Beach Town

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “The same age as me, when my parents split,” Greer blurted.

  “The difference is, you had a mother who stayed put, and raised you,” Eb said. “Amanda had zero maternal instincts. And her mother had even less. Allie ping-ponged between Amanda and her relatives for years.”

  “Until you moved back to Cypress Key and took her on as one of your projects,” Greer said. “Like the store, and running the town.”

  “Allie isn’t a project,” he said sharply. “I’ll admit, I was terrified at the prospect of raising a kid, especially a little girl. Sarah and I wanted kids, but then she got sick.” He shook his head. “I’m not perfect, and neither is Ginny, but we’re doing the best we can for Allie.”

  “From where I sit, you’ve done a great job,” Greer said. “But she turns eighteen … when?”

  “Two weeks,” Eb said, his expression grim. “And then she’s a free agent, if she wants to be.”

  “I guess you’ll just have to trust that you and Ginny have given Allie the tools to make good decisions for herself. If her dad is as big a jerk as you say, she’ll figure that out, right?”

  “Trust? Us messiah complex guys aren’t really good on the trust thing. The only people we trust to do the right thing is ourselves.”

  Greer reached across the table and gave his hand a sympathetic pat. “Let it go. Isn’t that what you told me?”

  Before Eb could reply, Gunter hopped down from his lap, sat up on his haunches, and gave a sharp, commanding bark.

  “Okay, buddy,” Eb said. He took a leash from a hook by the door. “Let’s get you walked before you flood out my kitchen floor.” He turned to Greer. “Feel like a stroll?”

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” Greer said. “Thanks for dinner, though.”

  “No time for dessert?” Eb’s eyes glinted mischievously.

  Greer’s mind flashed back to the last dessert she’d shared here with Eb Thibadeaux, and simultaneous erotic sensations—condoms and cookies—drew a deep flush to her face. “I thought you decided ‘dessert’ was off the menu for us.”

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Eb muttered, leading the dog toward the door.

  40

  On Monday Bryce called for an early lunch break to allow for time to inspect the potential ammo dump.

  A pair of work release inmates in bright orange jumpsuits pushed lawn mowers back and forth in front of the opened gates of the former National Guard Armory on Ducktown Road. Behind the gate, another orange-garbed inmate was astride a riding mower, while three more men attacked the dense underbrush with chain saws and weed whackers.

  A uniformed sheriff’s deputy leaned against the fence, his shotgun propped on his shoulder, his eyes hidden behind polarized sunglasses.

  The heavy air smelled of freshly cut grass and gasoline fumes.

  Bryce Levy rolled down the window of his black Navigator, leaned out, and inhaled deeply. “Oh yeah.” He turned around to address the occupants of the backseat, gesturing toward the tank, which had been shorn of its overcoat of vines and dead leaves. “This is definitely it. Come on, you guys. How cool is this?”

  “Very cool,” Alex, the art director, said obediently.

  “Even better than the pictures,” the set decorator echoed.

  “I can’t wait to see the inside,” Bryce said, opening the driver’s side door.

  “Wait.” Greer handed him the can of insect spray.

  * * *

  By the time they’d finished touring the main building and the maintenance shed, Bryce had used up all his superlatives and was merely recycling awesome, fabulous, and unbelievable. Repeatedly.

  “You nailed it again,” he told Greer as they climbed back into the Navigator. “Honest to God, it’s like you knew exactly what was in my head, when even I didn’t really know what was in my head.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Greer said. “I just got lucky this time around. The county had it listed as surplus real estate, and Eb Thibadeaux managed to get it for us at a rock-bottom rate.”

  “The mayor,” Bryce said thoughtfully. “Are we all good with him now? I mean, I told Kregg in no uncertain terms to keep his pecker in his pants and his hands off the mayor’s niece.”

  “I’ve been mending fences,” Greer said. “So I think we’ve reached a truce.”

  “Good. Excellent. We’re going to need him in our corner when we demo the casino.”

