Salty Sky

by Seth Coker

  One turned and caught his eye. He leaned toward her and said in a fake whisper, “You three must be absolutely terrified. Let’s work out a code for when you need help.” He leaned back out and winked.

  She laughed and responded, “Are you kidding? At our age, this is our dream come true. You know what cow patties and blondes have in common, don’t you?”

  Joe’s eyebrows responded: No.

  “The older they get, the easier they are to pick up.”

  They flirted unabashedly. Joe ordered a second “Champagne of Beers” and bought a round of mixed drinks for the ladies. In a rough, aged manner, he was good-looking in any market. Excluding the aged part, he always had been. In these Southern states—Florida excluded—being an Italian from Brooklyn gave off an extra whiff of the exotic.

  He bounced between anecdotes, compliments, and questions. Guys sidled beside the group to buy drinks, but the riptide pulled them out. Joe was on a roll, and it created a strange force, an aura, a power. It soaked up those willing to ride and kicked out those who weren’t. But the force was fleeting and vulnerable to the tide’s inevitable turn.

  A young man, with a flushed face and curly hair half under a trucker hat, stumbled three steps to the right and bumped into the funniest blonde. Her drink spilled, mostly on the young man himself. He dropped his full longneck and scooped it up with surprising agility. His beer started foaming out the neck and down his hand and arm. The blonde apologized. The curly headed young man just shook the beer off his hand, and it sprayed Joe and the ladies. No apology for the bump or the foam bath as he started to walk on.

  Joe involuntarily grabbed his wrist. “Friend, don’t you think you should be the one apologizing to this woman?”

  The boy mumbled. Joe focused on the eyes. He sighed. No use. The kid was too vacant, all booze. Let this one be on his way; wrong time to teach manners. He let go of the boy’s wrist and shooed him on with a double flick of the wrist.

  Joe returned his attention to the ladies. The spill created a small wet T-shirt event for the blonde. Joe chivalrously helped dry off the important parts with a handful of napkins.

  The boy rubbed his wrist, and his head pivoted around. The two friends standing nearby gave him confidence, which slowly morphed into rage. He yelled a witty “Hey, you!”

  Joe turned, and the boy swung the bottle. Joe moved like an oak. That is, he didn’t move at all, but the swing still missed by a foot. The force twisted the boy’s arm across his body. Joe’s brain made his feet step forward, and he punched the kid’s exposed chin. Connected enough. The boy fell over, from the buzz as much as the punch, which connected like a push. The friends rushed over. The aisle between the bar stools and the tables was narrow, so they were forced to come single file.

  Were the young man’s friends coming as blue helmets or jihadists? Joe chose self-preservation and punched the first one cleanly before his intent was known. The second got in close and grabbed Joe. They wrestled standing up. Joe got him in a headlock. He pawed at the man’s head with his free hand, tried to find a spot that wouldn’t hurt his knuckles to punch.

  The officers took a shortcut over the far counter, through the bar pit, and over the near counter. A baton to the throat pulled Joe’s body up and back. The choking got his attention on a primal level. He threw the man in his arms down and grabbed at the baton. Holding it away from his throat, he whipped his hips and bent forward quickly. The officer flipped over his back and landed on the floor. They now both held the baton with outstretched arms. Realizing he was an officer, Joe let go and stepped back.

  The second officer switched his focus from Joe’s opponents in time to see his partner on the ground. He reached for his sidearm, but he couldn’t get beneath his poncho. Before he hiked it up, his partner regained his footing and stood between him and Joe. The room was quiet except for Kenny Chesney singing about having fun somewhere sunny.

  The ladies started to tell the story to the officers, and things calmed down. Then, following protocol, they frisked Joe.

  19

  ASHLEY’S FRIENDS WERE suffering from the aftereffects of the previous night’s festivities. They closed the curtain on their cabin’s small window, curled up under the sheets, and wrestled demons in their semisleep, listening to the wind and rain. Ashley was tired, but she hadn’t engaged in the volume of drink or conscience-vexing behavior that her roommates had. Her body wasn’t accustomed to the luxury of wasting a rainy day in bed, and despite her best efforts to enjoy not having anything to do, she found herself needing to move around.

  She pulled on a pair of jeans, her Rainbows, and a hooded sweatshirt and left the cabin. In the salon, the captain was wiping down the control panels with a cloth. Tony had his feet up on the couch, glasses low on his nose, and his concentration on the newspaper’s daily sudoku. He crinkled his forehead and gave her a smile when he saw her come inside. She was amazed at how much warmth and welcome he could project without uttering a word or making a movement. She embraced the familiarity, pushed his feet off the couch, and sat next to him.

  Looking up from his puzzle, he said, “Thought you’d be down paying for the wages of sin today.”

  She ignored the comment. “It’s funny to just hear wind and rain and not people’s voices.”

  “We are down three large passengers and a whole lot of bad music.”

  “Where’s Joe?”

