She touched his arm so that he turned and faced her as she stopped, looking up at him from under the ragged hat. Her eyes were narrow, the pupils small with the brightness of the beach. “No games,” she said. “Believe me, no games. I took a little bit more than I could endure, and that was some time ago. It broke me, Sam. I am placing no more bets on the table. I won’t talk about it, and I won’t explain anything. Think what you like. Imagine what you please. I couldn’t give less of a damn, really. What’s left of me is totally totally committed to the old man who saved me.”
“But I told you I don’t want to—”
“But I might want to, if I could afford to let go. And I could go crazy too, like I was before. I’ll call you when the reports are ready for signature.”
She set off at a fast pace. He started to follow her and then slowed down. He strolled along, following her footsteps in the damp sand. She had a high arch, a long slender foot. The tide was moving in again. When he came to the place where her footsteps had been washed away, he looked up and discovered he was almost opposite the Islander.
On Thursday, August eighth, at noon, the tropical disturbance appeared on the satellite photographs as a poorly organized cloud mass with narrow bands of high cirrus clouds radiating toward the west and north. The center of the main cloud body was roughly positioned at 7 degrees north, 25 degrees west. The motor vessel Mabel Warwick, Captain R. F. Jackson commanding, en route from Porto Salazar, Angola, to Hartlepool, sent in a radio report of heavy rains and some sharp and significant variations in barometric pressures. These were confirmed later in the day by reports from the steamship Esso Ulidia, Captain K. Mackenzie commanding, en route from Ra’s Tannurah to Milford Haven, and the steamship Botany Bay, Captain R. A. Wilson commanding, en route Fremantle to Genoa.
At Miami a composite chart was prepared showing the position, track and speed of the vessels involved, along with the pressure readings and wind directions transmitted. From this they were able to say with reasonable certainty that the disturbance was proceeding almost due west at about ten miles per hour, and conditions seemed ideal for intensification from disturbance to tropical storm. Meanwhile, though within range of satellite cameras, it was beyond the reasonable limits of the search planes, those WD-3D Orion aircraft with their tons of electronic hardware aboard.
At six o’clock they received another good picture of it. The overall shape was more circular. It was at 7 degrees north, 27 west. Speed and direction confirmed. Intensification expected. Feeder bands extended out from the storm in long squall lines.
The Bermuda high was positioned well south, which lessened the chance of the storm’s curving northward in the Atlantic, if it became a mature hurricane. The Bermuda high would interpose, and it would probably move toward the Caribbean.
If the storm matured it would become that most dreaded of all hurricanes, one of the great Cape Verde hurricanes of August.
30
WHEN LYNN SIMMINS, the Colonel’s daughter, answered the door at Apartment 1-G on Friday morning she was surprised to see Julian Higbee standing there.
“Well! We’d given up on you, Julian. Especially since you have reverted to your old self around here.”
“Do you want me to look at the problem or don’t you?”
“At least your manners are as bad as they used to be,” she said. “Come on in.” She led the way, suddenly all too conscious of how brief and tight her old maroon leotard was, and how damp she was from the exertion of the strenuous part of her yoga routine.
She led him to the bathroom and stood aside. Julian took two steps into the bathroom and saw it and stopped, in awe. The crack extended the length of the tub, angled up the wall and disappeared into a ceiling corner. At its widest point, along the tub, it was almost a full inch wide.
“That is some kind of crack!” he said.
“The colonel has often made mention of it.”
He looked at her. “You tell your father he shouldn’t expect to get anywhere yelling at me.” He took a pencil flashlight out of his pocket and leaned over the tub and looked into the crack. It got narrower as it deepened.
“I guess something shifted.”
“The colonel seems to think your crummy building is collapsing.”
“My building? Anyway, what should be done, this here tile row can come off and a good tile man can run a couple of new rows and cover this up. The other part can be filled and sanded down and repainted.”
“When can you get to it?”
