Storm Surge

by Rhoades, J. D.

  The Englishman, who was known to his teammates as Phillips, looked up. “What?”

  Barstow gestured with his chin to where Sharon was filling a tea pitcher. “MILF,” he said again. He laughed at Phillips’ uncomprehending look. “Mother I’d Like to Fuck,” he explained.

  “How do you know she’s a mother?”

  “It’s the hips, man. She’s got childbearing hips. And take a look at that walk. There’s a walk that says she likes to get nasty. Five bucks says there’s a rugrat out there somewhere.”

  Phillips sighed. “Spare me your fantasies, and try to focus, will you? I can’t raise the support team.”

  Barstow speared a fried oyster with his fork and popped it in his mouth. “You should really try to relax,” he said around the food. “The stuff will be there.” The waitress was back at the table, pouring the tea. “Thanks, beautiful,” he said. She gave him a distant smile and moved off. “You knew the cell reception out here was for shit. That’s why we have the Satphones.”

  Phillips sighed. “I know.”

  Barstow popped another oyster into his mouth. “Look, Phillips, we’ve already hit the jump off point. We’re in the field. Fuck progress reports, and fuck people looking over our shoulders. It’s rock and roll time.”

  “Not yet,” Phillips said. “Not till the last boat leaves.” Barstow shrugged, picked up a french fry. Then his posture stiffened and his face went blank. “Cop,” he said.

  Phillips didn’t turn. “Short fellow? Broad, dark, looks like he has a permanent five o’clock shadow?

  “That’s him.”

  “No worries. He’s the fellow that they’ve sent to supervise the evacuation. He’s a busy lad.”

  “He doesn’t look happy.”

  “I imagine not.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It wasn’t the first time Deputy Len Bohler had considered slapping cuffs on the Community Manager of Pass Island, and, he thought with a sigh, it probably wouldn’t be the last.

  “Mr. Coyne,” he said, “just what part of the words ‘mandatory evacuation’ are you not getting?”

  The man looked pained. “It’s just that some of the residents aren’t full-time, and they haven’t been able to get back to get some of their possessions.”

  “And by ‘some of the residents’, you mean Senator Buchan.”

  Coyne took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “He’s called you as well, then?”

  “His chief of staff has. And he’s called my lieutenant, the Sheriff, and, last I heard, the Governor. Apparently the great man himself is too busy with whatever the hell it is they do up there to call.”

  Coyne nodded unhappily. “So you see…” He looked up irritably at the waitress standing patiently by. “What is it, Conseula?” he said.

  “Are you gentlemen ready to order?” she said.

  “Coffee.” Coyne said. “Black.”

  “Coffee for me, ma’am,” Bohler said, smiling at her. “One sugar. Please.” The way Coyne treated his staff was just another of the multitude of things Bohler loathed about the man. Bohler’s mother had raised three boys alone, supporting herself by waiting tables in a diner. Every one of the times Coyne had been rude to one of the servers, Bohler had to restrain himself from punching the little dipshit in the face.

  “Anyway,” Bohler said as the girl hurried off, “the plan stays as it is. As of noon today, the ferry only takes passengers off. No one else gets on the island. Tomorrow morning, the last ferry runs. Period. End of sentence.”

  Coyne bristled. “I don’t like your tone.”

  “I don’t much care. We’ve got a Category Five storm heading right at this island, pushing an eighteen foot storm surge. That means everything, except that old lighthouse on the hill, is likely to be under water. My job is to make sure nobody gets killed because they’re too damn stupid to get out of the way.”

  The waitress was back with the coffee. “Thank you,” Bohler said as she sat the cup down.

  “Well, what about the staff?” Coyne said.

  “What about them?”

  There was a gleam of something like triumph in Coyne’s eye. “Payroll’s handled offsite by an independent contractor. Payday is tomorrow. If the staff can’t ride the ferry over to get their checks, they don’t get paid.”

