Elmore James’s voice filled Mutt’s Bar from the speakers of the vintage jukebox. As the old blues master sang about swinging a broom, Brother Thomas asked the bar patrons to leave. The ones who’d seen me take the gun from Mutt made a few threats.
To the exiting crowd, Brother Thomas said, “If Mr. Pelton or his car leaves here any different than they arrived, there will be hell to pay.” He locked the door behind them.
Brother Thomas and I had found an old first-aid kit underneath the bar, and after we dragged Mutt inside took smelling salts from the kit to wake him.
Mutt stood unsteadily behind the bar and wrapped ice in a towel. He put it to his swelling nose, groaned, and said, “You one fast white boy, Opie.”
Brother Thomas watched the bartender. “Not the smartest move you could’ve made, mm-hmm.”
Mutt said, “Reggie was killed, man. You think we ain’t next?”
I sat on the same stool as before. The gun was still in my possession, stuffed down the front of my shorts. Its handle stuck out the top of my waistband and jabbed me in the stomach. I said, “What did you do in Desert Storm, wash dishes?”
Mutt jutted out his chin. “Fifty-first infantry. You?”
“In Afghanistan, Recon, among other things.”
Mutt repositioned the icepack. “I heard it was crazy over there. You don’t know who you should be shooting at.”
“I got out just in time.”
“Brother Brack,” Brother Thomas said.
“Just Brack.”
“Brother Brack, what do you want from us?”
“The truth would be nice,” I said. “You did a lot of nodding on our walk and not much talking.”
The fat preacher sat on one of the stools and looked at Mutt, then at me. Mutt went to the other end of the bar, stooped down, and came up with a shoebox that he sat on the counter. He took the lid off, flipped through it until he found what he was looking for, and walked back.
“You big on pictures,” Mutt said. “Here’s one for you.”
I took the black and white photograph. In the dimly lit bar, I could make out two soldiers standing arm in arm like best friends. One of the men was my uncle. Though he looked a lot younger when the picture was taken and had no eye patch, his crooked nose was the same. The man with him was black and I didn’t recognize him. “Who’s my uncle with?”
Mutt said, “My daddy, Sergeant Willie B. Tucker.”
Another snapshot of history.
I said, “Who’s Ray?”
At two-thirty, I skidded into the parking spot of the Pirate’s Cove and killed the motor. The speeding ticket I had acquired lay crumpled in my hand as I gripped the steering wheel. Eighty in a fifty-five. At least the Highway Patrol hadn’t been around when I hit one-twenty on an open stretch. A Mustang five-point-oh moved. The cop didn’t ask if I had any weapons and I didn’t offer Mutt’s pistol stashed in the glove box. I threw the ticket onto the passenger floorboard and picked up the jump drive the tourist had given me.
Inside my uncle’s office, I pulled the jump drive out of my pocket, sat in the chair, and turned on the Mac. Three spreadsheet files came up: Jameson Refining, Chromicorp, and Cooper River Chemicals. I opened one of them and an expense sheet took up the screen.
Five PM, when I would phone the man from the Folly Pier, could not get here fast enough. I forced myself to focus. All three files had lines of data and a summary tab with “reported” and “actual” columns. Every figure in the “reported” column of each file was greater than the “actual.” I printed out the summary sheets and copied the files onto another stick. When I finished, I put the drive in the safe and locked up.
At five o’clock, I phoned the number written across the envelope from the tourist on Folly Pier.
After a few rings, the voice of the same tourist answered. “Mr. Pelton, thanks for calling.”
“You said in your note my uncle was murdered because of something you and he were working on. You want to tell me what that was?”
“Did you look at the files yet?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure what you’ve given me.”
“Come on. Your uncle said you were smart.”
Maybe I was reading more into it than was there. I decided to speak the obvious. “Looks to me like the companies were misrepresenting expenses or something.”
“You could say that.”
This conversation wasn’t getting me anywhere. “You want to meet?”
“I’m not sure I can trust you yet,” he said. “Take what you’ve got so far and run with it. Reggie already paid for the files. I’ll call you in a few days. Be ready with twenty grand for the rest.”
I planned to ask him about Ray but he broke the connection. My call back to him went straight to a generic mailbox. I didn’t leave a message. All I could think about was two stacks of bills, ten grand each, sitting in the safe.