“Me? I don’t do that kind of work. Your father has to go get somebody to do it. And they make a contract and somebody fixes it and he pays them.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not kidding. He’s been here over a year, right? He and Mrs. Simmins moved in in July last year. There’s a year on structure. The year was up last month.”
“He’ll be absolutely livid.”
“That man is always livid. He’s always bitching about something or other. Tell him and duck.”
She smiled. “The colonel has a short fuse.”
“The apartments on this floor are kind of small for three people.”
“We manage. They didn’t plan on my living here, exactly.”
“You going to keep on living here?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“Well, hell, call it a friendly interest, that’s all. I mean the building is full of old folks except for some of the renters. You’re close to the same age as me and Lorrie. Playing tennis and swimming and all … it’s nice to have you around.”
She suddenly understood. As a physical type he did not appeal to her. And she did not care for his greasy, insinuating smile.
“So you saw them take off, Julian?”
“Huh? Who? What do you mean?”
“The colonel and his lady, with overnight luggage. You had no intention of ever coming up here to look at a crack in the bathroom wall because you had no intention of ever doing anything about it anyway.”
“I was just—”
“You were just wondering if I was good for a quick jump. You’ve been looking at it long enough and hard enough. I’m climbing out of the pool and there you are, goggling and panting. Jesus, Higbee! I finish a long rally and go back to serve and there you are. Now you’re trying to stare holes through my leotard. When you get this hard up, why don’t you go jack off?”
He balled a big fist and moved closer. “You bitch!”
She realized coldly, without terror, that it would be in character for him to pop her on the side of the jaw, knock her semiconscious, tumble her onto the bed in the nearby bedroom and shuck her out of her single garment. She could see by his expression, by the way he swallowed and licked his lips and slowly shifted his weight, that he was capable of it, and was thinking about it, and soon would be beyond control.
There was always the woman’s weapon, too seldom used. Time now to use it. She feinted right, then ducked and streaked left, under his big arm, as he reached for her. She went at top speed down the short hallway and into the living room, hearing him pounding along behind her. She snatched the apartment door open and let out the first of her deafening, throat-ripping, ear-shattering screams. She ran out into the heat of the open walkway over the parking area and screamed again. She turned with her back against the concrete railing and screamed for the third time. “No!” he was yelling. “No! Don’t! Please!”
She filled her lungs and smiled at him and let out the best one of all, a scream to stop birds in flight, shatter wineglasses, startle cars into the ditch. The spry gray Greggs, Francine and Rolph, came darting out of 1-A at the far end of the building and came trotting toward the terrible sound. Mrs. Boford Taller popped out of the next-door apartment, swollen with indignation and disapproval.
Gus Garver came out of 1-C and edged past Mrs. Taller. Julian was in stasis, his big hands yearning to grab Lynn Simmins by the pretty throat, and his legs itching to run away from that dreadful sound she was making.
“You okay?” he said.
She was annoyed to find out she had damaged her throat. Her speaking voice was very husky. “Never laid a glove on me, Gus.”
“Watch out for that one.”
“I don’t think he’ll be back. Anyway, don’t worry about me. I haven’t been exactly underexposed to freaks.”
“Then you should have known enough to keep running.”
“I should have. Right. And thanks.”
“You going to prefer charges?”
“I don’t want to upset my folks. I’ve upset them enough the last few years.”
“Your decision,” Gus said, and went back home.
Lynn went back in and locked the door. In a few minutes the phone rang. “Lorrie Higbee speaking, Miss Simmins. Julian says that you misunderstood what he was trying to do.”
“Possibly.”
“He said he was trying to be pleasant and you took it the wrong way.”
“Well, Mrs. Higbee, we had a difference of opinion. He wanted to screw me and I didn’t want him to. So he thought he’d take his shot anyway. He grabbed and missed and I ran and screamed.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry. I plan to forget the whole thing.”
“I’m … glad you told me.”
“It isn’t any of my business. I know that. I don’t want to offend you, Lorrie, but if he was my husband, I’d make him go get help somehow. He’s got a bad problem.”
“I … I know.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, and hung up.
