5 Days to Landfall

by Robert Roy Britt

  CHAPTER 22

  Manhattan

  6:45 p.m.

  The Palisades of New Jersey were reflected like a mirror image off the tranquil evening waters of the Hudson. Walter Beasley sat in his chair on the rear deck of the Slow Times, his feet on the stern rail, and studied the reflection for inconsistencies while he sipped a glass of red wine and dreamt about the young, small, well-proportioned woman who had given him such pleasure last night. He was pleased with himself, pleased with what his friend had arranged for him.

  “Walter, it’s so peaceful down here. Why haven’t you invited me before?”

  Beasley was surprised to hear another voice. The marina security was tight, and only boat owners were allowed through the keyed gate. He turned his head toward the voice and peered through his thick lenses.

  “How’d you get in, Leonard?”

  “Friends, Walter. I have friends everywhere.”

  “Well, join me then. Wine?”

  “Surely.”

  Leonard Lassitor labored to climb into the trawler, which listed with his weight.

  Beasley went into the cabin and took the wine bottle from a cabinet. He felt a sense of unease at the sudden appearance of his friend, making his first visit to the Slow Times.

  But Leonard Lassitor was his friend. Walter Beasley didn’t have many friends. He poured the wine and thought about how little the two really had in common besides a shared love of good food and wine. They ate together often, cynically discussed City politics, the media. Lassitor was a low-level official, but he had a wide view of what went on in New York City, and Beasley enjoyed his company.

  Beasley returned to the rear deck with the wine and an extra chair. He set the chair down and Lassitor fitted himself into it. Even with Beasley’s thin stature, the two of them tied up most of the space on the small deck. Beasley handed his friend the glass of wine.

  Lassitor held the glass up to the low sun and peered into the ruby liquid. He swirled it, took a sip, then set the glass on his stomach. “Still drinking the French stuff, I see.”

  “Drink the best, if you can.”

  “How many bottles a day are you up to, Walter?”

  “Hardly ever more than one.”

  Lassitor laughed. It was a hearty laugh, between friends. Beasley turned to sit down. He saw a broad-shouldered man just inside the marina gate, standing with his arms folded and feet wide apart. Beasley recognized him as Lassitor’s limo driver. He was keeping watch. Lassitor was one of those people who always seemed to have other people doing things for him. They were alike that way, and Beasley respected his friend’s ability to manipulate others. He sat down.

  “Well,” Lassitor said, “wine can become a helluva habit, but it’s not addictive in the true sense, I don’t think.”

  “Certainly not.”

  Lassitor leaned back and tried but failed to put his feet onto the stern rail. They slid down the white fiberglass, leaving black marks. He sniffed and took a drink of his wine. They both looked at the reflection of the Palisades.

  “You ever get addicted to anything, Walter?”

  “Not yet,” he said, looking at the black marks on the fiberglass.

  “Ever do any drugs?”

  “Some pot back in the sixties,” Beasley said. “Tried cocaine once.”

  “Never heroin?”

  “Never.”

  “Good for you, my friend. Stuff’s a bitch. I don’t do it myself, but I hear it’s awful, awful stuff. They say it bears a strong resemblance to chemicals in the brain that simulate sexual pleasure.”

  Beasley shifted in his chair, didn’t like the direction of the conversation. He could feel Lassitor looking at him now. Beasley stayed quiet.

  “You get used to the heroin though, I’ve heard, and you need more and more of it to produce the feeling. I guess the brain kind of marinates in this euphoria. Now that I put it that way, it sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”

  “If that’s all there were to it,” Beasley said.

  “True. Well, anyway, it’s probably good business for somebody, wouldn’t you think?”

  “I suppose.”

  Lassitor took another sip. “So long as you don’t use the stuff yourself.”

  “Definitely. “

  “Or get involved with it directly.”

  “That would be risky.”

  “You’re a smart man, Walter.”

  Something had just happened. Beasley wasn’t sure what. He said nothing.

  “How was the little trick last night, my friend?”

  Beasley smiled.

  “Thought so. Asian, was she?”

  Beasley nodded, breathing deeply. He’d always wanted an Asian girl. This one couldn’t have been a day over twenty, and she was very good at her craft. Beasley had just let her do it, no money had exchanged hands, and she left. He didn’t feel the guilt he had expected. He did feel a small swelling in his pants at the thought of her.

