Chaotic Be Jack (The Cap's Place Series Book 5)

by Robert Tarrant

  I took a quick shower, dressed and went downstairs. I was just finishing my first cup of coffee, reading the paper at the bar, when Moe came in the back door. He shook off the poncho he had been wearing and hung it on one of the seldom used coat hooks near the door. “Morning, Boss, looks like the rains are already here.”

  “Morning, Moe. According to the weather guru,” I pointed at the now mute TV behind the bar, “this rain is related to, but not part of, the hurricane. Whatever that means.”

  “Yeah, still rain.”

  After Moe and I drank a couple of cups of coffee and discussed the state of world affairs, I poked my head outside to see what the weather was doing. It’s so strange not to be able to look out the windows. It was still raining, only harder. The greenish-blue horizon of a couple of days ago was a battleship gray today. The talking heads were saying that Ella had stalled southeast of the Bahamas and now the spaghetti models were evenly split on whether it was going to come directly at us or turn and move north in a glancing blow. Moe and I decided that we shouldn’t put off moving the deck furniture into the shed any longer. Even if the storm passed, we wouldn’t have any need for it until we took the shutters down. It should fit into the shed in the space previously occupied by the shutters.

  Even though we both wore rain slickers, by the time we finished we were soaked to the bone. Moe said he was going home to take a hot shower and get some dry clothes. I offered to let him shower upstairs, but he said he needed dry clothes anyway. I suggested that he bring an extra change of clothes back with him. Who knows what today will bring. After he left I went upstairs, showered to warm up, and got myself dry clothes. Just as I came back downstairs, Marge came bursting through the back door. She shook off the ankle length raincoat she was wearing and hung it on the hook that held Moe’s slicker earlier.

  I glanced at the clock and said, “You’re in early today, Marge.”

  “Talked to my nephew this morning; he’s certain the storm is coming our way. I wanted to get started putting the files and important things in plastic tubs so we can move them into the storeroom.” She was all business this morning.

  “He’s sure?”

  “Sure enough that American Airlines is canceling flights and repositioning hundreds of airplanes. He says he can’t believe that the authorities haven’t issued evacuation orders yet.”

  “Well, some of the models have the storm turning and going north, just brushing the peninsula. They’re probably just waiting to see.”

  Marge said, “Only problem with that is that traffic will be a real mess. It’s already getting tough to drive out there with the rain and pooling water.”

  Marge and I were talking about whether we should open at all when Dana came through the door. I exclaimed, “What is it? The weather’s terrible so everyone comes to work early?”

  Dana grinned. “Can’t help ourselves, Jack, we know you need all of the help you can get, your first hurricane and all.”

  I shot back, “And how many hurricanes have you been through, Pittsburgh girl?”

  “Oh, this is my first, but women have natural crisis coping skills.”

  I was searching for a comeback when my cell phone buzzed. It was Renee. She told me that she was on her way in, but she was stopped in traffic on I-95. She guessed it was from an accident ahead. I told her that when traffic got started again, she should turn around and go back home. I didn’t expect that we would be open very long today and doubted we’d see much business. Dana and I could handle things.

  By mid-morning a few customers had trickled in. Most looking for a dry spot and an early lunch. Juan was doing the cooking and Dana was handling the service. I was helping Marge and Moe pack things into the plastic storage bins that were usually kept nested together in the back of the storeroom. They were part of Mickey’s plan to preserve important documents and the computers in case we had water damage.

  It was just after noon when the order for mandatory evacuation of Zone A and recommended evacuation of Zone B was issued. The storm had not turned and was now moving toward us at 15 m.p.h. Hurricane Ella was expected to make landfall as a strong Category 4 with wind speeds approaching 145 m.p.h. We could expect to feel tropical storm force winds later this afternoon with hurricane force winds, which reached a hundred miles from the eye of the storm, by midnight. The talking heads were in total agreement in their condemnation of authorities for waiting so long to order evacuation. Of course, if evacuation had been ordered earlier and the storm had turned, they would have been equally as critical.

  Most of the customers seemed to accept the news as the expected turn of events. From the conversations I overheard while helping Dana, everyone seemed to have their plans in place. Well, everyone except a young couple who had come in mid-morning and spent the last hour pouring over a roadmap they had spread out on the table while placing repeated calls on their cell phones. From their body language and the pained expressions on their faces, I surmised that they were at a loss as to what they were going to do.

  Every time someone opened the door to leave, the bar was hit with a gust of wind. The glimpses of outside showed pouring rain and a sky nearly as dark as night. Each glimpse contributed to the growing feeling deep in pit of my stomach that maybe we had waited too long to get out of here. By 1:30 p.m. we had everything we deemed critical from the office packed into the plastic tubs and locked in the storeroom. I told Juan to close down the kitchen and shut off all of the gas valves. Shutting the gas valves was in Mickey’s checklist. Dana had already started locking away the liquor. We didn’t usually lock away the open bottles every night, but not knowing how long the building might be unoccupied, we thought it prudent. Of course, it was also on Mickey’s checklist for evacuation.

