by Debbie Burke
“Traffic’s a bitch.” He jerked his head toward the refrigerator. “Chop up some lettuce for salad, will you? There’s tomatoes, avocados, and red onions, too.”
As Tawny removed vegetables from the crisper, she watched his movements for lingering signs of pain but he seemed better. Or maybe just more anesthetized. “How are your ribs?”
“Sore, but no worse than the day after some football games I played when I was a pup.” He raised his full glass, now clinking with ice cubes. “Cuba Libre is a miracle cure.”
The unfamiliar sounds of banging and cracking outside made Tawny uneasy. She forced herself to focus on making salad.
Smoky spread butter on both halves of a loaf of Cuban bread. He sprinkled garlic salt and parmesan on top then slid a pan into the broiler.
In the living room, the TV was drowned out by the rain racket. She asked, “What’s the latest on Irma?”
“Downgraded to a Category Three. Eye’s approaching Sarasota now.”
“How far is that from here?”
“About seventy-five miles. Next, she’ll hammer St. Pete then Tampa. Once she’s over land, that should take more punch out of her. If we’re lucky, she’ll be down to a Two when she gets here. But she’s moving slow and dumping a helluva lot of rain. Flooding’s gonna be our biggest problem.”
Where was Tillman? She thought of Smoky’s car without a roof and prayed he could find shelter. She tried calling him again. Now the screen read: Emergency calls only.
Smoky flipped steaks out of the frying pan and nodded toward Tawny’s makeshift rope lock as he carried plates to the table. “I like your security system.”
She stooped to pull the garlic bread out of the broiler. “Do you think those guys will come back?”
“Not tonight. They hightailed it for their hole.” He held Tawny’s chair for her then sat across the table. “Think I figured out how they tracked me down.”
She served salad on their plates. “How?”
“That goddamn phone of Tillman’s. He’s been texting me and they can trace your keystrokes. I keep my phone dark unless I’m several miles from home. But, if they figured out that he was meeting me, they could just follow his phone to me.”
Tawny knew too well how smartphones could become tracking devices, having herself been the victim of a stalker. “How did they connect Tillman with you?”
Smoky cut into his steak, blue eyes wistful. “He’s the only one I stay in touch with from the old days in Montana.”
“You miss Montana?”
He chewed for a thoughtful minute. “Life was simpler back then. Friendly wagers with buddies over brewskis. Then I got caught betting on college games. Drummed me out of the state. Tillman had just graduated law school around then. I was gonna be his first case. He wanted to help me but, hell, rather than going through hearings and appeals and shit, it just seemed easier to move on…and on…and on. So here I am.”
She remembered the water running and rose. “I better check the bathtub.”
“Good idea,” Smoky answered. “We don’t need a flood inside, too.”
In the bathroom, the tub was nearly full. Tawny turned off the water and stood for a moment, grasping the shower curtain rod to stretch her back. “Dammit, Tillman,” she whispered, a choke in her throat, “please don’t get yourself killed out there.”
Back at the table, Smoky washed down his steak with more rum and coke and continued reminiscing. “Coached in Michigan for a while. Indiana. Then Nevada. That’s where I really got in deep. Only state where college betting is legal. I loved it. Every game, every day. Better than sex.” He hunched shoulders up around his neck. “If you ever tell Tillman I said that, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
She laughed. “I won’t.” The weird secrets people confided in her never failed to amaze.
He went on: “Did some time in the state pen. Decided to start fresh, new career. Commercial fishing, all over the globe. I like the sea, out there in the sky and sun and that salty taste on your lips. Managed to stay clear of gambling for years. Well, mostly.” He fingered the emerald stud in his earlobe. “Won this little sweetheart playing poker. My three sevens beat two pair, queens and aces. Loser was a guy from Cartagena who got this working in the emerald mines near Bogota. Almost a carat.”
Tawny leaned closer to admire the sparkling green gem. “It’s really beautiful.”
He tore off a hunk of crusty bread. “Then that damn cable ruined my leg. Couldn’t work on the boats anymore and fell back into my old ways. Wound up lying low in this hovel.” He sopped bread in steak juice. “The only people that give a shit about me want to kick my ass.”
