Dead Man's Bluff

by Debbie Burke

  She sipped from the glass and lay down, curling on her side. He took the plates to the kitchen. A moment later, he was back, towering over the bed. She felt a fresh, cool washcloth on her forehead. She reached for his hand and drifted off, holding it.

  Chapter 6 – One Bag of Ice, Ten Gallons of Gas

  During the night, Tillman had gotten up several times to replace the cloths on Tawny’s forehead with fresh, cool ones. By morning, a lingering headache nagged but otherwise she felt stronger. He slathered more aloe on her burned skin, which had already started to peel. He skipped shaving to conserve the water in the bathtub.

  Another scorching, muggy day without air conditioning lay ahead. Before Tawny had awakened, Tillman had taken a walk around the neighborhood to reconnoiter. None of the other neighbors who’d returned from evacuation had seen Smoky.

  The milk was sour so they drank black coffee that Tillman made in a pan on the grill. For breakfast, they munched dry Cheerios. Oranges in the crisper drawer of the now-warm refrigerator had grown fuzzy gray coats but, once he peeled off the moldy rind, the fruit tasted wonderfully juicy.

  After breakfast, Tawny tossed the mayonnaise and other perishable food into a garbage bag and placed it outside in the carport. Smoky’s trash can was gone, blown away in the storm. “This is going to turn nasty real fast in the heat. Wonder when trash collection will start again?”

  Tillman used the tail of his yellow polo shirt to mop his face. “Couple blocks away, there’s a front-end loader from the road department, clearing fallen trees. So much crap blocking the streets, cars can’t get through. The operator said he’d keep working until he ran out of fuel. Then everything comes to a screeching halt until there’s electricity to run gas pumps.” He shook his head. “What a cluster.”

  Outside, they stood in the shade of the house and surveyed the lake. Overnight, the flood waters had receded, almost back to the normal shoreline. Flotsam remained behind on the muddy grass. Irma’s gusts had flung the aqua hardtop for the T-bird across the yard.

  “What are we going to do today?” Tawny asked.

  Tillman peered down at her. “You’re staying out of the sun. The way you looked last night, you can’t take any more heat.” He stroked the side of her face, concern still in his dark gaze.

  She did feel wrung out and weak, like the aftermath of a bad case of the flu. “I won’t argue. But we still have to look for Smoky. I found an address book. His landlady’s name is Nyala. They evidently have a romance going. Several other women’s names in the book, too.”

  Tillman lifted an eyebrow. “Sounds like Smoky, all right. Maybe he’s holed up with one of them.”

  Around the corner of the house, a chainsaw roared to life.

  Tawny said, “That’s probably the neighbor. He offered to help with the oak tree.”

  They walked to the carport and found Raul adjusting the choke on the saw as it sputtered then died. He looked up at their approach.

  Tawny introduced them. The men shook hands and immediately began speaking in rapid Spanish too fast for her to follow, except for a few words. She left them discussing the best way to cut up the fallen tree.

  Inside the house, wearing her readers, she pored over Smoky’s address book again. She found Nyala’s number and the first names of three other women. Smoky didn’t bother alphabetizing, apparently randomly adding contacts as he met them.

  Outside, the chainsaw engine repeatedly revved up and idled back. After thirty minutes, she checked again. Both men were now shirtless, their muscular chests shiny with perspiration as they worked together, bucking chunks of wood and stacking smaller branches in a growing brush pile.

  She poured two glasses of tea, added the few remaining slivers of ice, then took the drinks outside to Tillman and Raul. They shut down the chainsaw and gratefully accepted the barely cool tea, tipping their heads back, Adam’s apples moving up and down as they gulped.

  Raul said, “I hear some places are getting electricity back on. Mostly down in Tampa. Not this far north yet. My store is still closed but may open later today if there is power.”

  “I thought of something,” Tawny said to Tillman. “If we can put the hardtop back on the T-bird, I could drive somewhere that has cell coverage and try calling the numbers in Smoky’s phone book.”

  Tillman’s cheeks hollowed as he sucked ice. “Not a bad idea. But you being out alone isn’t smart.”