  Shortly after 2:00 p.m., I told Juan, Marge, and Dana that they should leave. Dana nodded toward the young couple, still engrossed in their map and asked what about them. They had eaten right after they arrived and other than a couple of refills for their Cokes, they hadn’t required any service. I told Dana not to worry, that I’d explain to them that we were closing and they would need to leave. Marge made me promise that Moe and I would leave soon. Dana struggled as she attempted to open the door into the wind. Moe held the door as the three of them squeezed past him and fought the wind to reach their cars. I looked out the door as they drove out onto the street, rooster tails of water shooting out in their wake. It seemed as if the wind had increased to the point that the rain was now being driven sideways.

  Moe said he was going to check all of the gas and electric shutoffs in the kitchen just to make certain Juan had turned everything off. It sounded like a good idea, because it was obvious as he was leaving that Juan was anxious to get home to his family. I was beginning to regret opening the bar at all today. There was no reason for Juan, Marge, and Dana to come in today. Moe and I could have secured everything from the office and the bar. Opening was not a good decision, Jack. I should never have allowed myself to get caught up in the bravado exhibited by the locals who kept telling their stories about “riding out” previous storms.

  I walked over to the young couple who were so intently studying the state highway map of Florida. I introduced myself and explained that we were closing. The young man, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, introduced them as Owen and Julia Price. He said they were from a small town in Illinois and that they were down here on their honeymoon. With the storm approaching, they had decided to cut the trip short and go home. They checked out of their hotel and while driving to the airport to catch their rebooked flight home they were contacted by the airline and told that their flight was canceled. The airline was unable to rebook them prior to the closing of the airport this afternoon. They were attempting to find someplace to go but were unable to locate an available hotel room anywhere inland.

  Owen was about 6 feet tall with a head of unkempt light brown hair. His wife, Julia, was about 5 foot 6 inches tall with short blond hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose that gave her
the look of a little girl in a nursery rhyme. They were both rail thin as if they might be distance runners. At the moment, they both looked like they were fractured to the point they might crumble into a million pieces. Owen was attempting to project a confident air, but it was obvious that he was struggling to hold himself together. I sat down at the table with them and asked if I could help. As if a dam had burst, they began recounting all of the hotels they had called looking for a place to go. The hotel they had been staying at for their honeymoon was in the evacuation zone, so it was not an option. Everything they had found inland was booked full.

  Owen said that they were considering just getting into the rental car and driving north until they found something. I was about to tell them that I didn’t think that was a good idea, as they might well find themselves with nothing but their car for shelter, when my cell phone buzzed. It was Marge, so I excused myself and took the call. Marge told me that the roads were flooding and she had just gotten to the other side of the Intracoastal. She said that she was unable to go north from Cap’s as the street was totally flooded and she had to turn around and go south to the next bridge. She said that if Moe and I didn’t get out soon, we might well be trapped.

  Moe was still in the kitchen, so I returned to the Prices. I repeated Marge’s comments and told them that Moe and I would be leaving soon and that they could follow us until we got to a safer location and we would plan from there. I was confident that I could help them find something farther north, I thought they were probably not looking far enough away, but wanted to finish closing up Cap’s and get across the Intracoastal as soon as possible.

  I found Moe finishing his inspection of the kitchen. I relayed Marge’s call and explained the plight of the Prices. Moe agreed that our first priority should be closing up the building and getting across the Intracoastal. Now the wind was incessantly rattling the dampers in the exhaust vents to the point that we were nearly shouting at each other. Suddenly, it dawned on me that we still needed to put the plywood sheets over the three exit doors. When I mentioned it to Moe, a look of pain crossed his face. He said, “You’re right, Boss. I forgot that little detail. It’s going to be dicey putting up those last sheets of plywood over the doors in this wind.”

  “Yeah, Moe.” I sighed. “We should have buttoned the place up yesterday and never opened today.” There was no getting around it, I had made the wrong decision.

  “That’s behind us,” Moe said. Gesturing toward the door leading outside from the kitchen, he added, “Let’s focus on the task at hand. Let’s go out and get up the sheet on this and the front door. We can’t do the back door until we leave.”

  “I agree. I’ll go upstairs and get my slicker and meet you in the shed. It’ll take both of us to control the plywood in this wind.” I told the Prices what Moe and I were doing and that we would be back inside in a few minutes. That we could all leave then. After grabbing my slicker, I started to go out the door to the outside stairs from my apartment. I had to laugh at myself when I remembered we had sheeted over that door when we did the windows. Duh, Jack.

  The rain was now mostly vertical, but the intensity had increased again. Although it was mid-afternoon, it was eerily like twilight outside. The lights around the parking lot were struggling to illuminate the area through the blowing rain. I found Moe inside the shed. He handed me the a small can of screws and the screw gun we used to install the shutters. “Here, Boss, put these in the pockets of your slicker. When we get out there, I’ll hold the sheet in place and you screw it in.” He was yelling to be heard over the roar of the wind and the banging of the open shed door. He pointed at the shutter marked kitchen door and said he thought it would be best if we carried it horizontally until we got up to the building to keep the wind from catching it like a sail.