  “Can’t you give them out on the mainland?”

  Coyne shook his head. “No. They have to be processed through the office here.”

  “How do the checks get here?”

  “With the mail. It comes over on the ferry.”

  Bohler leaned back in his chair. “Let me get this straight. You make people come all the way out here, a forty minute ferry ride, to get the paychecks that probably ride over on the boat with them?”

  Coyne spread his hands apart helplessly. “I don’t make procedure.”

  Bohler stared at him. “Unbelievable.”

  “If you don’t let the ferry run,” Coyne said, “these people don’t get paid. And some of them aren’t going to make it without that paycheck.”

  Yeah, Bohler thought, and you like it that way. Keeps them nice and desperate and willing to take your bullshit. “Okay,” he said. “What time do the checks get here?”

  “They come over on the nine o’clock ferry.”

  “Tell them they can come get their checks. One run, staff only. Then they head back.”

  “Wait,” Coyne said. “You can’t let the staff board and not the residents!”

  Bohler had had enough. “Mr. Coyne,” he said, “We’re in an officially declared state of emergency. The Sheriff’s delegated the responsibility for evacuating this island to me. That means I can do pretty much anything I decide is necessary, including dragging you out of this restaurant in goddamn handcuffs and charging you with obstructing a public officer if you aggravate me anymore.” He stood up. Coyne didn’t, just sat there, his eyes narrowed.

  “Fine,” he said. “But they take the construction ferry. Not the passenger one. I can’t let the residents see the staff getting on when they can’t. I’ll have a riot on my hands.”

  Bohler sighed. “Whatever. But there’ll be a patrolman at the docks making sure the plan is carried out. I advise you to tell the residents not to interfere with him.” He took out his wallet and handed a five-dollar bill to the waitress who’d been standing nearby. “Have a good day now, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said. “Come back and see us.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Are you fucking KIDDING me?” the line cook said.

  “No way,” Sonny chimed in.

  Consuela nodded glumly. “That’s what they were saying. We gotta come back tomorrow to get our checks.”

  “But the damn restaurant’s closed tomorrow,” Sharon said. Her stomach was in knots. She had hoped this one time they could get paid early.

  “I don’t make procedure,” Consuela mocked Coyne’s prissy delivery.

  “Man,” Sonny said. “This blows. I was going to get a few last waves in tomorrow.”

  “You know what I wish?” Consuela said. “I wish that damn hurricane would just blow this place,” she waved an arm toward the dining room, “all of it, an’ every one of those damn houses, too, right into the damn ocean.”

  They looked at each other. The vehemence in the statement shocked them, coming as it did from the usually reserved and shy Consuela.

  “Only if Coyne goes with it,” the line cook muttered finally. “What an asshole.”

  “I’ve got to go check on my tables,” Sharon said. She walked back out into the dining room. As she did, a shadow fell across the room. She looked towards the window.

  Two men were outside, on the deck that ran along the front of the clubhouse, muscling an enormous sheet of plywood into place over the window. It blocked a considerable chunk of the sunlight off the ocean, casting a pall across the room. The few people left at tables watched and murmured as the hammering began. A few got up and left.

  She saw the Odd Couple at the
cashier’s desk. Damn, she thought. The servers were supposed to take the payment and bring the guests back their change. She glanced furtively over at where Coyne had been sitting. Thankfully, he was scurrying out the door, no doubt to chew the workers out for putting plywood over the windows before the guests were gone.

  She went to the table, wondering how much her lapse in service had cost her. There was no tip by the Englishman’s plate, and she sighed. But as she began busing the table, she noticed a folded bill sticking out from under the saucer. She picked it up and stifled a gasp. It was a hundred dollar bill.

  She looked over. The English guy was walking out, but the big biker guy was looking at her. He smiled and gave her a wave. There was something in the smile she didn’t like. Sometimes a big tipper would show back up, expecting some “compensation” for his generosity.

