5 Days to Landfall

by Robert Roy Britt

  He frowned again, nodded, and walked out the door and down the hall. Amanda closed the door and caught up to him at the elevator. Her father had always hated elevators.

  “Don’t you want to take the stairs, Dad?”

  “Jungle is hell on the knees. Worn out.”

  They rode the elevator back down to the lobby. Her father was nervous and fidgety. He relaxed as he exited the elevator, turned right, ambled down the hallway toward the dining area. Along the wall was a low, wide shelf. A silver-haired woman ahead of them used it as a railing. Amanda decided that’s what it was, a railing in disguise.

  As they passed her, Ed Cole put his hand through the woman’s arm. “Hello, Betty,” he cooed. “Join us for lunch?”

  “There you are Ed Cole, you devil. Who’s the young thing?”

  “My wife,” Ed said, a bit of humor that surprised Amanda. Or at least she assumed it was humor. “But you can still join us.”

  Ed Cole got boxed lunches for the three of them, returned and sat down.

  “Dad, you remember what I do?”

  “Of course I remember. Studying meteorology.”

  Close enough. Only fifteen years off. “Good. So you’ll believe me when I tell you there’s a hurricane that might come this way.”

  “If you say so.”

  “If it does, you’re room isn’t safe. Can you remember that?”

  “Stop asking me if I can remember everything. Do I look stupid?”

  “No, Dad, of course not. But this is important. Your room’s not safe in a hurricane. You need to get out of this building, or go to a higher floor and take cover in the hallway at the back of the building. OK?”

  “Got a nice view of the roller coaster from my room. Damn place used to be a jewel. All weirdoes and druggies now. I hate the place anyway. Everybody’s always pretending to have so much fun. I don’t have time for that. Where’s your mother? She should be here by now.”

  “Out of the building or a higher floor, OK?”

  “Sure, sure. Out of the building or a higher floor. Where’s Sarah, anyway? She in danger?”

  “No, Dad. Sarah’s fine.”

  “Have to bring her around again.” His eyes seemed to clear for a moment. He grinned. “I’ll be nicer next time.”

  “I’ll do that,” Amanda said. I promise.

  Ed Cole frowned, put his sandwich down. Then he put it back in the box, took Betty Dinsmore’s arm and the two left without a word.

  Amanda let them go. In the back of her mind, she sensed that she might be coming back after him, but she would only do that if she was certain Harvey was headed this way. Otherwise, she could see that taking care of Ed Cole was more than she could handle right now. She put her head on the table and cried.

  ***

  When the tears were gone she returned to the front desk, found Kim.

  “Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Go ahead,” Kim said.

  “Do you folks have an evacuation plan?”

  “For what?”

  “Hurricanes.”

  “Not sure.” Kim frowned. “I’d have to look in our manual. Why?”

  Amanda ignored her. “Who would be in charge of an emergency evacuation?”

  “That would be me right now. I’m the assistant manager on duty.”

  “What’s your last name, Kim?”

  “Butler.”

  “Do you know where the nearest evacuation shelter is, Kim Butler?”

  Kim shifted her weight, uncomfortable now. “Not offhand, but I could…”

  “Find out,” Amanda said. “And find out today. I’m going to call you tomorrow to make sure you know. And I want you to tell me how you would get the residents there. Bus, ambulance, taxi, whatever. Understand?”

  “Just a minute. Who the heck…”

  “Look,” Amanda said, her voice stronger, arms tight. “I’m a forecaster at the National Hurricane Center. There’s a big hurricane out there. His name is Harvey. I can’t say that he’s coming this way, but he might. If he does, the ocean will be in my father’s room. And there won’t be a window left in this place. Now, do you want to deal with the lawsuits, or do you want to look into that evacuation plan for me?”

  Kim looked confused. “Seems like a remote chance.” Then she gave up. “But I guess it wouldn’t hurt to know what to do.”

  “Thank you, Kim.” Amanda smiled in the way she would to indicate approval to a child.

  CHAPTER 13

  Chez Henri, TriBeCa

  6:15 p.m.