The self-pity was an all-too-familiar refrain. Tawny took a bite of garlic bread and watched Smoky’s rumpled face as he slowly chewed, distant memories flickering in his eyes. The dreams of what might have been. She’d seen the same expression in the eyes of her father at the rare times when he was sober. The regrets were the same, whether felt by an alcoholic or a gambler.
Smoky studied her for a long moment, as if contemplating a decision. At last, he murmured, “Tillman doesn’t know but I got a little girl I’ve never seen. Tried to send money for her but her mom sends it back. Won’t tell me her name or her birthday. Not that I blame her—I wouldn’t want me around my daughter.” He pushed his plate away. “I wish I’d been a better man.” He leaned forearms on the table. “And that, darlin’, is the sad, boring tale of my wasted life.”
Tawny remembered the stories Tillman had told her about how Smoky had mentored him when he was a kid badly in need of a friend. No matter what mistakes the man had made, his kindness to Tillman counted for a lot. She reached across the table and squeezed the coach’s arm. “Couldn’t have all been wasted. You mean everything to Tillman.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, well, when he comes to my funeral, at least his car won’t get door-dinged.” He leaned on the back legs of his chair. “Damn, that boy was one fine athlete. First time I saw him, I knew he was going places. He could pull miracles out of his baseball mitt. Most of the time, he pitched, a real cannon. But I remember one all-state game when he was playing left field. The hitter knocked a sure home run, looked for all the world like it would clear the fence.
“Tillman leapt up in the air and, I swear to God, he took flight. Flashed the leather and snagged that ball right out of the sky. The final out that won the game. The batter was so pissed, he flung his bat into the stands and hit the vice principal. Poor sonofabitch got suspended.”
Tawny munched on salad, enjoying the vicarious glimpse of Tillman in his youth, long before she knew the hard-charging, aggressive lawyer. “He still pulls miracles out of the sky. I’ve watched him do it in the courtroom.”
Smoky gave her a small, fond smile. “I bet he does. Still, damn shame to waste that talent. When he was in high school, he and I used to fly down to Tampa for Yankees’ spring training. I hooked him up with some scouts. He could have been another Honus Wagner.”
“Who?” Tawny asked.
“Greatest baseball player of all time. Played for the Pirates in the early nineteen-hundreds. Helluva hitter. He was smart, too, like Tillman. Once he psyched out a pitcher, that guy was doomed. Tillman coulda matched him. I knew it in my gut then. Used to call the boy Honus Rosenbaum.”
“Why didn’t Tillman go pro?”
“He got offers but he was set on college and law school. He’d say, what if his arm went out, what would he do then? That’s the difference between him and me. He played the long game, looking way into the future. I only cared about beating today’s point spread.”
Tawny wondered what miracle Smoky expected from Tillman to get him out of his current trouble.
He finished his drink, got up to pour another, thudding across the tile floor with his unique gait, sneaker-clump and flip-flop slap. Facing away, he mumbled something she couldn’t hear above the hammering rain.
“Sorry?” she said.
He turned to her and repeated, loudly, “I l
ove that boy.” Tears glinted in his eyes.
Her heart wrenched for the sad old coach. “I do, too, Smoky.”
After washing dishes, they settled in front of the TV and watched footage of a tin roof peeling off a warehouse. The roof cartwheeled down a street, crashing into abandoned cars and bouncing off bowed-over palm trees. Weathercasters tracked Irma’s relentless march into St. Petersburg and Tampa.
A studio reporter said, “It’s predicted that six million people will lose electricity by morning.”
Then the house went black. Completely and totally black.
TV and air conditioner abruptly fell silent. Only the racket of the constant wind and rain swirled outside.
The darkness was all consuming, as if Irma had sucked every speck of light and air from the room, like a vacuum chamber. As if Jonah’s whale had swallowed Tawny and she floundered deep in its belly, unable to breathe or escape. Strangling fear gripped her.
From out of the darkness, Smoky said, “Make that six million and two.”