  “It’s the only way. You can’t fit in the car with the roof on and I can’t take the sun with the roof off.” She read Tillman’s worry. “Besides, I’ll be in air conditioning, doors locked and windows rolled up. If any stores are open, maybe I can pick up more ice.”

  Tillman continued to frown at her, his disapproval clear. “You’re sure?”

  “I’ll be careful,” she said.

  To Raul, Tillman said, “Give me a hand putting the hardtop back on the car?”

  The men walked through the muddy grass, lifted the top, and carried it to the T-bird. They set it in place and lined up the pins to reattach it.

  While they worked, Tawny went inside to get the address book and her phone. Still ninety percent charged.

  Catching a glance in the bathroom mirror, her appearance startled her. Too much sun was not kind to redheads—face puffy, cracked lips, nose painful and peeling. She applied more aloe, giving her skin a faintly green sheen. Brushing her teeth didn’t get rid of the fuzzy feel inside her mouth.

  Her braid had come undone, loose strands stuck to her damp skin. Too much trouble to re-braid. She twisted the hair into a knot, and fastened it high on her head with a clip.

  Dear God, she needed a shower and shampoo. She would never again take for granted the blessed luxury of unlimited, clean, running water.

  Outside, the men had secured the hardtop on the car. The engine was idling. Tillman peered down at her. “Lot of roads still flooded and tons of debris. Don’t take chances.”

  She slid her palm over his damp, naked chest. “I won’t.”

  “I turned the AC on high. Should start getting cool soon. I put a go-cup of water in the holder. Stay hydrated.”

  For a lawyer who was normally harsh and arrogant, he had a tender, considerate side that he kept hidden from everyone except her and his children. “Thank you,” she said.

  His mouth firmed into a hard line. “Pistol’s in the glove box. Loaded. Twelve rounds. Watch out for looters.”

  “OK.” Doubt coiled in her stomach as she climbed into the car, closed the door, and gripped the wheel tightly.

  Even a simple errand meant another frightening separation in the disrupted world after Irma.

  ***

  The air conditioning had a slightly moldy smell but Tawny still relished the coolness after being overheated for so long. She drove slowly through the neighborhood streets, steering around obstacles and giant puddles. On a still-flooded side road, she watched a couple of teenage boys racing an air boat, whooping as they threw up rooster tails while they swerved across the water.

  She debated whether to head west to Highway 19 toward the Gulf, or to go inland, farther from storm surge damage. The radio gave updates, mentioning the names of towns and roads she didn’t recognize. She wished she had a map to track where the newscasters were talking about.

  Electricity had been restored along the main corridor of Dale Mabry Highway, wherever that was, but power had not yet fanned out to surrounding areas. Up to twenty-two inches of rain had drenched some areas of the state. Flooding was widespread.

  Few vehicles ventured out. Traffic lights didn’t work. Several times, road closed barriers forced her to retrace her route.

  She turned onto SR 54, a major highway, and headed east, away from the Gulf. Only occasionally did she see other cars across the expanse of six lanes. She passed darkened fast-food joints and closed supermarkets with vacant parking lots. After eight desolate miles, she spotted an open gas station and convenience store. A long line of cars snaked from the gas islands into the street. Customers
pushed into the store, others coming out with armloads of groceries and ice.

  Tawny joined the queue for the pumps behind a pickup truck. The driver stood outside his rig, smoking and pacing as he waited for the line to move. He nodded at her. “Ten-gallon limit as long as the gas lasts. I turned my engine off. Otherwise, I’ll run out.”

  The T-bird gauge hovered near empty. Tawny followed the man’s example and shut off the ignition. Without air conditioning, the car quickly heated up even with the windows open.

  While waiting, she checked her phone and was elated to see four bars. She thumbed through Smoky’s address book and tapped in Nyala’s number. It rang five times then went to voice mail.

  “Nyala, my name is Tawny Lindholm. I’m trying to locate Smoky Lido. He went missing in the storm and we’re concerned about him. Please call me.”

  She tried the numbers beside the names of three other women. Two calls said all circuits are busy, please try again later. The third didn’t even ring.