  Rico had broken his arm. Amanda was bruised and cut. Bill Leaderman was dead. But Jack Corbin was fine, and that made him feel guilty.

  The beer was helping. Henri Mouchet brought another, and Jack let it sit and sweat in the evening heat while he waited for Amanda. He’d picked a spot by the window. The table was big enough for four.

  He spotted Amanda on the other side of the street, heading toward the restaurant. Her simple, ankle-length black tank dress exposed strong shoulders, hugged her waist, flared against her hips, and moved in lyrical swishes with her legs as she crossed the street. She looked good in black. She looked good in simple. Jack tried to imagine something she wouldn’t look good in. He failed. He could see the bruise on her cheek as she got closer, and it only gave a tough look to her sharp-featured beauty. She looked like a street cop in a Hollywood thriller. Jack suddenly wished he’d picked a more intimate table.

  He stood when she came to the table, didn’t know what he should do. Amanda took care of that for him. She closed in on him, put a hand gently behind his neck, reached up with her lips and touched his, softly. Her eyes were closed. Jack’s were open. He could smell the faint mix of musk and jasmine that she must have just put on. He reached with one hand for a chair, table, anything to hold onto. Nothing. As he was about to lose his balance, Amanda pulled her lips away, as slowly as she’d approached.

  Jack wanted to say something, ask something, but he didn’t know where to start.

  He reached up with one hand, put his fingers on his raised eyebrow and thumb on chin, flabbergasted.

  Amanda rescued him from the silence: “Juan said you wouldn’t mind. I sure hope to hell he was right.”

  “Mind? Me? Yes. I mean, yes, it’s OK. No, I don’t mind.”

  “Good. Jeez, I would have been a fool otherwise, huh?”

  “Man. Talk about out of the blue.” Jack had the fingers of both hands to his eyebrows now.

  “I’ve been on my own for three years, Jack. Haven’t dated a soul. I don’t remember how to do it, and I didn’t want to waste the time trying to figure it out.”

  “Wow.” Jack wished he could find some real words.

  “Well, there it is, then,” Amanda said. “The hard part’s done.”

  “You do that all the time?” Jack finally put his hands down, found his chair and eased into it. Amanda sat, too. She took a drink from his beer.

  “Never,” she said. “Thing is, I’ve known you for a long time.”

  “Mostly on the phone.”

  “Well, we get along, don’t we?”

  “I’ll say.”

  “And we held hands once,” she said. “That counts for something.”

  Jack smiled.

  “Anyway, we almost died last night,” Amanda said, hints of pain and exhaustion registering on her face. “Maybe…”

  “I almost died, you mean. You saved my life. I didn’t know what to do. I feel sort of… can we not talk about it right now?”

  “OK. But don’t get too wrapped up in it,” Amanda said. “It happened, we reacted, we survived. Maybe that made me brave today, or maybe it made me realize how quickly good things can slip away. I just figured that the worst that could happen if I kissed you is you’d tell me to stop. But you didn’t.”

  “No, don’t. Stop, that is.”

  Amanda smiled. Jack felt like a dope, hadn’t said anything smart or sensible yet. He’d been thinking about Amanda non-stop for two straight days now,
wondering if she could possibly fall for a workaholic reporter who wasn’t in very good shape anymore. It took a moment to digest the fact that she was already falling.

  “Not going to be easy,” he said. “I hear long-distance relationships are pretty tough.”

  “I hear all relationships are tough.”

  “Touché.”

  Jack let Amanda stare at him while he studied her curious brown eyes. The silence became uncomfortable—he wasn’t ready for that yet. They both spoke at once.

  “Where’s Rico?”

  “You see Juan today?”

  Amanda laughed, pleasant lilting music again. “I talked with him earlier. Doc says he’ll be fine. He might drop by here tonight.”

  “You invited Rico on our first date?”

  “I didn’t know it was a date, Jack Corbin. You said you wanted to talk about Harvey.”

  “You always wear a slinky black dress to talk about hurricanes?”

