Burning Heat Page 6

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” she said. “He so wound up from the club, no one’s safe.” She brushed my cheek again. “But you can grab anything you want, baby.”

  Ignoring the proposition, I led Kali to the table and sat next to Mutt. Kali sat next to me, leaving a chair between her and Mutt at the four-top table.

  “The floor is yours,” I said to Kali.

  She said, “Why you care about some junkie ho? Willa Mae wasn’t nothing but trouble.”

  “I’m doing this for her six-year-old sister,” I said.

  “Yeah, well Willa Mae burned a lot of people,” Kali said. “It might’ve caught up to her.”

  “If that’s the case,” I said, “then at least her sister will know. One way or another.”

  Kali picked up her drink, a gin and ginger. “One way or another.”

  “Spill it, girl,” Mutt said. “We ain’t got all night.”

  “I do.” She looked at me. “And all day tomorrow, too. I got all the time you want, baby.”

  “Cool it,” I said to the both of them.

  She put the short, red straw of her drink to her lips and pulled in the liquid, smiling at both of us with her eyes.

  “How much?” I said.

  Her smile focused on me and she lowered her drink. “How much for what?”

  Mutt lit another cigarette. “To tell us what you know, girl.”

  She ran her fingers through my hair. “I like you.”

  “That’s great,” I said, “but I’m interested in the junkie ho.”

  Kali pulled her hand away and sat back in her chair. “She ain’t the only black girl around needs a rich white boy.”

  Mutt said, “Who you foolin’?”

  She sighed. “Willa too good for her friends. She stop comin’ around. I hear she tryin’ to get clean, too.”

  I asked, “How do you know?”

  “I was her friend.”

  “What I mean,” I said, “is did she tell you or did you stop seeing her?”

  “Both. Heidi at the Chest say she stop using.”

  Mutt and I looked at each other.

  “Stopped using what?” I asked.

  “Coke.”

  “That all?” Mutt asked.

  She said, “Far as I know. That and weed, but I ain’t sure why she stopped.”

  Shelby’s bark echoed through the thin walls of my inherited Isle of Palms domicile. I turned over to look at the digital clock on my nightstand. It said seven A.M.

  A rap at my door sent me sitting straight up. Shelby ran to the living room, barking away. I swung my legs onto the floor, grabbed the baseball bat I kept behind the bedroom door, and followed my dog.

  Another rap, harder, rattled the front window.

  “Brack?” said a familiar female voice through the dried-out wood.

  I leaned the bat in the corner and opened the door. Shelby stopped barking and greeted my visitor with a lick of the hand.

  I said, “Couldn’t this have waited a couple more hours?”

  Darcy walked past me into the living room. “Nope. I tried to call but your phone was off.”

  “That might have been because I was sleeping.” I closed the door and turned around. “Burning the early morning oil, I see.”

  She held up a thick manila folder. “Since you’re up, go ahead and put on a pot of coffee.”

  I rubbed my eyes, trying to decide if I wanted to give her the boot and get more sleep. “What’s in the folder?”

  “A copy of Willa Mae’s diary.”

  Her answer made the decision for me. I lowered my hands from my face.

  She smiled. “I thought you might be interested.”

  Shelby sat on his back legs and raised a paw in front of her. Darcy obeyed his request and knelt to pet him.

  I walked past two of my best friends and turned on the automatic coffee pot. It had been loaded and set to run anyway—in two more hours.

  She looked at the design on my boxers. “Pigs riding tractors. Real cute.”

  With the coffee brewing, I sat on the couch and put a foot on the coffee table. “If I’d known I was getting company, I’d have dressed for the occasion.”

  She tossed me the file and continued to stroke Shelby’s fur.

  The manila folder was about an inch thick and held together by a rubber band, which I slipped off. “How did you get this?”

  “I’d love to say I’m that good,” she said, “even though we know I really am.”

  I gave her a smirk.

  “Someone sent it to me at the paper. I found it yesterday while going through a stack of mail.”