Chapter 3 – Into the Hurricane Eye
Tillman drummed both hands hard on the steering wheel of Smoky’s little T-bird. The solid line of traffic snaked forward mere inches at a time. The trip to Hudson to buy a generator should have taken a half hour tops, a straight shot north on Highway 19. Instead, all vehicles had been diverted east to SR 52, pushed inland, away from the expected storm surge, toward the Suncoast Parkway. Angry gusts buffeted the T-bird sideways. Exhaust billowed from the tailpipe of the diesel truck ahead of him but the rising winds carried it away before he smelled the stink.
He’d now been gone for four hours, funneled into the evacuation route by cops, sheriff deputies, and state troopers who blocked off access to any side roads where he could turn around. Tumbling black clouds promised imminent rain and the damn car had no roof.
Tillman worried about Tawny and Smoky stuck without transportation. Storm surge might swamp Smoky’s bungalow.
He remembered the stricken expression on Tawny’s face when she all but begged him not to go, dread haunting her brown eyes. She wasn’t used to Florida’s heat. The searing sun had already burned her pale skin but she didn’t complain. A generator to run the air conditioner would ease her discomfort. But he’d failed and was coming back empty-handed, a wasted trip. He pounded the steering wheel.
When he tried to access GPS on his phone for alternate routes, the screen read Emergency calls only. The slow-moving but relentless current of traffic forced him north and east, farther away from his destination. He kept constant watch for a place to slide past law enforcement roadblocks and return to Smoky’s.
Although Tillman was glad to see his old coach, Smoky pissed him off. His long history of gambling problems always reached critical mass at the most inconvenient times, like when a hurricane was bearing down on Florida.
Still, Tillman reminded himself, Smoke was aging fast. There might not be many more chances to see the friend who had prevented him from killing his father.
Stuck in traffic, Tillman’s mind reached back to when he was sixteen, burning with righteous indignation and testosterone. He remembered stroking the knife blade across the sharpening stone hundreds of times, honing the edge so fine that his old man would never feel the slicing open of his carotids. Tillman planned every detail, including where he’d dispose of the weapon, the rain slicker, gloves, and boots he’d wear to shield him from the blood.
But Smoky had recognized the reckless fire in Tillman’s eyes and stepped in.
He listened for hours to Tillman’s reasons why his old man deserved to die. How his mother’s life would be better, rid of a philandering husband. How Tillman was smart enough to cover the angles and not get caught.
Smoky didn’t threaten him or try to talk him out of it. Instead, he walked Tillman further into the future, beyond the old man’s death, beyond the satisfaction of his immediate rage. “You’re smart,” he’d said. “But even the best plan can turn to shit. What kind of life will your mom have if she has to visit you in prison?”
And the question that finally pierced his resolve: “We know he’s a prick but she can’t help loving him. You gonna be able to look in her eyes after you kill him?”
That night, Tillman changed his course and decided to play the long game. Gather data, look ahead, measure the odds, anticipate repercussions. Not give into the lust for immediate gratification. He used his brains, went to law school, and built a successful career. No one except Smoky knew how close he’d come to killing the old man, not even Tawny.
His father didn’t die. He continued to drag down the lives of others.
But not Tillman’s.
The coach’s wisdom had pulled an angry boy back from the brink yet he couldn’t follow it in his own life. That irony frustrated Tillman. Why didn’t Smoky walk the walk?
Over the years, the roles reversed as Tillman interceded in one gambling crisis after another. Each time, Smoky swore Tillman would never have to rescue him again. There was always a next time.
But he loved that goddamned degenerate gambler and he’d pull Smoky back from the brink once more.
A sudden downpour drenched Tillman’s hair, ran down his neck, and soaked his shirt. Even on high speed, the windshield wipers didn’t keep up. The headlights couldn’t pierce the darkness but only reflected on sheets of rain. With no top on the car, he felt every lash of wind, every stinging drop.
It was going to be a long night.
***
Tawny remained fixed to her chair, gripping the arms. The sound of Smoky’s clack-thump steps reassured her as he moved around the house, familiar to him even in darkness. He turned on battery-operated lanterns, casting small, hopeful pools of brightness in the dim rooms. He spent several minutes in the kitchen then returned to the living room and handed her an icy glass.
