Wood's Tempest

by Steven Becker

  Kurt rolled over in bed and faced her. “I’ll go down and button up the house tomorrow morning and we’ll get out. I need to see if Jane has a plan for Allie.”

  The mention of Kurt’s ex didn’t faze her. She thought of Kurt’s daughter, Allie, as her own. “It’s almost the weekend, and the schools are closed. We should have her.”

  “Just need to clear it with Jane.”

  Justine kissed him on the forehead, turned off the light, and went to the bathroom. After a quick shower, she hopped in bed, dreaming not of her husband lying next to her, or even the approaching storm. The surf claimed her dreams. The Atlantic rarely had the big, long-period swells more common to the Pacific—unless there was a storm coming.

  Twelve

  Trufante stumbled into Sloppy Joe’s and saw Pamela standing high above the crowd. It wasn’t her five-ten height, but the platform placed for the servers that she stood on. He hummed the melody to “Honky Tonk Women,” adding “Key West” in place of “Memphis.” He’d been cruising Duval Street for several hours looking for her. Staggering as he entered the iconic bar, he belted out the song loud enough for her to hear it..

  Tru had been worried about seeing her and had stopped at several bars along the way for some liquid courage. “Baby?” he called over the sound of the bleached-blond cowboy-hat-wearing singer.

  Pamela looked down from her perch at the service station. She smiled, and that was enough to set him diving through the crowd in her direction. He was tossed back and forth between the patrons, but, feeling no pain, continued toward her. Pushing his thin frame past the standing-room-only crowd at the bar, he eased up next to her.

  “YOU’RE FREAKING DRUNK,” she yelled, loud enough to turn most heads at the bar. Instead of hugging him , she grabbed the tray of drinks and stepped down to the floor. “I ask for help and you show up hammered!” Turning the other way, she moved toward the stage. Where Trufante had to battle his way through the crowd, the sea parted for her, and she started handing out drinks to a table of rowdy tourists.

  Undeterred, Trufante followed. Pamela finished with the first table and turned to take orders from a group of coeds. If the fire marshal were to review the seating plan when the bar opened in the morning, there would be plenty of aisle room, but the place was close to capacity and the furniture had rearranged itself to accommodate the crowd. Someone shoved Tru, and he bumped into two men, both with buzzcuts, standing by a column. One pushed him into the table Pamela had just served.

  They shoved him back like a bumper in a pinball game. A pair of men with SECURITY stenciled on their black shirts approached, but the crowd had closed in on the action.

  “Get out,” Pamela yelled.

  The crowd quieted as she stormed toward the lanky Cajun, just as the singer called out, “Who out there’s got a birthday today?”

  Trufante’s sixth sense for both survival and free shit kicked in as he was temporarily distracted.

  “Come on now, who’s thirty today?” the singer said, strumming a few chords to build the tension.

  He had the attention of the crowd. It was commonplace to see some birthday boobs, and they sensed an opportunity. There were a few catcalls, but no takers.

  “Forty?” He strummed a blues riff on his guitar.

  Sensing there would be no show, the crowd turned back to the Trufante and Pamela drama. She was just a few feet from him.

  “Fifty? Come on now.” The singer wasn’t giving up.

  Pamela took a step closer. Trufante looked past her to the buzzcuts, who had decided to back her up. “Yo, yo, yo, I’m fifty!” he yelled.

  “Hot damn, my man. Come on up here,” the singer called out, and started strumming “Happy Birthday.” With yet another distraction, the crowd started raucously singing along.

  A path opened as Trufante made his way to the stage. He glanced back before stepping up next to the singer and saw that Pamela had turned the other way and gone back to work. The security crew were hovering, but, being Key Weird veterans, they’d seen it all, and were willing to let things play out. The two men moved back to their column, their muscular frames working again on holding up the roof.

  There was little chance the singer truly believed it was Trufante’s birthday, but his business was entertainment, and all eyes were on the Cajun as he double-timed the short flight of stairs to the stage. The last chorus of “Happy Birthday” ended as he approached the singer. Heckles mixed with loud applause as Trufante shook the singer’s hand.

