Wood's Tempest

by Steven Becker

  “All right,” Mac said, casting a scowl in Billy’s direction meant to impress the seriousness of the matter. “We need to find Tru. Can you help?”

  “Right on,” Billy said. “Business has ground to a halt, if you know what I mean.”

  Mac looked past him at the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Duval Street. Unless you were purposely cruising the street, most motorists generally avoided Duval. With half the bars and businesses already shuttered there, he guessed the other streets must be really bad.

  “You’ve got my number,” Mac said, walking away. Pamela followed behind him.

  “I’m getting really worried,” Pamela said, as they entered Willie T’s. “I keep calling his phone, but it’s going to voicemail.”

  The stage was empty, and there were only a half-dozen people sitting at the bar. Mac and Pamela walked in and out. With only a few bars on this side of the street left, and none that Trufante would likely hang out in, they crossed to the south side and started walking back to Front Street. The Bull and Whistle was shuttered, as was Margaritaville—not that Trufante would be caught dead in Buffett’s tourist trap.

  Mac could tell that Pamela was getting more anxious as they neared the Hog’s Breath and Front Street. The singer there was just finishing up, and the bar was near empty with no sign of Trufante. Mac looked back toward the street and saw a rickshaw turn south on Caroline.

  “That’s the last of them,” Mac said.

  Pamela slouched against the wall of a brick building. “We’ve got to find him.”

  “You know Tru,” Mac said, trying to reassure her. If it were anyone else, he might have put his arm around her for comfort. He kept his distance. It certainly wasn’t because of her looks. He and Mel had often wondered what she was doing with Trufante when she clearly could have found a sugar daddy. Money didn’t seem to be an issue, though, and from what they’d seen, as the end of a month neared, she was generally slinging her credit card around like the bill of a hooked marlin. It definitely wasn’t money that drove her.

  “I texted him before that I’m heading out at six a.m. He’ll be at the boat.”

  Mac’s earlier adrenaline rush had long passed, and he was ready to crash. There was no telling what tomorrow would bring, and a few hours of sleep was a good idea. With his bunk now in the forefront of his mind, he knew the only way he was going to see it was to take her with him. “Come on back to the boat. You can sleep aboard. He’s bound to show.”

  Tears streamed down her face as she followed him back to the marina. Mac had watched her try his phone several times while they were checking the bars, and she tried once again before stepping aboard, but shook her head and disconnected without leaving a message.

  “You have anything to drink?” she asked, lifting a long leg over the gunwale.

  Mac was surprised she’d stayed sober during their search. They must have canvassed two dozen bars, and she hadn’t had a drink. Remembering that he still needed to hide the alcohol before Tru came aboard, he offered her a beer.

  “Anything with more power?” she asked. “Beer makes me fat.”

  There was a good bottle of rum; he retrieved it and poured several fingers for her, figuring the best way for him to get some sleep was to knock her out. She took the glass and downed it in two gulps, then handed it back to him. Mac poured an equal amount in and watched as she sat back and sipped it.

  The alcohol had an immediate effect. He could see it in her eyes. Instead of her previous focus when they were searching for Trufante, something he thought unusual for her, she now had a faraway, dreamy look. Hoping that was the first sign that she was going to crash, he sat in the captain’s chair at the helm and checked his phone.

  There were two messages. He was relieved by both. The first was from Ned, that he had accepted Mac’s offer and would be aboard at six. The second was from Mel, saying that she was leaving for New Orleans in the morning. After seeing the cone of probability widen as the storm grew and strengthened, Atlanta would likely be facing some weather, too, as the hurricane moved overland.

  Pamela perked up suddenly and leaned forward. “Why do you just call your boat “my boat”?”

  If this was a trap, Mac couldn’t figure it out. “Because that’s what it is.”

  “A boat needs a name. They have souls, you know.”

  The only “sole” that Mac knew on a boat was the cabin floor. There was no point in fighting her, and he let it go.