  For a brief moment, she considered giving the hundred back, but she couldn’t afford that kind of caution. She’d deal with that if and when she had to. She looked at the window again.

  One of the men hanging the plywood was the guy from the parking lot, Max. She remembered that she needed a ride. And shit, how was she supposed to get to Glory’s orientation? She looked again. Coyne was standing there, waving his arms as he berated Max. She remembered his actions in the parking lot that morning and allowed herself a brief pleasant vision of Max ramming Coyne through the picture window, then stifled the thought, feeling slightly ashamed.

  It didn’t look like Max was going to do anything rash anyway. He merely pointed with the handle of his hammer, indicating someone or something outside Sharon’s field of view. Coyne shook his finger a couple of times at Max, then scurried off. She saw Max shrug, pick up one of the lounge chairs that lined the deck, and sit down in it facing the water.

  Sharon glanced at her tables. They seemed okay. She walked out the front doors, onto the deck. The smell of salt water and the sounds of waves lifted her spirits as they always did. She glanced out across the beach to where Glory and her friends were tossing a Frisbee. Glory called out something to the blonde boy she’d been following earlier. He ignored her.

  Glory looked at him for a moment, then threw the Frisbee to one of the other girls. It was a halfhearted throw that wobbled and fell to the sand less than a third of the way to its intended target.

  Sharon walked over to where Max was stretched out on the lounge chair, legs crossed at the ankles, hands clasped on his chest. He had his ball cap pulled down over his eyes.

  “Hey,” she said.

  He reached up, pulled the bill of the cap up so he could see her. “Hey.”

  “Don’t let me wake you.”

  He smiled. He actually had a nice smile, she thought. “No worries,” he said. “I’m just waiting for Coyne and my boss to get done with their little pissing match and figure out who the big dog is.”

  She laughed. “I’m thinking it’ll probably be Coyne.”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. I put the plywood up, I don’t put the plywood up. It’s not like it’s my window.”

  “Anyway,” she said, “Is that offer of a ride still open?”

  “Sure.” He glanced at his watch. “You get off at three, right?” She nodded. “Well, I’m supposed to be here till five. But pretty much everyone’s cleared their boats out of the marina, and the ones that haven’t are already tied as well as they’re going to get. They’re just sticking me on…” he hesitated, “on odd jobs. They may run out of those before five. Come on down and we’ll ride back together.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” She glanced back out at the beach. He followed her gaze. “That your daughter out there? In the orange suit?” She nodded.

  “She must like being able to come out here and hang out while you work.”

  Sharon sighed. “Yeah. I thought it’d be a good way to keep an eye on her, but it doesn’t seem to be working out that way.”

  “Yeah. Well.”

  “What?”

  “Look,” he said, “it’s none of my business.”

  “If you know something about my daughter…” she began.

  “It’s not her,” he said. “And most of the kids she’s hanging with are okay. A little wild, maybe, but nothing serious.” He hesitated. “But that Henderson kid, Graeme. He’s bad news. And your daughter seems a little stuck on him.”

  “How do you know so much about it?” she said. She felt a flash of fear that clenched her stomach.

  “They hang out at the marina. On their parents' boats. And, well, you know how it is. They don’t notice if the staff’s around.”

  “So what’s wrong with Graeme? She’s mentioned him a couple of times and he seems okay.”

  “Yeah, except he’s a mean little bastard. Especially when he thinks no one’s looking.”

  “Like how?”

  “Like, we’ve got a cat hangs around the marina. We call him Captain Jack. Doesn’t belong to anyone in particular, but everybody feeds him. Well, one day, Captain Jack’s out on the pier, half asleep, sunning himself like he owns the place. This Graeme kid comes walking by, looks around to see if anyone’s watching. I’m in the paint shed, but I can see him out the window. He turns around and kicks Captain Jack into the water.”

  “Oh, my god. What’d you do?”