  Yellow sticky notes marked several pages. I flipped through a dozen sheets. The handwriting was almost illegible. “You read any of it yet?”

  “All of it,” she said. “I marked the good parts.”

  Shelby stretched out on the floor and Darcy scratched around his collar and ears.

  I turned to one of the marked pages and read aloud, “Made it with Jon-Jon again. He said he gonna hook me up. Get me out of here.”

  Apparently, even the prostitutes he paid didn’t have enough respect for him to call him by his birth name. I looked at the date. “March eighteenth. Four months ago?”

  Darcy smiled. “See where this is going?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “right into the toilet.”

  “For Jon-Jon and his daddy,” she replied.

  “I think you’re enjoying this a little too much.”

  “Keep going.”

  I moved to another marked page. “Camilla and me got some good weed and got hi. Spent the afternoon at her crib talking about Jon-Jon. How he say he love being with me. He got a lot of money.”

  I looked at Darcy. “I met a friend of Willa’s by the name of Mary Ellen. Who is this Camilla?”

  “Not sure,” she said. “Keep reading.”

  I turned the sheet over. “Got a plan to get Jon-Jon. I’m gonna say I got pregnant and he need to pay.” I shook my head. “You know what this is?”

  Darcy nodded. “Motive.”

  She was right, of course. If Willa Mae was dead, one or both of the Gardners were in trouble. Deep trouble.

  Kali had given Mutt and me the address of an apartment in West Ashley to check out. Later that morning, Mutt, Brother Thomas, and I drove there in my Uncle Reggie’s vintage convertible Mustang—with the top down.

  Mutt said, “Tell me why I gotta ride back here.”

  “’Cause Brother Thomas won’t fit there,” I said.

  “How!” yelled Mutt.

  Brother Thomas shook his head. “Jesus must be exposing a little more of my pride is all I can think of.”

  The landscaping at the entrance to the apartment complex was tastefully designed with flowers and trimmed bushes, all banked in fresh mulch. The buildings faced each other with the door to each unit opening from inside an atrium. Wooden decks faced the parking lot. I pulled into a vacant spot by the rental office and killed the motor.

  Brother Thomas got out first. “I’ll be right back, gentlemen.” He went in a door marked “Property Manager.”

  I stuck a piece of gum in my mouth to stave off the want for a fat Dominican.

  A few minutes later, Brother Thomas exited the office holding up a key so we could see it. “The super is a friend.”

  I said, “I hope Willa doesn’t have an alarm system.”

  Brother Thomas and Mutt turned to face me at the same time.

  “What?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you didn’t think of that.”

  Mutt asked me, “You an expert on breaking and entering?”

  “It’s not breaking and entering if we have a key,” I said.

  “You and I of the same mind, Brother Brack, mm-hmm.”

  I didn’t know how to react. This was the first time Brother Thomas had agreed with me and not countered with a biblical perspective on how I was about to screw up. If I contemplated what that meant, I’d probably decide we were both wrong.

  Mutt said,
“I’m sure the po-lice would love to listen to you two explain why three of us be in some girl’s apartment with no invitation.”

  “Brother Clarence,” Brother Thomas said, “sometimes you got to have a little faith.”

  To get to the second-floor apartment was up a set of outdoor stairs. Brother Thomas approached the door and knocked. “Willa Mae? It’s Brother Thomas.”

  We listened for a response. All I heard were sounds of traffic from the nearby four-lane.

  “She ain’t home,” Mutt said, speaking the obvious.

  “Willa?” Brother said. “We comin’ in.”

  He put the key in the lock and opened the door. When we stepped inside, a musty, sour smell assaulted my nose. The apartment was dark and the AC was off. Sweat dripped down my back from the heat.

  “Gawd, it stinks,” Mutt said.

  Brother Thomas called out again. “Willa Mae?”

  I felt the wall beside the door for a switch and flipped on a light. The place was simple with bare white walls and minimal furniture. An empty orange-juice container and a bag from a fast-food restaurant littered the kitchen counter to our left. The living room lay to our right. An old couch faced a new flatscreen TV and a single-unit stereo system with a smartphone jack.