  “Ah, Gino apparently got into a bit of trouble last night with the skipper of that boat that took youse girls to the bar, and it all ended with Gino in the hospital. I think Gino is pretty glum about it, but his face is so swollen he couldn’t frown or smile. Joe wanted to discuss the particulars of what happened with the skipper. His sister gave him quite an earful. Kind of like going into a 1950s time warp listening to her. I could almost see the boys playing stickball on the street and somebody’s mom laying into their deadbeat dad on the front stoop. The mom would have curlers in her hair, a satin robe, and house slippers. The dad would be in long pants and a ribbed undershirt with stains.”

  Tony’s semiallegory brought a smile in spite of the information conveyed. “You mean a wife beater?”

  “No, the guy is a drunk or a cheat or lost his paycheck playing dice. Not an abuser.”

  “I meant the shirt. They call those wife beaters.”

  “Hmm. Good to know.”

  Ashley thought over what he’d said about Cale, perplexed by the contrast between what she was hearing and what she experienced last night. Her mind traveled the maps she knew. If a grown man just got in a fight that sent another man to the hospital, you’d think he’d be either emotionally charged up or drained; it wasn’t something that happened to a person every day. She’d have expected that he’d need to talk about it or decompress in some selfish manner. But she’d spent three hours picking up his yard and talking with him and sensed nothing amiss.

  The only man she’d known to deliver such beatings to other men was her father. She pictured him winding down after he’d battered some troublemaker with his blackjack or pistol handle. He’d sit in his plastic outdoor furniture, drinking cheap bottled beer, occasionally spilling it on his T-shirt or splattered painter pants. An energy radiated from him in those times, saying, Stay away. This was the only vision she had for how someone would react to such an act.

  “When I saw Cale later in the night, he didn’t look like a finger had been laid on him. We talked for a long time, and he never mentioned it.”

  “Gino says Cale—is that right? Cale?”

  She nodded.

  “That Cale hit Gino from behind with a tire iron and then pounded him when he was down.”

  Ashley was quiet. Cale had to know she’d find out about the fight, but he hadn’t tried to pre-spin it. Despite her interest, he had snuck off to bed without saying good-night. She couldn’t remember a night out she hadn’t had to turn men down. She had the unusual feeling of rejection because she wasn’t given the opportunity to reject him at the end of the night. She’d felt the wa
y he looked at and talked about his family photos. He wasn’t walled off. He just must not be interested in her. How did men get so good at handling rejection?

  Tony spoke again. “Youse think he is the kind of guy who’d whack somebody from behind?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe if he needed to. He seems like the type who’d do it out of duty in a second. But was there any duty with Gino? God, I was scared, but to him, it was probably just a quick pushing match. And Gino left humiliated with Joe dragging him away by his ear. I also don’t think Cale would need to hit Gino from behind, if you know what I mean.”

  Tony shook his head in agreement. “Yeah, doesn’t come into square. Your new friend had a big crew of guys out having fun that he needed to entertain. He’d just been the hero. And watching him move across that space to Gino, I agree: I don’t think he was that worried about what would happen if it came to fisticuffs.”

  A relevant thought came to Ashley’s mind. “Oh, Tony. You should know this too: Cale is retired from the DEA.”

  “Retired? I should have worked for the government. How old can he be? Not old enough to be retired from anything, I’d think.”

  Ashley thought he’d missed her point, but he came back around.

  “If he worked for the DEA, does that make him more or less likely to hit somebody from behind?”

  That was a good question. It did make Ashley think he might have seen enough adrenaline to put a fistfight out of mind easily. She could even see how, given the opportunity, that background would help rationalize taking a tire iron to the back of an unsuspecting bully.

  20

  JOE WONDERED WHETHER the squad car’s backseat was production built and then stripped of door handles, lights, and window controls or whether the vehicle’s use was always intended, and it left the assembly line half finished. Probably cheaper to build out and strip. Seemed like a painful waste. He’d done the same thing a hundred times before with buildings, though—just part of the process.

  The backseat was utilitarian. No way to escape, not that he was looking. No way to hurt yourself. No way to hurt the officers in front of you. It was a mobile jail cell. Joe’s hands were cuffed behind him. Getting inside the vehicle in cuffs, Joe realized his knees wouldn’t bend enough to get in the backseat. He sort of tumbled headfirst onto the bench seat and then brought his legs up. It took him several seconds to sit up straight. He sat in the back of the car a long time before the officers returned. At least they hadn’t cuffed him to the floorboard bar; that would have kept him bent over. They must not have considered him too dangerous. He didn’t even consider himself too dangerous.

  Wind drove debris past them as the police cruiser crawled to the booking center.

  Up front, one of the officers asked, “Mr. Pascarella, why were you carrying a concealed pistol?”

  “I forgot it was in my jacket’s pocket when I left my boat.”

  “And you don’t have a permit to carry a concealed weapon in North Carolina?”

  “No, I don’t have a permit in North Carolina. I do in Florida.”

  “Did you know it is illegal to take a firearm into a place that serves alcohol?”

  “I did.”

  “Then why did you bring it into the bar?”

  “Officer, I forgot the gun was in my pocket.”

