JACK
HOT DIGGITY DOG
“Engine one, we have a report of smoke coming from 632MermaidCourt.Standby for cross-streets,” the dispatcher said as tones dropped.
“Dude, that’s your place,”Drewsaid as we jumped into our gear and hauled ass into the rig.
Panic hit me like a backdraft, then realization set in.Thatwasn’t my place.Itwas my street, but my house was 634.
“Why does dispatch always say, ‘stand by for cross streets?’There’swhat—five whole streets on the island?”
I strapped in as the engine screeched out of the bay and pulled onto the road.
“Is 632 to the left or right of you?” he asked.
I had to think for a minute.Wewere nearing the end of another twenty-four hours packed with non-stop calls, and my brain was fried.
“I think it’s to the left.TheWhitlockplace.”
Captain whirled around from his seat. “What’dyou say,Wharton?”
“The house is the oldWhitlockplace.I’mnext door.”
“No one should be out there,” he said.
I shrugged. “Maybesome kids drove up fromBeaufortand were dicking around the property.”
“Bulldozer,”Drewsang. “It’sovergrown and it’s gonna come down one way or another.Ifthey bulldoze it and clear it, at least the mess won’t end up in the ocean.”
He had a point.
Two turns later, we came to a screeching halt in front of the oldWhitlockplace.Atin can car sat in the cracked driveway.Thebumper was being held up by a decrepit piece of duct tape and sported a “Pleasedon’t hit me.Idon’t know how insurance works.” bumper sticker.
“You got a new neighbor you didn’t tell me about?”Drewasked as we piled out of the rig to assess the property.Smokelingered in the air, butIcouldn’t see it.Thesmell though—it wasn’t the acrid odor of a structure fire or the musky scent of burning foliage and wood.
It smelled like charcoal and hotdogs.
Tall grass swished under my boots as we divided and conquered.Drewdisappeared below the wraparound deck, cautiously staring up at it as if it were going to come crumbling down at any moment.
I circled to the other side, carefully studying the structure.Thanksto my boots and turnouts,Iwas a little less concerned about getting bitten by a cottonmouth thanIhad been the other day.Notcompletely unconcerned, just a little less.
Colorful swearing with a feminine flair filled the air.Ihustled around the house while continuing my check.Drewbeat me to the other side and found the source of the smoke.
A woman with wavy hair that was somewhere between brown and blonde was hopping from foot to foot, waving her hands around, and hissing like she was in pain. “Littlebastard!Stupidfucking hotdog!Dammit!”
“Everything alright, ma’am?Wereceived a call about smoke coming from the house,”Drewsaid.
She made another attempt at grabbing the hotdog, only to jerk her hand back and hiss again when it was too hot to touch.Thething was charred to a crisp.Angerand frustration danced in her eyes.
“I’m fine.I’mhangry.AndIdon’t have any fucking tongs,” she snapped.
“Are you aware that this is private property?”Drewpointed over the dune. “Youcan grill on the beach, but not by the house.”
“This is where the grill is,” she clipped as she reached for the hotdog again. “I’mnot dragging it up and down a sand dune.”
A hotdog bun was waiting on a paper plate that was resting on the lid of a plastic cooler.Asmall bag of instant-light charcoal was propped up beside it.Shehad an off-brand bag of chips and a bottle of generic ketchup.
“Even if you were allowed to be here, it’s still not advisable to have a grill this close to the house, even if it’s a little one.Tenfeet away from any structures or flammable objects.”