  “So it’s definite—the explosion?” Greer asked.

  “All systems are go,” Bryce said. “Terry finished the last scene, like right at dawn Friday. He sent me the pages and I was blown away.” He swiveled in his seat. “Right, guys? This shit is genius. Am I right?”

  “Unbelievable,” Alex and Stephen agreed.

  “This scene? It’s insane. And I love it so much, it’s sick. I mean, I gotta tell you, I was about ready to cut Terry loose with all these last-minute changes and delays. I was literally shopping for another screenwriter to finish up the script. But when you read it, Greer, you’ll absolutely agree, the words come jumping off the page. He’s found a way to bring all the subplots to a full boil. This new ending, at first it seems like it comes out of nowhere, but when you think about it, everything has been leading up to this. Swear to God, when I read it I had tears running down my face.”

  “Exactly what happens in this last scene?” Greer asked.

  “So … Danielle and the sheriff, they’ve been plotting all along to make it look like Nick, Kregg’s character, has lost his shit. Post-traumatic stress disorder. But once the hot lady shrink starts putting it all together, and actually starts to help Nick, that forces their hand. They gotta do something epic. To prove he’s batshit crazy. And get rid of him. What better way to do that than to actually blow up the freakin’ casino—with him inside it?”

  Greer felt her mouth go dry.

  “But Bryce…”

  “Yeah, yeah, now you’re gonna give me all the reasons we can’t really blow up the casino. Save your breath, okay? Van is totally on board with this. And it’s gonna happen. It’s gonna be mind-blowing. Literally.”

  “Van?”

  “Vanessa Littrell. Sure, at first she thought it was kind of radical, but then we talked it over and she came around. She’s totally green-lighted the whole deal.”

  “Bryce, the casino … you know how the community feels about it. It’s an old, historic building. The city has put together a grant proposal to restore it. Surely you don’t really have to tear it down.”

  “Technically, we’re not gonna tear it down. We’re gonna blow it up. It’s the only way, Greer. You’ll see when you read Terry’s new pages. I don’t care how authentic-looking a model you make, or how good the CGI, there is no substitute in this film for the real thing. That’s why we’re here—in this fuckin’ swamp out in the middle of nowhere instead of a nice, air-conditioned soundstage back in L.A. Authenticity, Greer. For this film to succeed, my audience has to be right there, in the action. And that’s where we’re gonna put them. You and me. We’re gonna blow that fucker up, and then, those people in that dark theater? They’re gonna be ducking and trying to hide, because they’ll absolutely believe chunks of concrete and plaster are raining down all around their seats.”

  “But Bryce…”

  He turned the key in the Navigator’s ignition. “I realize you’re worried that something could go wrong again. I know all about what happened during that shoot up in Paso Robles. The fire? That was bad. But it ain’t gonna happen here. Not on my watch. I’ve already reached out to the best special effects guy in the business. He’s on a plane right now. And Van, she had a great idea. We’re gonna get the local fire department on our side, let them use the demo for training. Brilliant, right?”

  He leaned closer to Greer, challenging her to challenge him. “Right, Greer?”

  It was useless to argue with an ego like Bryce Levy’s, she knew.

  “How soon do we shoot it?”

  He gave her a broad wink. “Just as soon as you get everythin
g permitted.”

  She sighed. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but part of my job is to tell you the reality of lining up locations. So I have to tell you that getting the city to agree to allow you to explode a historic building is going to be really, really tricky. We already know how the mayor and some of the council members feel about it. I’ll do my best, you know that, but I honestly doubt the city is going to allow this.”

  The city shouldn’t allow it, Greer thought. A town like Cypress Key was the sum of its parts, and the old casino, as run-down and dilapidated as it was, was a key ingredient of the town’s Old Florida charm.

  This was a novel thought for Greer, but she hated the idea of destroying a historic building for the sake of a three-minute moment in a film, all on the whim of a crazed screenwriter who was one drink away from a full-tilt binge.