  “Consider it my treat,” Lassitor said.

  “Thank you, Leonard.” It was a reflex by now, he realized. How many times have I said that?

  “Don’t mention it. I know if I ever needed anything, you’ll be there for me.” He cupped Beasley playfully on the shoulder.

  Beasley didn’t agree. But he didn’t disagree.

  ***

  The sun set over New Jersey, taking the reflections from the Hudson with it.

  Thunderheads threatened to bring a shower before midnight. Leonard Lassitor had been gone about an hour, and Beasley was still trying to figure out their conversation. Lassitor was going to ask for something, he was sure, but he had no idea what. All the talk of drugs bothered him. It was a topic they’d never discussed before. If there was one thing about Lassitor he was sure of, it was that no conversation was meaningless.

  A soft, deep voice startled Beasley from his thoughts again. “I was told you’d be expecting this.”

  Beasley looked up to see a large man in a tight t-shirt with short black hair, coarsely greased back, and steroid muscles, four large gym bags under his arms. He’d never seen the man before, but he knew instantly who had sent him.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m the messenger. Heat’s on a little too heavy. Your friend says you’ll keep this safe for a couple days.”

  “What the hell is it?”

  “I’m just the messenger. Where shall I put it?” The man smiled amiably, began to step aboard. “Somewhere where it won’t be in your way.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Beasley’s mind raced. “Get the hell out of here.”

  The muscular man moved swiftly, maintained a friendly tone. “Here, I’ll carry them in for you.” He stepped onto the rear deck, smiled. “Your friend speaks very highly of you, mentioned how much he loves having you as a dinner partner.”

  Something dreadful was happening. Steroid Man was being far too polite. Beasley thought about all the free meals Lassitor had provided him. If there was one thing a journalist wasn’t allowed to do, it was to take freebies from anyone, especially a City official. If he needed to, Lassitor could call Beasley’s boss and explain how he had been buying meals for Beasley on a regular basis over the years. The information would never become a story—for it would make the Times look bad—but Beasley would suffer from it, might be demoted or even asked to leave. Lassitor wouldn’t suffer one iota. And there would be no way Walter Beasley could retaliate without further eroding his own standing at the paper. Without even bringing it up directly, Steroid Man was making it clear that Beasley didn’t have much choice.

  “The sonofabitch,” Beasley said out loud. His legs were shaking.

  Steroid Man was moving past him, into the cabin. He pointed at the bed. “Hey, this looks like a good spot. Shall I put them here?”

  “No,” Beasley said as forcefully as he could. It came out like a whimper.

  “Bet you and the Asian trick had a ball last night, huh? Right here on this very bed. I hear it’s a gas, fucking on a boat.
” He grinned widely. “You’re a lucky man. And you have a good friend. Be a shame if the girl talked. Spoil everything.”

  “Holy shit.” Lassitor had him by the balls. If that got around, his career would be ruined. He pondered whether or not his career was really that important to him. The girls were, that was for sure. If he didn’t help Lassitor, he’d lose his career and the girls and the meals. But he couldn’t help Lassitor. Jesus. What will happen if I don’t help?

  He looked back up at Steroid Man, who smiled and waited patiently. Beasley’s eyes drifted down to the handle of a small revolver protruding above the man’s belt.

  Beasley backed up. Steroid Man stashed the gym bags under the bed, then came back out and stepped onto the dock.

  “How… how much?” Beasley stammered.

  “Seven figures somewhere. Doesn’t matter. You don’t touch it anyway. Someone will be back for it in a couple days. You’ll get a nice reward.”

  Steroid Man smiled again, squeezed his bicep. “Great view of Jersey you got down here. Wish I had a boat. Well, you have a nice evening.” Then he turned and left. Beasley stood and watched him walk away.

  “Fuck you, Leonard Lassitor,” he said under his breath.

  Beasley eased himself into his chair. He wondered how he ever got himself this deeply involved. His whole future could be ruined. He could go to jail. Beasley was scared to death of jail. He shuddered when he considered how a thin, frail man like himself would fare behind bars. Thoughts lashed out from the dark recesses of his mind with depressing images of dark prison cells, thick bars, frightening cell mates who could do unthinkable things.