  “My man is fifty,” he said into the microphone, and strummed a few bars on his guitar. “You here alone, buddy?”

  Trufante scanned the room looking for Pamela, but didn’t see her.

  “Who wants to make this a special birthday for our friend here?”

  Trufante forgot all about Pamela when two twenty-somethings jumped up, their braless boobs nearly falling out of their tops..

  “Lovely ladies, come on up,” the singer called out, and picked a quick riff as they made their way through the crowd.

  Trufante watched them approach, gauging their intent as well as their state of inebriation. He mentally calculated that the C-notes still left in his pocket from the lobster haul would cover any possibilities. The women walked up on stage, looked at each other, and lifted their shirts. The crowd erupted in a cheer, and Trufante placed a long arm around each of them.

  “What’re y’all’s names?” the singer asked. He was clearly more interested in them than the birthday boy.

  “Sadie,” the first one said, shyly.

  “Dannie,” the second said more enthusiastically, while raising the front of her shirt again.

  The singer started playing the Jimmy Buffet favorite “Why Don’t We Get Drunk” while the trio paraded around the stage. When they headed down the stairs, Trufante went on high alert. With an irate Pamela and the two buzzcuts by the column glaring at him, he steered the girls toward a hallway that led to the bathrooms and the side entry to Joe’s Tap Room. Looking back, he saw the two men coming toward him.

  “I know a place we can have some fun,” he said to the girls, steering them past the small bar and out the side door. He stepped onto Greene Street and, grabbing Sadie and Dannie’s hands, headed back toward Duval.

  Bugarra heard catcalls and applause through the open shutters of Sloppy Joe’s and stopped. Above the crowd, he saw Trufante with his arm around two women on the elevated stage. Entering the bar, Bugarra started toward them, but was stalled in traffic when one of the girls lifted the front of her shirt. The crowd tightened around him, leaving him stuck near the main bar, able to only watch as Trufante and the women took off through the side door. Backtracking, he easily made it to Duval Street and froze when he saw them round the corner. Thinking it better to follow and see what they were up to, he slid into the gift shop and waited for them to pass. Standing by a rack of t-shirts, he flipped through them as if looking for his size while he watched the trio walk past. Just as he was about to follow, he saw two men following Tru and the women. Allowing the two men to pass, he stepped onto the sidewalk, carefully avoiding the Solo-cup-wielding tourists weaving in and out of the shops, and followed.

  Standing six inches over six feet, Trufante was easy to spot as he crossed the street. The two men were still behind him. Bugarra picked up his pace as he jaywalked across Duval, trying to reach the men before they could catch up to the Cajun. From the look of them, they weren’t long-lost buddies, and Bugarra needed Trufante in one piece.

  “Hey, buddy,” Bugarra called out at the men.

  The larger of the pair turned. “Who the hell are you calling buddy?” he said.

  A large man himself, Bugarra was no match for even the single man, let alone his partner. But he didn’t intend to fight. Pulling out his wallet, he showed a flash of green. The man’s attitude changed.

  “Something we can help you with?”

  Bugarra breathed out. “Vince Bugarra,” he said, extending his hand. “Looks like you and me”—he paused, car
eful to parse his words—“might be interested in the same man.”

  “That fruit-loop-looking cowboy?” the man asked. “Damned sure ain’t his birthday.” He shook Bugarra’s hand. “I’m David Culbreath, and this is Rusty Faulkenberry.”

  “Right. I’m sure it’s not.”

  The men stood facing Bugarra, who still held his wallet in his hand. Realizing it, he pulled out two hundred-dollar bills and handed one to each man. “I’d like to have a conversation with him. Private, if you know what I mean.” Bugarra looked down the block and saw the trio walk into the alley leading to the Hog’s Breath Saloon.

  “Why don’t you go bring him around back for me?”