  “It was a last-minute decision. When I invited Juan, I thought it was just business. Slinky?”

  “Wrong word?”

  “How about sexy?’

  “Sexy it is, then.”

  Jack put a hand out, palm up on the table. Amanda reached for it. Juan Rico walked in: “Aw, shit, isn’t that sweet.”

  Jack slowly pulled his hand back.

  “Amanda, I thought we had a date,” Rico said.

  “Sorry, Juan. Jack kissed me first.”

  “What? You? Jack Corbin, star weather beat reporter for The New York Times, Hurricane Chaser, twenty-five-hour-a-day Jack? You took two seconds out for a woman?”

  “She kissed me. And it was at least three seconds. I still haven’t decided if I’m going to kiss her back.” Jack looked at Amanda and grinned. “But humans always take risks for beauty.”

  ***

  Dinner took an hour. Henri Mouchet doted over them like they were the only customers. Jack got to know more about Amanda’s personal life, and picked her brain about Harvey. Rico did a decent job of keeping his mouth shut. He was busy eating, anyway.

  Jack looked at his watch. “I hate to do this, but I have to file tonight.”

  “It’s OK,” Amanda said. “I have to catch a plane in a couple hours.”

  “Back to Miami?”

  “Duty calls.”

  “Amanda, I’m not very good at…”

  She put a hand up. “Don’t think about it. We’ll talk after Harvey does his thing. Gert kind of beat us, you know? I’ve got a score to settle now. ’Til then, business as usual.”

  “You could drive a guy nuts, you know that?”

  “I guess I’m a little messed up after what we went through last night, like I’m not completely in control of things. Looks like it might get worse before it gets better.”

  “Like one of those Play-Doh machines,” Jack said. “Somebody pushes the lever and you get squeezed through the little hole.”

  “Somebody or something,” she said. “Looks like Harvey’s going to do the squeezing.”

  Amanda stood and gave Rico a hug. Then Jack. He didn’t hold too tightly, didn’t want to be presumptuous, but she held him, pressed her muscles and curves against him. She whispered in his ear, “See you on the other side, Jack Corbin.”

  “Let’s go,” Rico said. “I need to run some film. You two can do this on your own time.”

  Jack pulled out his wallet. Amanda grabbed his wrist.

  “I’m going to have another drink,” she said. “I’ll get the bill.”

  “But…”

  She grabbed the check and smiled. “Do you argue all the time, Jack Corbin? That could get to be really irritating.”

  Jack shook his head. Then he and Rico left, headed up Watts toward the Canal Street subway station.

  Jack’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket pocket. “Jack Corbin.”

  “Jack? Bob Drucker here.”

  Jack knew Bob Drucker, the Times’ Business Editor, but the two rarely worked on stories together.

  “What’s up, Bob?”

  “Been trying to find you,” Drucker said.

  “I had a little run-in with Gert last night. Been a little busy.”

  “I heard. That’s what I want to talk to you about. I got a call from an old college buddy of mine this afternoon, VP of LateNet, an after-hours trading firm. They handle large trades after the market closes, big chunks from people who’ve got lots of dough. Last night, just a couple hours before you went swimming, somebody took a big short position on an insurance outfit called Global Insurance Company. It wouldn’t have hit the guy’s radar, except that he noticed it was an awfully large position on a stock that doesn’t trade that heavily. Then today he sees the stock slide all day, calls me.”

  “Why’d he call you?”

  “Likes to feed me a tip now and then,” Drucker said. “We did a lot of drinking together at Harvard.” It sounded like an apology. “Anyway, he wondered if I knew anything about this GLIC. I didn’t. But I do now. They hold big policies in the Carolinas, lots of expensive homes along the barrier islands.”

  “Somebody made a pretty timely trade.”

  “Exactly. But that’s about all I’ve been able to find out. Wondering if you know anything more.”

  “No, but I’ll phone around. Who made the buy?”

  “Guy named René Perez. He’s Dominican. I don’t know anything about him. Anyway, any help would be appreciated. It might not lead anywhere. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

  Jack said goodbye, then relayed the story to Rico.