  “Really, you seem to have bad luck. If you named her, that could change.”

  She was right about that, but he and Mel usually blamed their misfortunes on Trufante. “Go ahead and name her, then. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

  “You’re like a ghost, Mac Travis. Ghost should be in the name. Maybe that’ll help you be invisible and elude some of the trouble that finds you.”

  Mac wasn’t a superstitious guy. He didn’t go for the voodoo-like rituals some fishermen used, or pray to the gods for a better catch. Maybe it was the low pressure from the approaching storm, but something came over him, and she didn’t seem so crazy.

  Boats had been his life for almost thirty years. They were work boats, mainly—Wood’s old skiff, which had been lost during a storm a few years ago, and the center console Mac used now to run back and forth to Marathon were the only pleasure-type boats he had owned. He had always just called them what they were: “the skiff” or “the center console.”

  “Ghost, huh?” The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

  Pamela seemed to go into a trance. Rocking back and forth, she started muttering phrases he couldn’t make out. He was about to leave her and head to bed when she said the same thing several times, then louder and clear enough for him to hear.

  “Ghost Runner.”

  Mac wasn’t often blown away, but the coming winds couldn’t have hit him in the face harder than the new name for his boat. It just seemed right. Before he could say anything, she opened her eyes, sat up, and drank more rum. The urgency in her eyes returned.

  “We have to do it now. There’s not a moment to waste,” she said.

  “What? Leave? Tru will show up in the morning.”

  “No, not him. We have to name the boat before Ruth gets here.”

  If there was ever a time to be superstitious, it was in the face of a category-five hurricane. Especially with Trufante missing, Mac would need all the help he could get. “How do we do that?”

  “Well, first you fill my glass.” She held the empty glass out to him.

  Mac dumped the rest of the rum in it. If she really did have some kind of secret powers, the alcohol seemed to bring them out.

  “You have a marker?”

  While Mac rummaged through a drawer in the helm, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She finished the drink and started to rock back and forth again. Finally, he found the broad-tip Sharpie that he used to label gear. Pulling the lid off, he drew a short line on his hand to see if it worked.

  Pamela took the marker from his hand and crossed to the transom. Opening the small door, she stepped onto the dive platform and squatted.

  Mac kept his distance, feeling strangely comfortable with what was happening. He stood back and waited, a little anxious, but at the same time, peaceful. Finally, she stood up.

  “Done.”

  Mac remained where he was, almost scared to look. Though he had never done it, he knew putting a name on a boat was a big deal.

  “You gonna look?” she asked, coming back through the transom door.

  Mac pushed off the gunwale and went aft. It was one thing to let her name his boat, but he wasn’t sure if lettering was in her wheelhouse. Finally, he resigned himself, knowing it would wear off eventually. He leaned over and saw the name.

  “Ghost Runner,” he said, testing the words on his tongue. The lettering was simple but good. He said the name again. It too was good.

  Whether the black cloud that sometimes followed him would be lifte
d remained to be seen, but as he thanked her and said goodnight, a strange feeling of peace followed him as he went below and lay down on the bunk.

  Alone with the two women, Trufante had to make a decision. He was mulling the possibilities when he saw Billy Bones walk into the bar.

  “Yo, Tru!” Billy walked up to Trufante, grabbed his hand, and tried a man hug.

  Trufante resisted. He knew Billy was one or two more degrees of trouble than he himself was.

  “What do we have here? Hello, ladies.” Billy turned his attention to the two women. “You gonna introduce Billy Bones to your friends?”

  “What brings you here, Billy?” Trufante knew that there was always a reason when Billy came around.

  “Shoot, I’m lookin’ out for you. Seen old Mac Travis and Pamela a bit ago. Said you were down here too. Maybe lookin’ for a little hurricane party action.” He turned his attention back to the women.

  The thought of Mac and Pamela together, especially after she had rebuffed him earlier, burned Trufante and left his mouth dry. The only way to cure it was taking another shot. He ordered a round and toasted Billy. “Sadie and Dannie, meet Billy Bones.”