  Maybe I’ll get off with probation, turn state’s witness or something. Hell, I can’t even prove the heroin is Lassitor’s. The slippery bastard.

  He could go to the police. He had to go to the police. But what would he tell them?

  There’s some heroin on my boat, but it’s not mine? Well, see, it belongs to Leonard Lassitor. No, I can’t prove that.

  He couldn’t go to the police. Not yet. He needed to think. His next thought was that he now hated his only friend in the world. He went into the cabin of the Slow Times and found a bag of potato chips and the half-gone bottle of red wine, then grabbed another bottle and returned to the deck and slumped into his chair.

  ***

  Using Walter Beasley had been another stroke of brilliance, Lassitor thought to himself as he walked down the ramp, crossed over to the B-dock and walked all the way to the end. Nobody would have any reason to come snooping on Beasley’s boat, and Beasley was too weak of spirit to call the cops. Lassitor had tolerated Beasley’s whiny personality for years, cultivated him, always knowing that he would use him one day. Lassitor would retrieve the packages Friday morning, before the hurricane did whatever it was going to do. The City would likely be in a state of confusion. Nobody would notice. Lassitor stepped cautiously off the dock, onto the stern deck.

  Beasley peered through his thick glasses, fear, anger and confusion on his face like a boy in trouble for saying a dirty word without knowing what it meant.

  “What are you trying to do, Leonard?”

  Lassitor spread his hands. “What do you mean? I thought we were friends, Walter. Now pour me a glass of wine, will you?”

  Beasley half-stumbled into the cabin, returned with two full glasses. “Sit down, Walter.”

  “But…”

  Gently, with a smile and nod: “Sit down. I’ve always been good to you, Walter. I’ve done you a lot of favors over the years.”

  “And now you’ve ruined it.”

  “Oh, goodness. I’m surprised you feel that way.” Lassitor stood, put a hand on Beasley’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I thought we were friends.”

  “We were.”

  “Walter. You hurt my feelings. C’mon, I’ll fix things up as soon as I can. One, maybe two days. Then it’s over, forgotten, and I’ll never ask you for help again. C’mon, what do you say?” He nudged Beasley with his shoulder.

  “And what about me?”

  “You have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.”

  “Bastard.”

  Lassitor smiled. “You really are angry, Walter. I feel terrible now. Terrible.”

  “Angry is an understatement. What if I just throw the damn bags in the water? Fuck you and whatever it is you’re up to.”

  “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you? C’mon, everything’s going to be fine. See that building over there?” Lassitor pointed to a mid-size apartment building across the West Side Highway, overlooking the marina. “There’s a man in a room there with very good eyesight and large biceps. He’s keeping an eye on you. You know, for your own safety. Nothing to worry about. Now, I need one other small favor from you. You have a reporter on your staff, Jack Corbin.”

  “Cocky son of a bitch,” Beasley said.

  “Then you won’t mind getting him out of the City for a couple of days.”

  “Why the hell should I do that?”

  “Because I’m asking you to. We wouldn’t want to have to arrange any visits to the Slow Times, would we? I mean, we don’t want the cops down here, or even our friend with the big biceps. C’mon, Walter, help me out for two days and I’ll leave you alone.”

  “What’s Jack Corbin got to do with this?”

  “Oh, you don’t want to know. I can tell you don’t really want to be involved. Now, I’ll call you in the morning. I want you to tell me that he’s on his way to somewhere far from here.” Lassitor dropped the jovial tone, looked directly into Beasley’s eyes. “Understand? “

  Beasley stared, tried to look defiant with his delicate shoulders pulled back. His eyes dropped first, then his shoulders. A sigh. Then a weak nod.

  ~ ~ ~

  EXCERPTED FROM HURRICANES: HISTORY AND DYNAMICS, BY DR. NICHOLAS K. GRAY, HUMBOLDT UNIVERSITY PRESS (1998)

  When the hurricane struck Corpus Christi in 1919, Robert Simpson was just six years old. It was Sunday, so he did not go to school. He was one of the lucky ones. The school was used as a shelter, but it collapsed and many of those who had sought refuge there died. Robert Simpson recalled helping to evacuate his grandmother, who was strapped into a cane wheel chair, from their home. They floated her out.