  I walked past the front rooms and stopped at a door that led to the bathroom, the sour smell floating more strongly in the air. I found the light switch and turned it on.

  “I think I found what stinks,” I said.

  It looked like Willa had tried to get to the commode to throw up but hadn’t made it. Flies buzzed around the dried puddle on the floor.

  Brother Thomas approached. “Whew! What in heavens …”

  Once recognition came into his eyes, I nodded.

  “She been sick,” he said.

  “Maybe trying to get clean,” I said.

  Mutt said, “Kali tol’ us something changed in her.”

  I said, “I wonder when she rented this place.”

  “My friend said three weeks ago.” Brother Thomas wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “She paid first three months in advance.”

  I said, “So where does a junkie go when she’s trying to detox?”

  “If it got too bad, back to her dealer,” Mutt said.

  Brother Thomas thumped the counter hard with his fist, pushed past us, and stormed out of the apartment.

  After turning off the lights, Mutt and I met Brother Thomas by my car.

  A black man with a blue work uniform and a thick head of hair walked up. “You find anything, Brother?”

  “Not enough.” Brother Thomas handed the man the key and got in the car.

  “I hope nothing happened to that girl,” the man said. “She sure is pretty.”

  It’d been four days since she was shot. I had a feeling she was no longer with us.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mutt and Brother Thomas knew all the dealers in the projects downtown and what each one specialized in. Our plan was simple—kidnapping. For the second time today, breaking the law did not seem to bother Brother Thomas.

  I pulled up to the curb in front of a boarded-up house where a douche-bag dealer named Tucan sold cocaine. He controlled the money while his partner, a runner, handled the merchandise. At least three others hung around who I deemed part of the business.

  This kid hadn’t seen twenty yet. He put his hands in his pockets. “Nice ride! What you want?”

  Brother Thomas got out of the car, stepped to the curb, and clocked Tucan with an uppercut to the jaw. In one motion, he caught the falling kid and threw him into the backseat with Mutt, the lowered convertible top giving the preacher a clear shot. It was the fastest I had ever seen Brother Thomas move.

  Another kid I took to be Tucan’s partner said, “What the—”

  Brother Thomas hopped back in the car. Before his door closed, I floored the gas and dumped the clutch. The big-block motor got us out of there in a hurry. Loud pops erupted behind us. A bullet hit the back of the car with a thump. I gritted my teeth and aimed for the first side street. Another shot went through the windshield as I cut the wheel to round the corner. After that, the deep moan from the engine’s open-element air intake and the roar from the custom exhaust overwhelmed everything else in the world.

  We merged onto the new bridge and I slowed our pace to match the afternoon traffic around us. Once across the Cooper River and into Mount Pleasant, I pulled into a vacant parking lot behind an empty strip mall and stopped the car. In the rearview mirror I saw Mutt with Tucan in a headlock. The dealer’s white tennis shoes stuck out over the side of the car.

  I said, “You mean we drove the whole way like that?”

  Mutt held up a hand. In it was a nine millimeter. “He had this on him. We need to find out what else he got.”

  “Let him up,” Brother Thomas said.

  Mutt stood in the backseat, lifted a still knocked-out Tucan to me, and got out. We propped the kid against the side of the car. A more thorough search of his pockets yielded another nine millimeter, a switchblade, and a large amount of cash.

  Brother Thomas took off his jacket and minister’s collar and rolled up his sleeves.

  I walked to the back of my car and examined the bullet hole.

  “Tucan,” Brother said in an authoritative voice.

  Tucan’s head did a slight roll. “Huh?”

  Brother Thomas said, “Which one of you all supply Willa Mae?”

  “Huh?”

  “Willa Mae,” Brother repeated. “Who her dealer?”

  “Ma-an,” Tucan said slowly. “Why you hit me?”

  I came around my car and stood beside Brother Thomas. “Answer the question.”