  Billy downed the shot and smiled. “And welcome to hurricane season in Key West.”

  Sixteen

  There comes a time for every person when alcohol affects decision making. Everyone is different, and many can stop before they get in trouble. Trufante had passed the point of no return two shots ago. Not that he cared. It seemed that no amount of alcohol could take the sting out of Pamela’s rejection. He knew deep down that if he wanted her back, this was not the way to go about it. Adding Billy to the party was one more bad decision fueled by the alcohol.

  Trufante sipped a beer, taking a break from the shots to let his buzz even out. His decision making might have crossed the border, but he knew how to function with an above-normal blood-alcohol content. The main rule was, once you were where you needed to be, maintain, don’t over-fuel, and that meant backing off some. Water was a natural option—except for being a party killer. Once one person asked for a glass, everyone else generally followed, and the party was over. Beer was a safer option and complied with the age-old drinker’s adage: liquor before beer—all clear.

  A quick glance at Sadie and Dannie showed they were still having a good time, and he looked over at Billy. Despite his failures, the New Jersey wannabe gangster always bounced back and still had his swagger. Trufante could tell from his dress and grooming that Billy was on an upswing. The guy was like a seesaw, swinging from looking like a destitute con-man to an almost presentable one. Some women had what they called gaydar, the uncanny ability to spot gay men; Trufante could sniff out a con from a mile away.

  “You’re looking good, Billy. What’cha been up to?” Trufante took a long pull on his beer. It was Billy’s turn to buy shots.

  “Cornered the market on those rickshaw things. You know they only have twenty of those suckers on this rock.”

  “Good money?” Trufante asked, hoping to guilt Billy into buying a round.

  “Shit, I got a babe down at the city. Owed me one and rigged the lottery so I’d get a permit. Still gotta work, but I got me a stable and keep the thing going 24/7.”

  That answered Trufante’s question, and he put his arm around the tightwad. “Must be busy with the storm coming and all.”

  “Shit. I even gave Mac and Mel a ride to the airport.”

  Trufante smiled for the first time in an hour, thinking about how desperate Mac must have been to get in the back of Billy’s ride. “Things are going so well, maybe you could buy a round or two.”

  “I’ll one-up you on that. Got me some of the magic marching powder. Share those ladies and I’ll turn y’all on.”

  “Now that’ll keep the party going.” Trufante moved between the woman and asked if they’d like a bump. Both faces lit up, and he figured the party could last until Ruth had moved on. The promise of the drug added a level of friskiness to the already flirtatious women. Dannie grabbed Tru’s hand, and Sadie put her arm around Billy. The women steered them to the street and into an alley. After fueling up, they joined a mass of people heading toward Mallory Square.

  “What y’all got going on?” Trufante asked a green-haired woman walking next to him.

  “It’s a vigil, man,” she replied. “We’re gonna ride out the storm.”

  Trufante knew both idiocy and a party when he saw it. This looked like the latter until it turned into the former. By then, he’d figure something out. Reaching into his pocket for his phone, it was missing. Thinking back, he knew where it was, but with the bodies pressing him forward, he figured he’d get it later.

  His intent was to check on Ruth’s progress. Party or no, he was not going to be stuck on the exposed pavement of Mallory Square when the hurricane hit. Looking up, he noticed lines of high clouds backlit by the moon already making their way across the island. Hoping they were the outer bands and the storm was going to move north and east, he followed the group, carefully watching Billy and his stash.

  They reached the end of Duval, and the crowd funneled to the left into the open square. Famous for its sunset celebrations and street performers, Mallory Square had a different feel now with the wind gusting and white-capped waves breaking over the seawall. Instead of following the group, Trufante grabbed Billy, Dannie, and Sadie, and led them to the right. He found an alley vacant, except for one of the feral cats that roamed the island, and pulled them into the shadows.