  “Perez is a big drug family,” Rico said. I got a cousin down there, banker, says René is the front man in the family, keeps his nose clean, does all the legit stuff they need done. You know who else is down there.”

  Jack knew who Rico was talking about. “You hear anything from her?”

  “No.” Rico looked at the pavement.

  “I’m sorry, pal. Maybe she’ll grow up a little, get the spunk out of her, come back.”

  “Yeah. Shit. Maybe. So, I’ll see what else I can find on Perez.”

  “Might be a wild goose chase,” Jack said. “But if somebody’s betting on hurricanes, it’d make a helluva good story.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Along the Hudson River

  7:00 p.m.

  To a casual observer, the blue and white trawler might conjure images of an old, traditional fishing boat without the protruding rigging. The thirty-two foot trawler was steady and sturdy, with a wide beam, a deep keel and a raised, pointed bow that plowed smoothly through rough water. A teak deck surrounded a cabin with a pullout couch, kitchenette, cramped bathroom, and a closet. A trawler on the water was to Walter Beasley what his Volkswagen Beetle had been in the sixties.

  With a bag from the deli in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other, Beasley walked carefully down the ramp, crossed over to the B-dock and walked to the end. He pushed his thick glasses up his nose with the top of the wine bottle, bent his head down to look at where he stepped as he ventured onto the swim platform off the stern.

  He smiled at the boat’s name, Slow Times, painted in large red script across the back. Beasley was a deputy metro editor at The New York Times, and the boat was his great escape from the hectic routine of daily deadlines. He grumbled to himself at being stuck late in the newsroom but felt better now that he was at the Slow Times.

  He climbed in on the starboard side.

  “Port and starboard,” Beasley muttered aloud as he stepped over the stern and onto the rear deck. He was still getting used to the terms. He noticed the stern line was loose. Fix that later.

  Beasley slid his thin frame through the partly open cabin doorway and flicked on the National Weather Service station on his marine radio, where the monotone voice was still saying that Hurricane Harvey was headed toward Charleston. Beasley was unconcerned. Hurricanes rarely came this far north. Still, he felt a vague nervousness over the Slow Times, the new love of his life and the only true love he’d ever had. />
  The honeymoon had lasted a month so far. He had yet to sail it beyond sight of the marina, but he slept on the Slow Times nearly every evening.

  Beasley was relieved that hurricane Gert hadn’t come north. Jack Corbin had made the right call: Topsail Island. It was about time the cocky reporter got himself in position to get a good story.

  Beasley turned the radio off and put in a Miles Davis tape, Sketches of Spain. He opened the bottle of red wine and filled a glass from the small cupboard, then he arranged three kinds of olives, various cheeses, marinated artichoke hearts, and some crackers on a plate and returned to the rear deck. A remote tinge of loneliness surfaced but evaporated quickly into the warm evening. Beasley liked being alone.

  He would spend tonight on the Slow Times. No one would come visit for two hours. Then the girl from the agency was supposed to show. An escort for the evening, compliments of a good friend who’d guaranteed him a stellar night.

  It had been a long time since Walter Beasley had spent the evening with a woman. He was nervous, but excited too. The angel on his right shoulder told him it was all a little too good to be true, morally beneath him. He’d considered asking more questions of his friend, even considered refusing the offer. In the end, though, the devil of loneliness spoke from his left shoulder and won out. Some company would be nice. He hadn’t done anything illegal, and whatever happened later would be up to the woman. What was wrong with that?

  The lights of Manhattan were beginning to take over from the sun, which reflected off the western clouds and turned the glass skyline a deep orange. Those clouds are not from Harvey. I’m safe here.

  He noticed again the loose stern line, frowned at it. She’ll move around a bit more tonight, but that’s all. Hell with it, I like the motion.

  Walter Beasley settled into his favorite chair, put his feet on the stern rail, looked up at the blurry lights of the City. The air was warm and still. Sirens echoing from the distance were someone else’s problem. Water clapped gently at the side of the boat.