Lynn took the damp leotard off and took a quick shower and put on a robe. As she rinsed out the leotard she kept remembering the shocked horror on Julian’s face as he tried to get her to stop screaming. He could not think of anything except how to turn off that horrible noise. If you are going to scream, girl, stay out of reach while you do so.
After she hung up the leotard and had stretched out on her bed, she giggled from time to time as she thought of Julian’s terror. In a little while she was surprised to discover that the muffled snickering had turned into sobs of about the same intensity. Sobbing made her remember that sad funny little old man who had thrown the tennis ball way over her head out of reach and then had started crying when she had been cross with him. Barker? His wife was sick.
She could be grateful to Julian Higbee for one thing. He had stirred her up. She had looked around and looked at herself, and realized it was time to go. What do you do when you are twenty-nine and reasonably attractive, fairly well educated, and know all the social moves, and never lasted more than three months in any job you tried to do? Well, you take things in order. Leaving comes first, and then the job comes out of necessity.
What are you prepared to do, Ms. Simmins? While growing up I lived in Germany, Hawaii, Panama, Japan, Guam and South Korea. After I quit college I roamed around and worked as a dishwasher, fruit picker, receptionist, barmaid, waitress, car rental agent, go-go girl, photographer’s model, magician’s assistant, swimming teacher, revolutionary, vagabond, part-time junkie, pollster, taxi driver, short-order cook, motel maid, car parker, hitchhiker, smuggler, checkroom girl, cigarette girl, thief, housekeeper and freelance companion.
In every position I held, dear sir, I left a little piece of that dear girl once known as Lovely Lynn Simmins, and now there is not a hell of a lot of me left. However, on balance, there is a little too much left to permit it to be plundered by that randy son of a bitch of a resident manager, thank you kindly for your attention.
After his long interview with Dr. Dromb about his prognosis for Thelma, Jack Mensenkott went back to Golden Sands, fixed himself a sandwich, changed and drove back to Martin’s Marina on Fiddler Key, close to the approach to the north bridge leading over to the city.
Leroy Martin was sitting behind his desk in the small office next to the showroom, wearing his orange baseball cap. Mensenkott had never seen the man without a hat on.
Leroy said, “You better set and have some coffee, Jack. The kid has got three to take off the rack and gas before he gets to yours. Like I keep telling you, all you got to do is phone ahead and we can have her all set for you.”
“I wasn’t in a rush,” Mensenkott said. After he poured his coffee he looked out the big window to where a big redheaded young man was running the fork lift, reaching up to take a boat down out of the third level of the open steel rack of the in-and-out marina.
Leroy Martin pushed the button on the base of the microphone on his desk and said, “Joey?”
The redhead turned and looked toward the office when the amplified voice filled the area.
“After you get them three, get Mr. Mensenkott’s Hustler off of twelve-two.” He raised an eyebrow at Jack. “Gas?” Jack shook his head no. “Just set it in the water, Joey.”
Martin leaned back and said, “How’s the missus coming along?”
“Not so good. She had a setback and I had to take her in, and Dr. Dromb put her back in the hospital.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I can’t see her until tonight, so I thought I might as well go fishing.”
“Nothing like it to keep your mind off your troubles. They say this Dromb is pretty good.”
“I wish he was more definite.”
“I guess with nervous problems they can’t get too definite. Like I was telling you before, after the last kid left the nest and my old lady got those spells, every place I took her, they loaded her up with Valium and Librium and so on. She got so she could damn near fall asleep standing up.”
“It has something to do with the way they cleared off that Silverthorn property. Now he thinks the reason she has … gotten strange again is because she found out they are not going to build anything there anyway. The dredge is gone. All plans are suspended, and so it was all for nothing, all that destruction. That got to her.”
Leroy Martin frowned. “Funny it got to mean so much to her. I mean it was just jungly growth there and some mangrove and mud flats. Full of red bugs and mosquitoes.”
“The ecologists say that is a very productive kind of waterfront.”