  In the baking car, sweat trickled down her back. The line moved at a snail’s pace as a few vehicles left the islands. She counted twenty ahead of her.

  A heavyset black woman in her fifties wearing thick glasses left the store, trailed by a little boy about seven. The woman carried two bags of groceries while the boy hugged a ten-pound sack of ice to his chest. Both looked weary. As they walked past, his admiring gaze swept over the T-bird and he shyly made eye contact with Tawny.

  She smiled at him. “That ice must be heavy but I bet it feels pretty good in this heat.”

  He smiled back and nodded. The woman pushed the boy ahead of her. “Don’t bother the lady, Caleb.”

  Tawny regretted initiating the conversation and hoped the kid wouldn’t get in trouble for responding. She was accustomed to her small Montana hometown, where chatting with strangers was normal, even expected. But this was a major urban area under siege. People were understandably suspicious.

  She watched the pair trudge down the street. Evidently, they didn’t have a car. She felt sorry for them walking in the searing sun, burdened with packages.

  An incoming text chimed from Arielle, Tillman’s fifteen-year-old middle child. R U guys OK? Can’t reach Dad. Did FL sink into the ocean? Luv U.

  The message lightened Tawny’s heart. She tapped a reply: We’re OK, no electric, iffy cell svc. Don’t believe everything U see on TV. Luv U 2.

  In front of her, the truck started up and moved forward a few car lengths. She followed then turned off the engine again. Fifteen cars still ahead of her. Would the gas supply last until she reached the island?

  Her phone rang. Caller ID said: Nyala. Smoky’s landlady and girlfriend.

  “Hello, Nyala.”

  “Who are you?” The voice sounded half-hostile, half-curious.

  If Smoky’s paranoia extended to his friends, Tawny had to be careful not to scare the woman off. “Smoky was my fiancé’s high school coach. We were staying at his house when Irma hit. I found your number in his address book.” She hesitated, wondering how much more to reveal. If the woman cared about Smoky, she’d want to know he was missing. Tawny plunged ahead: “Smoky went out during the storm. We can’t find him. We’ve checked shelters and neighbors. We’re really concerned about him.”

  A long hesitation. “Is the house OK? Any damage?”

  Nyala sounded like a property owner first and girlfriend second. Tawny answered, “It’s all right except an oak tree fell on the carport and crushed it.”

  “Damn. I’ll have to put in an insurance claim.”

  Irritation chafed Tawny. Didn’t this woman care at all about Smoky? “Have you heard from Smoky?”

  Another pause. “We talked a week ago.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might have gone, staying at another friend’s house maybe?”

  The woman scoffed. “He’s got lots of friends.”

  Tawny couldn’t decipher the meaning under her sarcasm. Friends as in other women or friends as in the thugs who beat the crap out of him? “Nyala, is there any way we could meet?”

  “What for?”

  “We want to make sure Smoky is safe. Maybe we can kick around ideas of where he might be.”

  The woman sighed. “I suppose I could drive out to the house. I’ll need to see the damage and take photos for the insurance adjustor. Although, God knows, it’ll be months before all the claims from the hurricane get handled. I own several other rentals in New Port Richey that I ought to check on, also.”

  “That would be great.” Tawny didn’t care what Nyala’s reason was, as long as she agreed to talk. “Where are you?”

  “Land O’Lakes. The power just came on here about fifteen minutes ago. But lots of roads are still underwater. Depending on flooding, I could be there sometime this afternoon.”

  “We’ll see you then.” Tawny disconnected and moved the car ahead again. She wondered if the woman would show up. How close was her friendship with Smoky if she sounded more worried about damage to her property than the missing man?

  Then Tawny realized she’d called Tillman her fiancé.

  Since the beginning, she’d struggled how to categorize their relationship. Initially, he’d been her attorney, her savior. Then he’d offered her a job that she desperately needed because Dwight’s medical bills left her broke.

  As a boss, Tillman had been rude, demanding, and impatient, yet, at times, surprisingly kind. Gradually his harshness eroded and he’d revealed his soft underbelly to her. She’d managed to teach him please and thank you, words foreign to his vocabulary before they’d met.