  Tucan looked from the preacher to me. “I don’t know what you talkin’ ’bout, mother—”

  Brother Thomas slapped him across the face.

  Tucan winced.

  “I’m not going to ask you again,” Brother Thomas said, spittle dripping out of his mouth, “so you best answer me, boy.”

  I jacked a round in the chamber of one of the kid’s nines.

  Tucan’s eyes opened real wide. “Wi-wi-willa Mae? I-I ain’t seen that ho in weeks.”

  “How many?” I asked.

  “Huh?” Tucan’s favorite word.

  Brother Thomas slapped him across the face again.

  The poor kid cowered. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  “I didn’t hear you answer, boy,” Brother Thomas said.

  “Couple,” Tucan mumbled. “Two or three.”

  I said, “Which is it? Two or three.”

  “I don’t know, man,” Tucan said. “I ain’t got no calendar.”

  “Who’s her dealer?” I asked.

  Tucan took a deep breath. “I ain’t no rat.”

  Brother Thomas raised his hand a third time.

  Mutt put up an arm, stopping the preacher. “Enough, Brother. You too, Opie.”

  For a second, I saw something in Brother Thomas’s eyes. Something I had seen in my own mirror. A combination of anger, vengeance, and blood.

  Two uniformed officers stood in front of the main building of the Charleston Police Department and watched us pull to the curb fifteen feet away.

  Brother Thomas opened his door and got out. He grabbed two fistfuls of Tucan’s shirt and lifted the drug dealer from the backseat, setting him on the sidewalk. “This where you get out. I see you on the corner again, we go another round. I find out you know where Willa Mae is and don’t tell me, you’ll meet God. You hear me, boy?”

  The officers stepped toward us.

  Tucan nodded like a jackhammer. I wasn’t sure if it was because of Brother Thomas’s threat or where we dropped him off. Inside his pockets the cops would now find two unloaded and print-free pistols and the switchblade—more than enough for jail time, especially if he had any priors. And I’d bet he had at least one.

  Brother Thomas got back in and I eased away from the curb, granny shifting through the gears, and wondering if the cops had spotted the bull
et holes in my hundred-thousand-dollar ride. In the rearview mirror, I saw Tucan turn and run.

  After taking Mutt back to his bar, I drove Brother Thomas to the Pirate’s Cove. Pam, one of the bartenders, poured two iced teas which I carried to the back deck, handing one to Brother Thomas. He leaned against the far railing, looking out at the ocean. Dusk had not yet taken the edge off the day’s heat. Reeds washed up on the beach marked where high tide had reached.

  I asked, “You want to talk about it?”

  Brother Thomas drank half his tea and set the glass on the railing. He hunched forward, putting a hand on each side of the glass, and lowered his head. I patted his shoulder. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. I watched the ocean and gave him time to collect himself.

  After a moment he spoke. “Every day I see those kids on the corner selling that death, and every day I pray for God to give me the strength to have the faith I preach about every Sunday morning. The faith I need to be there for the people of the community.” He blew his nose and wadded up the white cotton fabric. “I threw everything away today. I let my anger get hold of me. As sure as I’m standin’ here, I’da killed that boy.”

  I took another pull from my tea and said, “I know you can’t see it this way, but that kid is nineteen years old and had two guns on him. He sells drugs because he wants to.” What I didn’t say was that I would have drilled him with his own nine millimeter to get answers if Mutt hadn’t intervened.

  Brother Thomas said, “It’s all he knows.”

  “Has he been to any of your services?” I asked.

  “His mother used to bring him when he was a boy.”

  “And you preached that it was okay to sell drugs?”

  He cleared his throat. “Course not.”

  “Then that isn’t all he knows. It’s all he chooses to know.” Brother Thomas looked at me. “You wouldn’t understand.” “Let me tell you something, my friend. My wife died, and it was the hardest thing I ever had to live through. You want to talk about anger? I went to war with the sole purpose of killing or being killed. I wanted people to die because my wife died. It was my choice, and I have to live with the things I did. Just like Tucan has to live with the choices he makes.”