Martin laughed. “Hey, you bet your sweet ass it is. Remember, I was born down here, more years ago than I’m going to admit. And when I was a little kid in the summertime, you could swang a quart can and catch you two quarts of mosquitoes.” He sighed, and sobered, and said, “Of course back then you could walk across the bay on the backs of the mullets, we had schools of them so thick.”
“It does seem a waste to clear it off and then drop the project.”
“Me, I wouldn’t worry too much about that Marty Liss dropping any kind of project. You can bet he’s got something in mind to do himself some good. Chances are he’s just squeezing out some kind of weak sister partner, scaring him out. Don’t you worry. They’ll build something on that land. It won’t set empty. Key land is too valuable for that. People thought I was crazy buying that extra land south of here fifteen years ago, and right now I’d give an arm if I’d bought twice what I did. I’d put up more racks in a minute.”
Mensenkott looked out the window and saw the fork lift trundling toward the launching area, carrying the Hustler between its lowered arms. It was a white Cobia with blue trim, one-fifty stern drive, center pedestal, bait well, casting platform, fighting chair.
“Where would you head today if you were me?” Jack asked.
“I was monitoring Channel Thirteen a while ago, and what looks best to me, you go north up the bay all the way past Seagrape Key and go out Big Crab Pass—after you stop and get some bait at Buster’s place. Save you wasting time netting. There’s been a big school of blues messing around the pass, and some nice cobia out around the sea buoy. You ought to do just fine today.”
Minutes later Mensenkott, standing at the wheel at the center pedestal of the Hustler, made
a fast white arc and cut through the center span of the north bridge between Fiddler Key and the mainland, trying to clear his mind of Dromb’s advice. Thelma, he said, is emotionally unemployed. Nobody depends upon her. Nothing depends upon her. She is in a geriatric community. Sell out, buy her a country place. She can raise vegetables, flowers, dogs, rabbits, children.…
Jack Mensenkott glanced up at the bridge as he went under. Two tanned girls sitting on a toolbox in the bed of a pickup truck waved at him and he waved back. He was conscious of how he looked piloting his fast and gleaming boat on this lovely day. Having found paradise, only a fool would move away.
And he had never caught a really good cobia. Not yet.
At six o’clock on Friday, the ninth of August, the decision was made by the Director of the National Hurricane Center at Miami to give tropical storm status to the disturbance in the eastern Atlantic and, because it was now a fair assumption that its winds were in excess of the required thirty-nine miles an hour, to designate it as Ella, the fifth on the list of approved names for this hurricane season.
Though the tropical storm still lacked the total organization seen in the structure of large hurricanes, some significant reports had been relayed from coastal radio stations as received by vessels of the British Volunteer Observing Fleet. There were eight vessels near enough to the tropical storm so that their observations, transmitted in code as required every six hours, permitted the extrapolation of a constant wind speed in the northeast quadrant of Ella of from forty to forty-two nautical miles per hour, and increasing.
By satellite photograph interpretation, personnel at the Center placed the position of Ella at eighteen hundred hours EDST at 10 degrees north, 34 west. She had picked up her great gray skirts and hustled, making the same approximate time as a reasonably fast container ship. The cloud mass covered a larger area. Ella was drawing a line toward the Lesser Antilles, toward the Windward Islands, toward Barbados—toward the frail island barrier between the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea.
As the storm moved, gathering mass and tempo, it sent great rollers out ahead, moving across the glassy sea at four times its own speed. These swells had already reached the far islands. Normal cadence of the Atlantic waves breaking on these shores is eight per minute. This change in the constant, unremarkable sound of the sea is the ancient alert for all living things. The oily waves lift high and come racing in, and they turn, tumble, thud against reef and rock and sand like a great slow drum. The fiddler crabs move inland in small brown torrents, the larger claw held on high. The seabirds circle nervously, crying out, getting ready to head away from the oncoming drop in pressure. Fish turn ravenous, storing food against the tumbled days ahead. Primitive man looks at the streamers in the sky, hears the slow boom of the surf and feels an uneasy dread.
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