  Forty-nine years later, after hundreds of reconnaissance flights into hurricanes, Simpson became director of the National Hurricane Center. Soon after, he teamed up with a Florida engineer named Herbert Saffir to create a simple scale for measuring the damage potential of hurricanes. The 1919 storm that devastated Corpus Christi became—after the fact—a Category 4 storm on the Saffir-Simpson scale, a hurricane with winds between 131 and 155 miles per hour and capable of causing major damage to structures near the coast and extensive damage to inland buildings, both through extreme winds and severe flooding.

  The highest category on the Saffir-Simpson scale is Category 5, when winds exceed 155 miles per hour and can overturn small buildings and blow them away, as well as destroy large buildings. Storm surges from a Category 5 storm can extend several miles inland in low-lying areas. Only two such storms have made landfall in the United States since 1900: Camille in 1969 and an unnamed storm in 1935.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, August 26

  CHAPTER 23

  National Hurricane Center,

  Miami

  8:15 a.m.

  Though Amanda had expected it, she could hardly believe what had happened overnight. History had been made. She poured a cup of coffee and went to her cubicle, said a gruff hello to a smiling Greg Chen and read the bulletin he’d just put out. It was an historic forecast; she felt cheated that he had issued it instead of she:

  BULLETIN

  HURRICANE HARVEY ADVISORY NUMBER 54

  NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE MIAMI FL

  8 AM EDT THU AUG 26

  … LARGE AND DANGEROUS HURRICANE HARVEY BECOMES CATEGORY 5 … THREATENS EASTERN U.S. COAST…

  A HURRICANE WARNING IS IN EFFECT FROM SAVANNAH GEORGIA TO CAPE HATTERAS NORTH CAROLINA.
PREPARATIONS IN THE HURRICANE WARNING AREA SHOULD BE RUSHED TO COMPLETION. RESIDENTS SHOULD HEED ADVICE FROM LOCAL EMERGENCY MANAGEMENT OFFICIALS.

  A HURRICANE WATCH IS IN EFFECT FROM JACKSONVILLE FLORIDA TO SAVANNAH GEORGIA.

  A HURRICANE WATCH IS IN EFFECT FROM CAPE HATTERAS NORTH CAROLINA TO CAPE HENLOPEN DELAWARE. THE HURRICANE WARNING COULD BE EXTENDED NORTHWARD INTO THIS REGION TOMORROW. RESIDENTS OF THE NORTHEAST SHOULD PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO NEWS REPORTS TONIGHT AND INTO THE MORNING.

  AT 8 AM EDT… 1200Z… THE CENTER OF HURRICANE HARVEY WAS LOCATED NEAR LATITUDE 27.90 NORTH… LONGITUDE 74.45 WEST OR ABOUT 560 MILES… 900 KM SOUTH OF CAPE HATTERAS NORTH CAROLINA.

  HARVEY IS MOVING TOWARD THE NORTH NEAR 16 MPH… 26 KM/HR. A GRADUAL TURN TO THE NORTHWEST IS EXPECTED DURING THE NEXT 24 HOURS.

  MAXIMUM SUSTAINED WINDS ARE NEAR 160 MPH… 260 KM/HR. HARVEY IS A DANGEROUS CATEGORY FIVE HURRICANE ON THE SAFFIR/SIMPSON HURRICANE SCALE. SOME WEAKENING MAY OCCUR DURING THE NEXT 24 HOURS.

  HURRICANE FORCE WINDS EXTEND OUTWARD UP TO 150 MILES FROM THE CENTER… AND TROPICAL STORM FORCE WINDS EXTEND OUTWARD UP TO 300 MILES FROM THE CENTER.

  AT THIS TIME… HURRICANE HARVEY IS MORE POWERFUL THAN ANY LANDFALLING U.S. HURRICANE SINCE CAMILLE IN 1969.

  LATEST MINIMUM CENTRAL PRESSURE REPORTED BY A HURRICANE HUNTER PLANE WAS 907 MB… 26.78 INCHES.

  CHEN

  Amanda pulled up the graphic showing the green line of the GFDL forecast. Like a giant C the green line curved out into the Atlantic, no longer aiming at Charleston but instead brushing Cape Hatteras. Chen had issued the watches and warnings anyway. Either he’d stopped trusting the GFDL model or, more likely, Frank Delaney had forced him to do it. If it had been her, the watches would have extended to New York.