  “I come out of the shed, hollering at the kid. I grab a net and fish the poor dumb cat out of the water. Then I tell the kid if I ever see him near that cat again, I’ll break his fucking neck. Kid gets all high and mighty, tells me I can’t talk to him like that and he’s going to get me fired.” Max shrugged. “Guess he lost his nerve.” He looked at Sharon. “Look, like I said, none of my business. But I’d keep an eye on that boy. He’s no damn good.”

  “Thanks,” Sharon said. “Look I’ve got to go back inside. See you at the marina.”

  “I’ll be there,” Max said.

  She went back into the cool and calm of the restaurant, a little shaken up again. First, because of Max’s story about the boy Glory apparently had a crush on. And second, because she had seen the look in Max’s eyes when he’d talked about Graeme and what he'd said to him. For a second, it was like Max was a different person. A person perfectly capable of breaking someone’s neck.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Will you stop humming that damned song?” Phillips muttered.

  “How about if I sing it instead?” Barstow asked. He started crooning softly: “Riders on the storm….riders on the stooorm….” Phillips gritted his teeth.

  The two men had strolled about the island, apparently aimlessly, like sightseers or possibly real estate speculators looking over prospective purchases. Only now, as they walked back in the direction of the clubhouse, were they truly paying attention.

  They were walking down one of the wide sandy paths that served as the island’s streets. Live oaks dripping with Spanish moss lined the sides of the road. From time to time, dirt driveways would appear to their left, and they could catch glimpses of the houses on the seaward side. The homes were a mishmash of styles: an imitation Italian villa here, an imitation Jamaican Planter’s house there, a sprawling modern glass and steel structure on a third lot. They slowed their pace slightly as they passed that one. “No cars,” Barstow said. “Must have cleared out.”

  “As expected,” Phillips said.

  “Anyone with any sense had already left town,” Barstow half whispered, half sang.

  Phillips looked irritated. “What?”

  “Man, you really must not be much into music.”

  “I love music,” Phillips said. “I have no idea what it is you’re doing.” They walked on.

  “Bob Dylan,” Barstow said helpfully. “Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts.' It’s a song.”

  “So I gathered.” They had come to the next lot. Through the trees they could see a large van parked in the driveway of an unfinished house.

  “Honey,” Barstow said, “we’re home.”

  ***

  “Mom?”

  Sharon looked up. She was
sitting on the stone wall that divided the clubhouse lawn from the beach. Glory was standing a few feet away. She’d put her jeans back on and had a towel draped over her shoulders. She looked like she was about to cry.

  Sharon flicked her cigarette butt into the sand and kicked sand over it. Coyne hated that, but she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable towards Coyne right now. “Hey,” she said, her voice neutral.

  Glory came and sat on the wall next to Sharon. She stared out to sea. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch this morning,” she said in a small voice.

  Sharon felt her heart breaking. She put her arm around her daughter. “It’s okay, baby,” she sighed. “It’s been kind of a stressful day.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to tell me about yours?”

  The girl was silent. Then: “Not right now.” Another pause. “Just…somebody I thought was my friend turned out not to be.”

  “Graeme?”

  She pulled away. “How do you know about Graeme?”

  Sharon didn’t want to mention what Max had told her. All it would take would be for Glory to think she was being spied on for her to close up again. “You’ve mentioned him a couple of times. Seems like you liked him.”

  Glory relaxed, but only slightly. “Yeah. Well. He turned out to be kind of a jerk.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t think any of these people are really my friends.” She looked over at Sharon. “I don’t know that it’s going to be any better at this fancy school you’re sending me to. I don’t fit in with those people, Mom.”

  “You will, baby. You will.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t want to, you ever think about that?”

  Sharon felt a little surge of pride at that, but stifled the feeling. She was about to say something, but she saw Max walking towards them along the beach. He raised a hand in a lazy wave. “There’s our ride,” she said. “We can talk about this later.”

  Glory looked up. “That’s the guy from the parking lot this morning.”