  And, as they’d fallen in love, his rough edges smoothed a bit.

  His longtime office manager, Esther, had recently made the crack, “What have you done with my boss and who is this cream puff who replaced him?”

  Now Tillman wanted to marry Tawny but she resisted because of concern for his children. They were already torn between warring parents and she didn’t want to add more complications. Yet maybe that was a false reason, built up in her head because she feared the ultimate commitment to the man who would do anything for her, yet was at times frighteningly volatile.

  She remembered his admonition to stay hydrated and sipped water from the go-cup. It tasted awful, warm and plastic.

  Another twenty sweltering minutes passed before she finally pulled beside the pump. An attendant walked between islands, repeating a chant: “Ten-gallon limit. No exceptions.”

  Tawny inserted a credit card. As she pumped gas, she asked the attendant, “What food is in the store?”

  “Truck brought milk but it sold out in minutes. Might be lunch meat and cheese left.”

  The pump shut off automatically at ten gallons. She replaced the nozzle and gas cap then parked near the store entrance. Inside, a welcome blast of air conditioning hit her. The temperature had to be well over eighty but, compared to the muggy outdoors, it felt wonderfully dry and cool.

  A harried-looking clerk marched up and down aisles, repeating an ongoing refrain: “Limit, one bag of ice per customer. One case of bottled water per customer. Ten gallons of gas per customer.”

  In front of the register, a couple in grubby clothes, carrying four sacks of ice, argued with the checker. “One bag of ice for each of us and my two girlfriends are in the car.”

  “If they want ice,” the clerk answered, “they gotta come in and get it themselves. Boss’s orders. Nobody walks outta here with more than one bag of ice. Take it or leave it.”

  The couple grumbled but relinquished the extra ice, paid, and left.

  The smell of unwashed bodies hung in the air, including her own. Tawny edged between people at the glass-front coolers. Most racks had already emptied out. She filled a handbasket with a pint of half-and-half, a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, and the last packages of smoked turkey and Swiss cheese. She grabbed a lone jar of pickles from an otherwise empty shelf. A hand-crank can opener hung on a hook. She picked it up and balanced the basket of groceries on a case of bottled water.


  Beside the front counter, a burly clerk now blocked access to the freezer box and handed out only one bag of ice to each person in line. While the checker rang up her purchases, Tawny clasped the ice to her chest like a newborn.

  In the eyes of other waiting customers, she recognized the same feeling she had—at this moment, cubes of frozen water were more precious than a sack of gold.

  Outside, she put the food in the trunk.

  Shouting erupted over at the gas islands. The attendant yelled to customers still waiting in line, “No more gas. Tank’s empty. Get out of here!”

  Angry customers protested as voices rose and tempers flared out of control. A man threw a punch, knocking the attendant backward into the hood of a Mercedes. Several bystanders piled on. Shoving and tussling broke out, spreading through the crowd in waves.

  Tawny quickly jockeyed out of the lot onto the highway, barely escaping the fast-brewing riot. Her breath came in anxious gulps, knowing she’d been damn lucky to score gas, ice, and a little food without getting trampled by a mob.

  A mile farther down the road, she caught movement on a side street. Two skinny white teenagers in gray hoodies and sagging jeans circled the grandmother and little boy she’d seen earlier. The woman was in a tug-of-war with one kid over her bag of groceries. The other bag lay on the sidewalk, contents scattered. The second punk snatched the sack of ice from the boy and swung it like a bludgeon toward the woman. It struck her in the back of the head. She staggered but refused to turn loose of her bag.

  Tawny grabbed the pistol from the glove box and veered onto the side street, accelerating toward the struggle. She screeched to a halt beside them and leaned on the horn. “Hey, leave them alone!” she shouted through the car window.

  “Fuck off!” The teen with the ice came toward her, swinging the sack in a figure-eight pattern like nunchucks. Tawny gripped the gun in both hands and pointed it in his direction.

  He jerked back, stopped, and dropped the ice. “Gun!” he yelled to his friend. “Get out of here!”