Hot by John Lutz

Beth’s LeBaron. After a two-minute familiarization cruise around town, they went into the Key Lime Pie. The air-conditioning had lost its battle with today’s heat, and the restaurant was uncomfortably warm. The ceiling fans ticking and rotating overhead seemed only to rearrange the heat. The seats of the booth where Carver and Beth sat were sticky and soft to the touch, as if the warmth might be dissolving the mottled red vinyl upholstery. They studied the dinner menu. Carver noticed it was identical to the lunch menu only with boosted prices. At least dress was optional.
    “Ain’t cheap,” Beth remarked.
    “Consider the atmosphere,” Carver told her.
    “Humph. Atmosphere’s hot, what it is.”
    Carver glanced around the restaurant. Customers sat at about half the tables. Florida had a nasty fundamentalist religious streak in it, and occasionally he and Beth had run into trouble because she was black. But apparently there was enough tourism on Key Montaigne for an interracial couple not to be all that remarkable, and no one seemed to be paying much attention to them. Carver was glad. Beth could get combative over that sort of thing.
    Fern wasn’t on duty. A scrawny young waitress who looked overheated enough to drop took their orders and plodded back to the kitchen.
    Carver noticed that a hugely fat man had moved onto one of the bar stools visible through the archway and was staring at them. He was average height but easily three hundred pounds, with gray hair neatly framing a puffy yet symmetrical face. A hundred pounds ago he must have been handsome. Oddly enough, he looked quite cool, wearing a cream-colored unstructured sport jacket and a white shirt open at the neck to reveal a thick gold chain. His pants were a blue so pale they were almost white, and he was wearing immaculate unlaced white tennis shoes. Carver imagined that with all the weight he carried, he had foot trouble. His expression was neutral, but there was something calculating about his intense blue eyes, as if they had a life and intelligence all their own and were assessing him and Beth. His back was to the bar, and one of his elbows was propped on the smooth mahogany to help support him on the stool. A highball glass was miniaturized in his bloated free hand, his wrist resting on his knee.
    Beth noticed him, too. She said, “Who’s the fat guy eyeballing us?”
    Carver said he didn’t know.
    Beth said, “Hope he ain’t the leader of the Fishback chapter of the Ku Klux Klan.” Uh-oh. Was she pumping up some anger?
    “He’s probably an equal-opportunity ogler,” Carver told her, trying to head off trouble.
    “I dunno. All he needs is the white hood to complete his ensemble.”
    The heat-plagued waitress arrived with the Budweiser Carver had ordered, and Beth’s mineral water. Carver was glad to see her. She set the glasses on the table and said, “Lord, but it’s hot in that kitchen.”
    “Bet it is,” Carver said.
    “Wouldn’t you know they got me baking pies?”
    “You happen to know the big fella at the bar? The one in the white jacket?”
    She took a quick glance in the direction of the bar, which was all that was necessary, considering the size of the subject. “You must mean Mr. Rainer.”
    “Walter Rainer?” Carver asked.
    “Uh-huh. He’s a well-to-do gent, lives in a big fancy place out on Shoreline. Don’t come in here very often.”
    Beth said, “Maybe it’s an occasion.”
    The waitress looked at her curiously but said nothing. Instead she wiped her arm across her forehead and trudged resignedly toward the swinging doors leading to the hell that was the kitchen. With each step her rubber soles sounded like wet kisses on the heat-softened composition tiles.
    “So that’s our man,” Carver said. He suspected Rainer had been apprised of his actions, and come into the Key Lime Pie so he could have a look at the troublemaker staying in Henry’s cottage.
    “Man’s got eyes like a pig that can reason,” Beth