  The bills had already disappeared, and the men nodded. They strode to the corner and turned left. Bugarra followed at a distance, waiting outside the open-air entrance. After six o’clock, just about every bar had entertainment, and he listened to the singer to his right as he watched the men approach Trufante at the bar. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but what he saw wasn’t it. The two women were all over the men, and Trufante was shaking their hands while calling to the bartender. Seconds later, shot glasses were placed on the bar and filled. The group toasted and drank. Bugarra needed a new plan as he watched his two hundred dollars slide down their throats.

  Trufante lived by his gut, his instincts being the only reason he was still alive. He’d essentially been on the run since 2005, when another hurricane, this one named Katrina, had leveled New Orleans. He had no idea how many lawsuits his old concrete-contracting company’s name, or much less his name personally, appeared on. His instincts told him the good days there were over. There would surely be investigations, and it wouldn’t matter how much he had paid off to administrators and inspectors—someone would talk. He’d run then, taking the last of the cash left in his safe and buying a sailboat. The Gulf Coast was an easy place to disappear, and he had, slowly working his way via sea instead of the highway to the end of US 1.

  Now, his instincts told him another hurricane was about to change his life. This time there was little to lose, and when he saw Bugarra lurking at the entrance to the bar, he realized there might be something to gain. Mac had something, Trufante was sure of it, and whatever it was, Bugarra wanted it badly enough to have paid Trufante to take him out to Wood’s island the other night—and now Bugarra was following him.

  First, Trufante had to deal with the buzzcuts. He had ammunition now, and whispered to Sadie and Dannie what he wanted. They looked at the men and gave each other a what the hell shrug. Seconds later, with the women caressing their muscles, the men had forgotten what they were here for, and Trufante reached into his pocket and slid a hundred across the bar. The bartender brought another round. When one of the men spilled his shot, Tru sacrificed his own, sliding it to the man and at the same time jerking his phone out of the way, reaching up and setting it in the gutter running around the perimeter of the roof of the open-air bar. With his height, he could easily reach it, and it would be safe there.

  With the threat mitigated, it was time to see what Bugarra wanted, and Trufante ordered another round of shots. He had an innate respect for cons and crooks. While he could easily manipulate the general population, Bugarra was a worthy opponent. Besides having no easy back exit here, Trufante figured the best way to handle him was face to face.

  “Y’all have another round,” he said, waving to the shots the bartender was placing on the bar. “I got a little business, then we’ll have some real fun.”

  With a hand on each girl’s shoulder, he eased them back toward him. “Y’all hang tight. I’ve got big plans for you girls,” he whispered to them. They giggled, and he started for the entrance. Looking back, he realized he would have another problem when he got back. Three men with two women were not good numbers. He’d deal with that right after Bugarra.

  “Vince Bugarra,” he called out just as the treasure hunter had turned away. “Surprised to see you here. Riding out the storm in the city of weird?”

  Thirteen

  Duval Street went from its current frenzy to dead stop as all eyes were glued to the TVs above the bars. Bikes and golf carts pulled off to the side, the drivers wondering what was happening, leaving only the fleeing vehicles gridlocked on the streets. Mac walked to the closest bar and, standing next to a handful of people, stared at the screen.

  Ruth remained at category-five strength, and Key West changed from a hurricane watch to a warning. Not a subtle difference. The former meant that there was a possibility of hurricane-force winds; the latter made the chance a reality. Key West was going to get a hurricane. For a city that had somehow managed over many years to remain unscathed by the storms that generally passed through the middle and upper Keys, this was big.

  Mac squinted to see the screen, then turned away, pulled out his phone, and opened the Mike’s Weather Page app. The cone of probability had been easy to see on the TV; the time of estimated landfall had not. Here he could see the different models that were starting to come together into a solid line instead of the spaghetti they had looked like earlier. Most now forecast Ruth to make landfall somewhere between Key West and Miami. Another view showed the times overlaid on the projected path. With landfall forecast for less than twenty-four hours away, it was time for Key West to wake up and prepare.