  A few minutes later, with numb lips and jaws grinding, they joined the party in the square. From his vantage point, Trufante could see the crowd, and estimated there were two hundred people here. He recognized several bartenders and accepted a drink from a bottle that was being passed around. Several performers had set up their gear, not in an attempt to make money, but to enhance the already jubilant atmosphere. The smell of weed swirling around the square on the increasing wind brought a smile to Trufante’s face, and he sought out the joint, but before he partook, he knew he better check the storm. This was going to be one hell of a party until it hit.

  Dannie had apparently chosen him and had her arm intertwined with his. Sadie was likewise attached to Billy. “You got a phone on you?” Trufante asked, not sure where she could be hiding it.

  Watching as she reached into her large cleavage, Trufante was mesmerized as he saw the top of her phone emerge.

  “What else ya got in there?” he asked.

  “Hmm. Maybe another blast of that powder and I’ll let you find out.”

  It was almost enough to distract Trufante, but a wind gust brought him back to reality. He took the phone and scanned the apps, finally clicking on a web browser and entering the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration website. As he did so, he thought nothing of it, but not that long ago fishermen were considered Luddites. Now, they were quite the opposite. He skimmed the site and found the advisory, which, as with most weather forecasts, was fudged ten ways to hell. Instead of relying on the gloom-and-doom forecast, he opened the radar screen and studied the display.

  Louisiana had its share of the devastating storms, and as Trufante watched the repeating loop on the screen, he remembered Katrina. This storm was bigger and badder, but from the location and movement, he surmised that Key West was relatively safe. Ruth was moving fairly quickly and looked to make landfall around Marathon. With the stronger bands to the north and east, Key West would escape most of its wrath.

  Satisfied that the party would continue, he remembered Dannie’s offer and put his arm around Billy’s shoulder. “Girls are ready for some action if you light them up again.”

  “I got something way better if you’re ready to ditch this place,” Billy replied.

  Trufante looked around the square. After an hour, the momentum of the party had started to fade. Looking up, he saw the cloud cover had thickened, and although it was dark, the moon was having a harder time breaking through these clouds. From the look of them, they held rain.


  “What’cha got?”

  “Got a buddy with some X.”

  That got Trufante’s attention. “He gonna be around tonight?”

  Billy pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He found what he was looking for and, a few seconds later, was deep into negotiations. “We’re cool. Got to go to the dude’s house, though.”

  Trufante shrugged as the first drop of rain hit his receding hairline. “Y’all into X?” he asked the women.

  Both sidled up to him, clearly giving their answer. Billy looked left out, and as he was the key to the operation, Trufante told them it was his friend. With Sadie hanging all over Billy, Dannie and Trufante followed them out of the square. Trufante could feel the pressure of some of the not-so-committed partiers pushing behind them as the rain increased. He knew most would quickly flee, but there were always a few that remembered Lieutenant Dan from Forrest Gump, thinking the hurricane-force winds would cleanse their souls as well.

  Trufante had a different answer for his soul, and when they reached Billy’s rickshaw, he climbed in back with one girl on each side. Billy hopped onto the bike, and started pedaling.

  The streets were quiet now. Anyone planning on evacuating was already headed to the mainland; those who had decided to ride out the storm were hunkering down in their homes. Many of the houses they passed were boarded up; several had lights on, though most were dark. If Trufante were a thief, this would be a banner night.

  Cruising North Roosevelt, they passed several banks with digital signs. Between the storm warnings, the displays showed it was almost four a.m. Trufante sat back, realizing he was tired. The rush from the coke that Billy had shared was long gone, and he felt the early stages of a hangover. Hopefully the X would get him through. If it didn’t, it’d be close enough to dawn that he could make his way back to the marina and see what Mac was up to.

  He started to feel melancholy. It was times like these, the early hours of the morning, that he really missed Pamela. He knew at almost fifty that he was getting too old for this, but it was in his blood. After decades of all-night parties, he wondered if that part of his life was almost over, and he started to think about how to get Pamela back.