  We each grabbed an end of the sheet and held it like a table, with me backing out of the shed into the near maelstrom of wind and water. After what seemed like an hour of struggle, we managed to maneuver our way up to the building. The hood of my slicker had long ago blown off my head and miniature ice cubes were pelting my head and face. I didn’t dare let loose of the plywood to wipe my face, so I kept shaking my head to clear the water from my eyes. Finally, we struggled up the four steps to the landing at the kitchen door. As we attempted to right the plywood, the wind caught it and nearly knocked us both off the landing. With a grunt that could be heard over even the roaring wind, Moe grabbed the sheet and slammed it against the doorway. I struggled to get screws into position, dropping the first two I attempted. After several false starts, I finally got several screws in place. Moe added a few at the top of the door where I couldn’t reach and we fought our way back to the shed.

  We slumped onto the floor panting like a couple of old dogs. Once we had regained some semblance of normal breathing, we plotted our course to navigate to the front side of the building. Our strategy was to use the building to block the majority of the wind presently coming from the southeast. It turned out to be a good approach. We worked our way toward the front, staying as close to the building as possible, and once we rounded the front corner, we were completely shielded from the wind and most of the blowing rain. Although still challenging, attaching this shutter was not nearly as difficult as the one on the kitchen door. Once finished we both slid down into a seated position on the front stoop to again catch our breath.

  In this protected position I was able to take a good look at the street for the first time since I had returned from my morning jog. I was surprised by what I saw. A virtual torrent of water was flowing down the street, spilling over the curb on each side and reaching several feet up the sloping drive into our parking lot. It was as if Cap’s Place was perched on the shoreline of an angry river. Palm fronds were being swept along like large green swimming pool floats run amok. The only vehicle I saw in the minutes we sat there was a large pickup truck moving slowly against the current in the center of the street. Even in the center crown of the street, the water was nearly midway up the wheels of the truck.

  Moe and I retraced our route and worked our way around the building to the back entry of the bar. We burst through the door like the refugees from the storm we were. Moe took off the poncho he wore and I took off my slicker. Then we looked at each other and burst into laughter. We were both soaked to the skin. We might as well have left the rain gear inside for all of the value it was. Moe went into the kitchen to get us some towels. I looked over at the Prices and saw a look that bordered terror on both of their faces. In an effort to avert some of their fears I said, “We’ll be ready to get out of here in just a few minutes.”

  Owen said with a high-pitched croak, no doubt brought on by stress, “That’s good, because I think the power is going to go out soon. It’s flashed on and off several times already.” No wonder they looked so frightened. It’s pitch dark in here without the lights.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Captain William Clark stood 5 foot 10 inches tall with a slight build and a head of graying hair always in need of a trim. At fifty-nine years of age his weathered face with its deep lines gave him away as a man who had spent much of his life out of doors—in his case, forty years on the high seas. His dark eyes glowed and his expression was that of a man carved from stone as he stood and listened to Second Mate Nicole Cox explain her recommendation for a course change and the resultant costs. Actually, she had three alternative recommendations for his consideration. They were not dramatically dissimilar, but she knew her chances of motivating him to change course were zero if it was her recommendation against his previously chosen course. If the alternatives provided him the opportunity to make an independent decision, rather than select her single recommendation, the chances of success were at least somewhat enhanced.

  Cox was only about halfway through her rehearsed explanation when the captain held up his hand in a stop signal. “Let me stop you right there, Mate. Answer this, what is the source of this dire weather prediction upon which you predicate these very expensive recommend
ations?”

  A momentary look of surprise crossed Cox’s face before she found her tongue and said, “The National Weather Service reports, sir. As always.”

  Clark looked down at her from his elevated chair on the bridge. He loved this seat because it gave him a height advantage over nearly everyone on the bridge. Well, everyone except Chief Mate Nilsson, but that was not a problem because Chief Mate Nilsson knew his place in the chain of command. With the condescending tone he deemed most appropriate when dealing with young inexperienced subordinates, Clark said, “Yes, and if you look behind that forecast you will find ten or twelve prediction models that would obliterate much of your chart if you plotted them all. The Weather Service is just giving you their best guess at the moment. We can’t run this ship on guesses.”

  Cox interrupted and blurted, “I don’t think the Weather Service is putting out guesses. I think their forecast is the product of a number of factors that take into consideration all of the prediction models as well as satellite data and the hurricane hunter flights into the actual storm.”

  Now in his command voice, Clark said, “All of the prediction models consider the satellite date and flight information. Yet, they come out all over the board. Once you’ve been at this as long as I have, you’ll learn what to rely on and what not to. I’ve relied on Mariners’ Weather Services for decades now and they’re a hell of a lot more accurate than anything put out by the government.” His face darkened even more as he said, “I wouldn’t have had that debacle last year if my wife hadn’t let my subscription run out. Mariners’ wasn’t available to me on that voyage and I was forced to rely on the government. Damn near cost me . . .” The sentence trailed off.