  His current predicament was a bit of a mess, but Joe was feeling pretty good. In a single afternoon, he’d confronted someone who beat up Gino, fought three guys himself, decided to make a move on a twenty-five-year-old knockout, changed his mind about the knockout, and decided to generally pursue life to the fullest again. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  The officer continued, “What brings you to our town to begin with?”

  “Hurricane insurance.”

  “No need for smart comments. What made you attack my partner?”

  “I thought it was another one of those hoodlums attacking me from behind. As soon as I realized it was an officer, I obviously stopped.” Joe wanted to say something like, after I tossed that boy like a sack of potatoes, I let him go, but didn’t see any reason to gloat. He figured the officer’s partner would give him a hard enough time about the septuagenarian smackdown back at the station.

  “Why’d you attack those barflies in there?”

  The semi-interrogation only lasted a few minutes before the officers lost interest. Bar fights happen. Police get jostled. If it weren’t for the loaded nine millimeter in the pocket, they’d have just told the barflies to go home and let Joe carry on with his business.

  “Officers, can I ask a question?”

  Nodding heads.

  “Why wasn’t I read my Miranda rights?”

  The passenger-seat officer turned around. “Do I need to? We didn’t think we were investigating a crime. The DA will decide what charges to bring based on our report. Is there a crime we need to investigate?”

  “No. Makes sense.”

  What is it his kids’ teachers had always said about “no question is a dumb question?” In hindsight, Joe thought that was not the best question to ask while they were writing the report.

  The booking center’s smell was that of distinctly unshowered masses; unlike wine, each year’s vintage smelled the same. This scent was somewhere between high school locker room and homeless shelter. Currently, it lacked the masses but retained the fragrance.

  Joe signed where needed, rolled his thumbs as directed. He pulled his shoulders back, tucked in his stomach, and smiled for his photos. No sense looking beaten down when you’re not. With his belt removed, he appreciated the discreet elastic in his waistband even more.

  He was handcuffed to a chair and left to stew. It was a hurricane holiday in the office: few intakes, even less efficiency.

  The second shift arrived with wet hair and new vigor. Joe was shown to a cell with twelve bunks. Four new friends sharing accommodations—it seemed a bit like how his kids described the hostels they’d stayed in while backpacking Europe. Dad, you meet people who are totally different from you, and you share these rooms and experiences together. Tuna macaroni casserole with stewed apples on the side was served for dinner. He didn’t recall being offered a phone call.

  Joe chose the bottom bunk farthest from the lidless metal toilet. He’d cross that very public bridge in the morning. There were no handholds to help hovering. Maybe he’d catch a glimpse of how his more experienced bunkmates navigated the system before nature called. Best to turn down the coffee in the morning.

  Eight thirty, lights out. The faint buzz of the fluorescent exit lights became noticeable. One of his neighbors said the Protestant version of the Our Father, with its debts and debtors. Joe thought his nearest bunkmate murmured along. Sleep came easily.

  21

  TONY RANG JOE five times. Something resembling worry clawed his mind. It felt like evening all day, but now it was night, and Joe should have been aboard. Either his errand or the drive in the rain could have gone badly. The more time that slipped by without a call, the slimmer the chance was that Joe was having fun somewhere.

  Tony drove another borrowed car, his knuckles white on the wheel. He drove well below the speed limit. Ashley rode shotgun and called out the GPS directions.

  She asked, “What do you think happened?”

  “Depends how guilty Joe’s sister made him feel. Gino’s a grown man. She’s living in memories, thinking Joe’s the family muscle. That kind of thinking happens when you never leave the block you’re born on and your brother pays off your mortgage.”

  “You think they got in a fight? Or worse?”

  “Beats me. No sense worrying about it until we know more.”

  They drove all the way to Cale’s place, but in the rain, they overshot the driveway. They slowly backed up, turned onto the driveway, and proceeded to the house. The house was dark. Tony stayed in the running car. Tony watched Ashley run up to the front porch through the waterfall streaming off the metal roof. She knocked. Waited. Turned and shrugged. Knocked again. Waited. Opene
d the door. She stuck her head slightly in. “Cale? Joe?” she called and shut the door again. She turned and shrugged to Tony again. She hopped back through the waterfall, then turned and went around the side of the house.

  WHEN IT WAS above forty degrees, Cale slept best on his back porch. There was a Sunbrella upholstered couch that put him out as soon as he laid down. Normally in August, he’d have a towel under him and trunks on. Today, he was fully dressed under a wool blanket. The couch was sheltered from wind and rain, and the wool blanket kept what mist found its way in off of him. As always, Jimmy slept on the floor beside him, unfazed by the weather.

  “Cale. Wake up. Hey, get up.”

  His eyes didn’t want to open. His mouth worked first. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Ashley.”

  Ah, well, if it was destiny, then resistance was futile. It was amazing she had the willpower to stay away this long. Her folks will be happy as a clam to meet him, Cale thought. My favorite band in college was Guns N’ Roses, too! He was ready to group Skype his girls now and tell them the good news. So, girls, you know how you’ve been pushing me to dip my toe back into a relationship? Well, let me introduce Ashley. I think she is only two years younger than y’all, so you should have plenty in common besides me.