  Bryce pulled the Navigator across the two-lane blacktop and did a neat three-point turn, heading them back toward Cypress Key.

  “Van doesn’t anticipate it’s going to be that much of a problem,” he said. “But like you said, it’s your job to make it happen. Right?”

  41

  “Ahem.” Greer coughed politely, hoping to catch the attention of Cindy, the city clerk, who was intently reading something on her computer monitor. If Greer stretched her neck, which she did, she could see the screen, which seemed to be showing a YouTube video tutorial of an intricate hairstyling technique.

  The clerk looked up and immediately clicked off the screen. “Oh, hey,” she said. “Something I can help you with?”

  “Yes, thanks. I guess I need to see about getting a demolition permit. Can you tell me how long it usually takes to get something like that approved?”

  It was Tuesday morning. Greer had spent a sleepless night trying to figure out a way around blowing up the casino, but she hadn’t been able to come up with a single plausible solution to her dilemma.

  “A demolition permit? I don’t think I’ve ever processed one of those. Around here, we usually just let things deteriorate until they fall down all by themselves.” Cindy giggled merrily at her own clever joke.

  “Yes, well, for the film, we basically need to speed that process up a bit. Is that possible?”

  “I’ll check,” Cindy said, giving her Farrah Fawcett–throwback hair a dubious shake. She swiveled around in her chair and reached up to a bookshelf behind her desk, bringing down a thick, white loose-leaf binder labeled Permitting and Licensing.

  “Everything going okay with the movie?” Cindy asked.

  “Just peachy.”

  Cindy leafed through the pages, running a fingertip down lines of print. “Pretty much what I thought. A permit like that, you’ll need to get approval from the city engineer.”

  She went to a filing cabinet, rifled the contents, selected a folder, and handed it across the counter. “Fill that out, then submit it to the county engineer. Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a five hundred dollar application fee, too.”

  “Okay. Who is the city engineer?”

  “Eb Thibadeaux.”

  Greer rolled her eyes. She should have seen this coming.

  “Any idea where he is today?”

  “You’re in luck. He’s in his office.” Cindy jerked her thumb in the direction of a door on the right side of the room.

  Greer tapped at the door.

  “Yes?”

  * * *

  “You never told me you’re the city engineer,” Greer said accusingly.

  “You never asked,” he said. “Is that why you’re here?”

  She tossed the folder with the demolition permit onto his desktop. “It seems we need the city engineer’s approval in order to blow up the casino.”

  Eb scratched his chin absentmindedly. “Come to think of it, I believe that’s right. Nobody’s ever applied for one before, so I guess it slipped my mind.”

  “Nothing ever slips your mind,” Greer said, flopping down onto the chair opposite his desk.

  “Some things do. Birthdays. Vice presidents. Central American capitals.”

  “This is a farce, right? I fill out the application, write you a check, and then you deny it before the ink’s dry. Right?”

  He folded his hands on his desktop. “Are you accusing me of some type of malfeasance? Or unfairness?”

  “I’m saying there’s no way in hell you’ll issue us a demolition permit.”

  Eb opened the folder, studied the contents, and looked up in feigned surprise. “You haven’t even filled out the application. How can you assume what I’ll do if you haven’t even followed official procedures?”

  He pushed the papers back across the desk toward her. “Fill out the application, and I swear I’ll give it due and proper consideration.”

  Greer sat back and crossed her legs. “Look, I’m on your side now. I really am. But Bryce is hell-bent on blowing up the casino. And Vanessa’s just as determined.”

  “More determined,” he corrected her. “There’s a lot of money at stake for her. But those two don’t scare me.”

  She glanced through the half dozen forms and sighed. “Red tape. Okay, I’ll get this back to you before the afternoon’s out.”

  “Fair enough,” Eb said.

  At the Coffee Mug, Greer found a table near a window, ordered an iced coffee, and started reading the application. It was surprisingly straightforward. Address here, proof of ownership there, proof of performance bond there, and a long list of requirements, including name and address of licensed demolition company, licensed material hauling company, and state-approved recycler.