Paige had the evening shift covered at the bar so I left about six. At home, I emptied the pockets of my work jeans from a long Monday. Out came the all-in-one pocket knife that Uncle Reggie had given me. Every time I handled it, my thoughts filled with him. Like the knife, he was a Jack-of-all-trades. I put it inside a wooden box on my dresser where I kept my watch.
After spending time with Shelby on the beach to unwind, I took a second shower and, because I wasn’t hungry, had a glass of iced tea for dinner. TV gave me an escape and I barely remembered to catch the eleven o’clock news. Uncle Reggie’s picture filled the screen, the same shot used in the paper.
Shelby padded to me.
I scratched his ears. “I can’t get a break, can I?”
Darcy Wells appeared onscreen, standing in front of the Pirate’s Cove bar on the Isle of Palms. She looked cool and collected in her business garb and perfect blond curls.
“The search continues for those responsible for the death of local bar owner Reggie Sails. Police are interviewing suspects all over the greater Charleston area.”
Her image segued into the clip of her ambush interview with me, and the camera panned to Detectives Rogers and Wilson. I turned off the TV, noticed the message light blinking on the answering machine, and pressed play.
“Mr. Pelton,” said a familiar upper-class Charlestonian voice, “this is Chauncey Connors, your uncle’s attorney. I am calling to see how you are doing. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.”
Tuesday morning, from my front porch rocker, I called the police to see when they might release my uncle’s body. All I got was Wilson’s voicemail. After leaving a message, I next dialed the man who said he was my uncle’s attorney and friend. A perky receptionist’s voice answered for “Connors, Matheson, and Gooding Law Firm.” She put me on hold and forced me to listen to Muzak’s version of “Stairway to Heaven.” Maybe it was me, but Zeppelin did a better job.
A voice interrupted the music. “Mr. Pelton, this is Chauncey Connors. How are you holding up, son?”
“I’m okay. Thanks for checking in on me.”
“My pleasure. You need anything?”
“I need advice,” I said.
“Counsel is my vocation.”
“The reason I’m calling is I’m wondering if I should be keeping the bar open.”
“Well,” he said, “you are named as the executor of your uncle’s estate. Why don’t you come in and we’ll start the process. I happen to be free today at four if that works for you.”
“Where’s your office?”
He gave me a street number on Lower King, meaning old Charleston money passed down over centuries and currently resident in the antebellum homes along the Battery and Tradd Street. I had trouble picturing Uncle Reggie park his rusted-out bomb in front of Connors, Matheson, and Whoever’s law offices, stepping out in his best cutoffs, wife-beater undershirt, and flip-flops, and strolling in to any King Street address to make a will—friend or no friend.
“Four o’clock in your office,” I said.
My uncle and I had been estranged from the family for different reasons a long time ago so I wasn’t surprised he had named me executor. There wasn’t anyone else.
In my college years, I’d spent summers part-time bartending for Uncle Reggie at the Pirate’s Cove. One day, two drunks decided it was time to settle an old score. I stepped in the middle of them and caught a fist in the mouth, the only other time I’d gotten a split lip. The Saturday night beauty the Charleston cops gave me was healing, but not quickly enough.
For my appointment with Chauncey, I dressed in khakis and a heavily starched blue oxford, and slid into polished loafers. My dad’s old Heuer watch said half-past-three. The cell vibrated in my pocket. I checked the caller I.D. but didn’t recognize the number and answered the call. “Pelton.”
“Brother Brack,” a baritone voice boomed. “This is Brother Thomas, mm-hmm. How you doing today?”
Everybody seemed interested in how I’m doing.
“Not very well, all things considered. The police haven’t told me when they’re going to release my uncle.”
“We don’t have much luck with them around here, either,” he said.
I tried to think of something funny to say but thought better of it.
He said, “I was wondering if you had any plans for dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“Tonight.”
I pulled the phone away, not sure what to do. Our motto in Afghanistan—when in doubt, full steam ahead. I said, “What time and where?”
“Meet me at the Church of Redemption on Sheppard Street at seven. No need to bring anything, Mr. Pelton. Just yourself, mm-hmm. Just yourself.” He hung up.
The gun I had taken from Mutt rested innocently on my kitchen counter. Brother Thomas’s suggestion I didn’t need to bring anything meant, I decided, it wasn’t potluck and I wouldn’t have to contribute a dish. But watches and rings and smart phones—and personal protection—fell into an entirely different category. I slipped the gun into my pocket, prudently and properly accessorized.
Shelby gave me a final look, circled his cushion a few times, and plopped down. I patted his head and walked out.