She sniffed rum and coke and decided why not? It tasted sweet and strong. Warmth spread through her chest, relaxing muscles that felt too tense to breathe. “Thanks.”
Smoky settled back in his chair with his own refilled glass. “I’d be one lousy host if I didn’t bring you a little nightcap. But, after this, we should probably go to bed to save battery power. Is your phone OK?”
She went to the side table and unplugged her cell from the now-useless charger. “Ninety-five percent.”
“Good. Any word from Tillman?”
She’d checked for texts throughout the evening. “Still nothing.”
“Don’t worry about that boy. Smart, wily, resourceful as hell. He’ll be fine. Probably found himself a nice cozy restaurant that still has electricity and is enjoying a big T-bone and some fine scotch.”
Smoky meant well, trying to reassure her, but concern still gnawed in her gut. A car without a roof didn’t provide any protection from the violent weather. She sat again and sipped the strong drink. A flush worked up her neck to her face. “What do we do now? Tell ghost stories?”
He snickered. “Halloween’s coming. Got me a dandy costume planned. Eyepatch, black tri-cornered hat. Pirate’s dagger clenched in my teeth. Stuffed parrot perched on my shoulder. Slather red dye all over my stump and attach a plastic gator. What do you think?”
She had to laugh at the picture he’d conjured. “Sounds like a prize-winner.”
“I’d like to head down to the Keys. They know how to throw a Halloween bash. But Irma’s probably torn that place up pretty bad. Course, a little flooding and wind never stopped Key Westers from a good party.”
She knew he was trying to take her mind off worrying about Tillman and liked him for the effort. But concerns beyond the hurricane still bothered her. “Tell me something, Smoky.”
“What, darlin’?”
“How do you expect Tillman to help with your…problem?”
The shadows around his eyes deepened. “I don’t think he can. I really dug myself a deep hole this time.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
He shook his head. “Won’t do either of us any good.
”
“Then why did you ask Tillman to come?”
He gulped his drink. “Wanted to see my boy again.”
The sudden shift to sadness in his tone distressed her. Like he meant to say goodbye. A last goodbye.
Outside, an explosive crack sounded from the back yard, followed by a rending, tearing groan. A loud thunk shook the whole house.
They both jumped up. Smoky clumped to the kitchen. Tawny grabbed a lantern and followed him.
“Dammit, bet that old oak went down,” he grumbled as he untied the rope around the knob.
Rain still hammered the roof. He opened the door a sliver, using his bulky body to block it from blowing wide, and peered out into utter blackness. Tawny squeezed beside him and shone the lantern through the narrow opening.
As he suspected, an oak tree had crashed onto the carport roof, buckling the metal. One side had been folded flat to the ground. The leafy crown intruded almost into the doorway.
Smoky pushed the door closed, locked it, and retied the rope. “Close one. A little more left, it woulda caved in the roof over the kitchen. Then we’d be in one soggy mess.”
Tawny leaned against the counter, took deep breaths, and waited for her heart to return to normal. The lantern weighed heavy in her shaking hands.
He noticed her trembling. “That’s the only big tree close to the house. Now that it’s down, nothing else to worry about. Get some sleep.” He took the lantern from her and set it on the counter, then handed her a two-cell plastic flashlight. “Take this to bed with you, darlin’.”
He limped out of the kitchen toward his bedroom and started to shut his door.
She clutched the flashlight as her quaking subsided. “Smoky?”
He paused and looked at her. “What is it?”
“Thanks for calming me down. I don’t know what—”
“You’re gonna be OK, darlin’.” The shadows of his smile deepened in the flashlight glow. He blew her a kiss then closed his door.
She turned off the lanterns in the living room and retrieved her phone. In the kitchen, she picked up the shotgun she’d left by the door earlier and found her way to the spare bedroom. She propped the shotgun beside the bed then lay on top of the comforter. Heat and humidity settled over her like hot, soggy blankets. She hated to turn off the flashlight because it would plunge her again into stifling blackness.