  Using her cell phone, she got quotes from local hauling, demolition, and recycling companies to do the work required by the county, cringing at the prices for their services.

  She texted Bryce the results, hoping the price tag might change his intentions about the casino’s fate.

  INITIAL QUOTES FOR DEMOLISHING, HAULING AND RECYCLING DEBRIS FROM CASINO ALREADY IN EXCESS OF $25,000!

  His response was immediate, and disheartening.

  WAY CHEAPER THAN CALIFORNIA. GET IT DONE!

  “Dammit,” Greer muttered.

  She called the fire marshal’s office, and the production company’s bonding agent, to make the necessary arrangements, all the while hoping that none of her painstaking work would come to fruition.

  Two hours later she trudged back across the street. The city clerk was on the telephone, but she approached the counter and took the folder and the check Greer offered, without comment, walking it back to Eb’s office and then returning.

  She put her hand over the telephone receiver. “He’s gone for the day.”

  “Gone, where?”

  The clerk shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

  42

  Greer sat in the golf cart, staring at her phone, wondering how she was going to break the news to Bryce that the only thing standing between him and his precious demolition permit was Eb Thibadeaux.

  Her phone rang. Of course it did.

  “Hey,” Bryce said. “What’s the word on my permit?”

  “I just finished filling out the paperwork.”

  “Great. What’s the time frame? I want to get the special effects guys lined up ASAP.”

  “Not sure. The thing is, it has to be approved by the city engineer. And the city engineer happens to also be the mayor, Eb Thibadeaux.”

  “Are you kidding me? One guy? The one guy who is clinging to that damned casino like a drowning man—he gets the final say? What kind of kangaroo town is this?”

  “Sorry,” Greer said. “He did promise that he would give it ‘due consideration.’”

  “Fuck that,” Bryce said. “Enough already. I’ll deal with this.” He hung up.

  Before Greer could start wondering how the producer planned to “deal with it,” her phone rang again. She picked it up and checked the caller ID. It was Eb.

  “Hey, Eb,” she said. “Are you calling to tell me you’ve approved the demo permit?” It was her idea of a joke, but it was imme
diately clear that he wasn’t laughing.

  “Have you seen Allie?” His tone was urgent.

  “When? Today? No.”

  “You’re sure? She hasn’t been hanging around the set?”

  “I haven’t been on set today,” Greer said. “And I haven’t seen her since you put her under house arrest.”

  “Dammit,” he muttered.

  “What’s this about?” Greer asked.

  “Rebecca, the manager at the Inn, just called. Allie was supposed to work lunch today, and then dinner tonight, but she never showed up.”

  “Has Ginny seen her?”

  “Not since this morning. Allie left there around ten. She told Gin she had to go in early to do some side work. Obviously that was a lie.”

  “What about her girlfriends? Have you called them?”

  “None of them has talked to Allie.”

  “You’re sure? They wouldn’t just be covering up for her?”

  “They all swear they haven’t seen or talked to her. The only one I haven’t talked to is Tristin Thomas, her best friend. I drove over to her house, but Gail, her mother, says Tristin has been at soccer camp in Gainesville all week. She texted Tristin to tell her to call, but we haven’t heard back from her yet. Gail promised she’d put the fear of God into the kid, so that’s something.”

  “I’ll call Zena and ask her if Allie’s been around the set,” Greer said quickly. “I’ll call the office, too.”

  “Talk to that piece of shit Kregg, while you’re at it,” Eb demanded. “I swear to God, if he’s been seeing her again…”

  “I’m sure he knows better, but I’ll check with everybody, then I’ll call you right back,” Greer promised.

  * * *

  “I haven’t seen Allie,” Zena said. “You want me to ask around?”

  “Yes, please,” Greer said. Before she could say anything else, her phone’s call waiting line beeped. “Let me know if you hear anything.”