  Patricia said, “How much for the silverware?”

  “Two thousand.”

  I counted out a hundred dollars. “What else?”

  “The knife you took off me.”

  I gave him another twenty. “Almost out of cash, here, Gerald. Anything else?”

  He sifted through pots and pans and dirty rags, talking to himself again. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a change pouch. My uncle’s change pouch. Patricia gasped.

  He looked at her and held it up. “Five thousand bucks for this.”

  I pulled out both fifties.

  “Not enough,” Gerald said. “I want more.”

  Brother Thomas said, “These people come in good faith.”

  Gerald pointed at me. “He tried to take my head off. I want more. A lot more.”

  “That’s all I’ve got,” I said.

  The homeless man nodded to Patricia. “She ain’t coughed up no money yet.”

  I motioned to the pouch. “Where’d you find that, anyway?”

  His beady eyes squinted into a grin. “None of your business.”

  Patricia showed him two hundreds. “How about now?”

  Gerald stared at the money and wiped his mouth with the back of his dirty hand. “By the big parking garage.”

  My insides tightened. “On Cumberland Street?”

  “Yep.” Gerald dropped the pouch and snatched the bills.

  Brother Thomas was right about Gerald cleaning us out of cash, but it was worth it. Everything I bought from Gerald was junk except for the necklace and coin pouch. Because Uncle Reggie hated wallets, didn’t have credit cards, and carried his cash folded in his front pocket, the pouch became the catch-all. I always gave him a hard time about it, but he’d had it since Vietnam.

  After Gerald left, I opened the change pouch, not expecting to find any coins. There weren’t. Just a few scraps of paper. I unraveled a note scribbled in what I guessed was Gerald’s handwriting: The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

  “Have to agree with him there.” I pulled out the next piece of scrap and unfolded it. It took a few seconds to register.

  “What is it?” Patricia said.

  “I think it’s a parking garage ticket.”

  Later that night I left Patricia’s house, thinking a drive alone in my car might clear my head. Since Gerald had cleaned me out, I needed more cash anyway. After a stop at an ATM, I steered my car through the city. As the gas lamps and streetlights on King Street lit my way, I wondered how I was going to get at Galston. The necklace hung from the Mustang’s rearview mirror like a noose, reminding me of my murdered uncle, who wore it, and my wife Jo, who bought it for him.

  When I’d gotten the offer to race stock cars professionally, Jo had been so excited. We went out and celebrated, getting a nice hotel room after dinner and making love until we exhausted ourselves. If ever I’d felt my life was perfect, it was then. A few days later, her headaches started. She was gone in six months.

  I crossed Calhoun and a dark Navigator with a big chrome push bar kept up a little too close. I made a slow right turn. The SUV followed. Two more rights put me back on King, which curved after it crossed Market heading toward the Battery.

  A Honda Odyssey ahead of me with New Jersey tags crept along at the speed limit. I downshifted to second, cut around the Yankee-mobile, and four-wheel-drifted onto the first side street on the right. With the accelerator floored, I cranked the wheel and made a tight right-hander onto Beaufort.

  I glided into a parking lot and killed the lights but kept the motor running. Wanting to reverse roles, I pulled the emergency brake and took my foot off the pedal so my taillights wouldn’t give me away.

  A few moments later, the SUV appeared in the street, moving slowly. Sweat poured into my silk shirt. Maybe I was in the clear. The Navigator bounced over the entrance ramp into the parking lot.

  I released the parking brake, threw the gearshift into reverse, and smoked the tires out of the tight spot I was in. The lights of the sports utility grew larger in my rearview mirror as I jammed the shifter into first and got on the gas, heading for the exit to the next street.

  Bullets blew out my rear window.

  Glass, hot air, and lead shot over me. I crashed through the wooden barrier blocking the exit. The motor in the Mustang screamed. I made a turn onto the first side street I found. It was blocked by traffic stopped at a red light. I slammed on the brakes. The antilock system kept me from sliding into a waiting beer truck. I unlatched my seatbelt, opened the door, reached back and snatched the necklace, and dove for safety.

  The Navigator plowed into my beautiful, newly painted Mustang. The front of my car embedded into the beer truck. I scrambled to the sidewalk and ran to King Street. Loud footsteps and voices followed me.

  King Street didn’t have nearly as many people on it as I thought. A neon sign identifying Sharky’s Bar illuminated the entrance to the closest watering hole. A linebacker-sized doorman sitting on a barstool in front of the place stiff-armed me. “I.D., pal.”