  In the space of several minutes, the city had turned from jubilant hope to deadly certainty. People streamed out of the bars to evacuate or prepare. Mac thought about Sonya, the cab driver, hoping that she had the sense to leave. He already had his plan. The Yucatan Peninsula was an easy trip and opposite the path of the storm. Staying to the less crowded side streets, he made his way back to the marina. He was also happy Mel was safe.

  The boaters were clearly more prepared than the residents. As Mac walked to his boat, he figured that half the slips were already empty and the boats that remained were tied off, ready to ride out the storm. He boarded the trawler and went immediately to the pantry, where he inventoried the supplies. There was enough food and water for three or four days, which would be plenty to reach a safe port. Back on deck, he sat on the gunwale and texted Trufante and Ned, telling them to be aboard at six a.m. That would give them a good eight-hour head start on the storm. Running at thirty knots, that would put him 240 miles in the opposite direction. The rough seas wouldn’t be comfortable, but they would be safe.

  A babysitter he wasn’t. With notice given, it would be up to Trufante and Ned to make their own decisions about leaving. Now, with a deadline looming, Mac knew that sleep would elude him, and opened the cover to the engine. It was time for a regular service anyway, and with a run across open water imminent, he decided to change the filters now. Cursing the designers who made access to the engine harder than it needed to be, he had already skinned two knuckles when he heard his phone. Mel wasn’t into the touchy-feely thing, but she had programmed her own ringtone into his phone with an “answer it or else” threat. Mac climbed onto the deck, wiped his hands on a rag, and answered.

  “You have a plan?” Mel asked.

  “Out of here at six a.m. Gonna take Ned and Trufante if he shows.”

  “I’m glad about Ned. That old Conch would ride it out for sure.”

  “Went over to see him earlier.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  Mac looked around, relieved that Mel was safe in Atlanta. While Key West was in the midst of preparations, for the unaffected parts of the country, this was like a spectator sport. Knowing the world would still exist once Ruth passed, he decided to indulge her.

  “It appears that Gross was doing only the minimum amount of work on the galleons to keep his backers happy. Most of his recent research was centered around the years before and the early part of the Civil War.”

  “Like the Sumnter?”

  “Yeah.” Mac got up and went past the wheelhouse to the galley, where he grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator. He made a note to hide the rest of them, along with whatever other alcohol was aboard. With the p
ossibility of spending the better part of a week confined with Trufante, it was a necessary precaution.

  “Anything I can do from here?” Mel asked.

  “During that time period, New Orleans was the center of the world as far as the gulf was concerned. I’ll email you what I have if you want to do some research.”

  “Might be a good idea. Looks like the outer bands of the storm might reach Atlanta. New Orleans looks like it’s in the clear. Maybe I’ll head over there.”

  “Cool. I’ll check in when I can.”

  “Mac, please don’t let Trufante—”

  He didn’t want her to finish her sentence. “Sort the files by date. That should give you what he was working on recently.”

  They disconnected, and he sensed that she was happy. He knew her well, and despite the hardships Ruth brought there would be a little schadenfreude. The storm was big enough to cover the entire state of Florida. One of the consequences from its rainfall was that the sugar crop would likely be destroyed. That was all good, but the fertilizer and chemical-laden water had to go somewhere, and Mac expected the opened flood gates would be pouring chemicals into the Atlantic and gulf. Mel would have plenty of ammunition for her battle after it was over, but for now, what was coming was inevitable. Mac figured she could use the break from her fight with Big Sugar.

  With the filters changed, Mac started the engine and checked the hoses and electrical connections. After inspecting for leaks, he went to the helm to make sure the oil pressure and temperature were all within their parameters. Everything seemed to check out, and, satisfied, he closed the hatch.

  When he shut down the engines, a strange silence fell over the marina. In comparison, the streets, just a few feet away, were awash in activity. Mac sat on the gunwale drinking his beer and trying to figure out how to proceed with the information he had.