  I glanced back. Three men rounded the corner and headed for me, two of them looking familiar—Shorty and Goatee. The third was some Asian punk. I opened my wallet and handed my license to the doorman.

  He looked at the I.D. “Five bucks.”

  I held up a wad of twenties from the ATM proceeds and motioned to Galston’s muscle. “I don’t think my friends are old enough.”

  The doorman grinned, took the money, and pointed me in.

  Once inside, I watched the three argue with the doorman until he stood up. He had a good six or seven inches on Goatee and the third guy and was a foot taller than Shorty. Probably twice as strong as all of them together. Their mouths gaped open and they backed off. They must have forgotten they had guns.

  I hadn’t.

  The bartender came over and I ordered an iced tea and called the police on my cell. The woman on the line asked me to hold. A minute later, she returned to the line and said officers were already at the scene of the accident and to return to my car. Through the window, I saw the doorman sitting on his stool again. The goons were gone.

  I spent an hour with the police, trying to explain why I had run and why I didn’t know where the Navigator was. What was left of my ride was being dragged onto a flatbed. I felt nauseous. The front and rear were crunched like an accordion and all four airbags had deployed. I cleaned out my personal items and the shopping bags Patricia had given me, waved goodbye to my once beautiful baby, and took a cab to the airport. At the counter of one of the car rental kiosks, I requested the blandest car they had. The attendant did not disappoint. He handed me the keys to a silver Camry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The best news I’d received in a long while came the next morning, Sunday, two weeks since my uncle was killed. Patricia woke me from a deep sleep on her couch and told me Darcy was out of intensive care. While I was having coffee, Brother Thomas called and wanted to know if I was interested in attending David Fisher’s funeral later that afternoon. He said Justine Fisher had asked him if I was coming.

  I drove to my bungalow on Sullivan’s and checked the mail. With time to kill, I put on running shoes and stretched. It had been more than a week since I’d jogged, and I hit the beach at a fast pace. The sun felt hot on my back. The tobacco poison in my lungs from the cigars caused me to hack and cough the first mile before I found my old rhythm.

  The surf eroded the shoreline at the tip of the island where I lived. Like most of the untouched land in Charleston County, the beachfront homes were losing ground, not to overzealous developers and retirees but to a more aggressive force, the Atlantic Ocean.

  The tide was high and I ran along the sand until I came to a spot where the beach was gone and had to backtrack to a path leading to the street. I p
assed Fort Moultrie, the location where a haphazard garrison of Patriots had held off a well-armed British naval fleet in the Revolutionary War. The redcoats’ cannonballs had done little damage to the palmetto log walls of the original garrison. Half a mile farther, I cut over to Atlantic Street and circled back.

  After the run, a shower and change of clothes left me feeling as near to my old self as possible. I walked out my front door in time to see Detectives Rogers and Wilson park their Crown Vic in my drive.

  “Detectives,” I said. “Nice to see you this fine, hot Sunday.”

  Wilson said, “Heading somewhere?”

  “As a matter of fact . . .”

  “Heard you got into an accident last night, Pelton,” said Rogers. “Fled the scene. The news said you were drunk.”

  I put my sunglasses on. “Ain’t life grand.”

  Rogers pulled his notebook out and flipped through a few pages. “We found out something.”

  “It’s about time.”

  Rogers said, “The owners of the car that exploded don’t want to file a report.”

  “You guys get promoted out of homicide?”

  Wilson said, “A triggered automobile explosion could be considered attempted murder, whether they file a report or not.”

  I nearly pointed out that no one was in the car when it blew but decided it wouldn’t help my case. “Am I a suspect?”

  Wilson wiped sweat from his forehead. “It’s heading in that direction.”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to speak to my lawyer from now on. If you don’t mind, I have another funeral to get to.” Actually, I wanted time to feed my dog. And see Darcy. For reasons not obvious to me, that was more pressing than the funeral.

  “Who died this time?” asked Wilson.

  “A friend of a friend.”

  Rogers said, “We’ll give you a ride to your car.”

  I started to protest when Wilson interrupted. “It was almost a good idea to leave your rental two streets away. Except the owners of the house you parked in front of called Sullivan’s Island P.D. to complain. They had the car towed. Did I mention my cousin works night shift there? He knows I’m on this case and, when they tracked the car to you, gave me a call.”