Sudden wanted to make his move on Saturday, in late afternoon. He figured that even weekend workers might cut out early and there would be few if any non-hoods hanging about. There might be building maintenance workers on site but he didn’t think they would be a problem if he gained access unnoticed to the penthouse. With the weather deteriorating – forecasters were predicting heavy showers from rain bands associated with the hurricane – it was unlikely Boudreau and Vocce would be hanging out at the pool. Sudden was prepared to temporarily incapacitate any building staff and shoot any and all of Boudreau’s men, though Fats and Vocce were his priorities. He didn’t expect any major problems.
CHAPTER 25 - SPAGHETTI
The computers used by forecasters to track hurricanes have given many people a false sense of security. The “Track Forecast Cone” which plots the probable progression of a tropical storm’s center of circulation is a vast improvement over the blind guesses of the past. But it is merely a compendium of data compiled over five years that suggests a particular storm won’t veer outside a particular area. The cone might be hundreds of miles wide on either side, so the “probability” factors out to about 65 percent. That means that 35 percent of the time the storm may wobble one way or another. A horseplayer will take 35 percent every time and make a fortune. A town or city hit dead on by a hurricane when it least expects the blow is out of luck. A wobble can produce a lot of rubble.
Then there are the “Spaghetti Plots,” which are even more sophisticated charts. The lines in these charts resemble strands of pasta, and they are designed to show where various computer models predict a storm will go. The closer together the strands, the more likely the storm will stick to one direction. If the strands are far apart, it means that a lot of computers are in disagreement over the atmospherics steering the cyclone. Will that low off Mexico draw the storm toward it? Or will the high pressure dome developing over Texas and Louisiana push the storm eastward? And what about that dip in the jet stream? Will it provide enough upper atmosphere wind shear to cut the top off the hurricane? Then, there’s water temperature.
Computers can win at chess and Jeopardy, but they are a long way from predicting the weather. And Hurricane Spenser, now upgraded to a Category 3 with top wind speeds of 129 miles per hour, was giving them fits. The forecast cone looked promising. Spenser was likely to hit the Turks and Caicos Islands a glancing blow, cross northern Haiti and then run straight up through Cuba before reaching the Gulf of Mexico, greatly diminished. It might renew itself over the warm waters of the Gulf but the cone kept it a couple of hundred miles to the west of Florida.
But the spaghetti strands were worrisome. They were wide apart and rather squiggly as they passed southwest Florida. And there was one spaghetti strand, on the right quadrant, which bent toward land. But even if Hurricane Spenser followed that track, it would still have to make a virtual 90-degree right turn to really cause a problem. The consensus among most forecasters was that someone spilled a cup of coffee onto the computer that generated that plot. They were 95 percent sure that the nonconforming strand was a fluke. Even a crazed gambler wouldn’t bet against odds like that.
So while the National Weather Service issued a Hurricane Warning for Cuba, Florida only rated a Tropical Storm Warning. Heavy rains and winds of 50 to 60 miles per hour would be annoying, but Floridians had seen a lot worse.
By Thursday night the media was full of news about the relatively glancing blow Spenser had given Cuba as it swung left, bringing with it newly plotted computer cones and spaghetti strands. The hurricane seemed to have a mind of its own. But Florida breathed a sigh of relief. It looked as if the storm would miss the state by an even wider margin and the rains and winds generated might not even reach Tropical Storm force.
On Friday morning, residents woke up to the news that since Hurricane Spenser had now spent more time over warm water than anticipated. It had reached Category 4 status with top winds of 141 miles per hour. The National Weather Service even speculated that Category 5 was not out of the question. It seemed to be taking a bead on the Louisiana, Texas and Mississippi coastlines.
Early Saturday morning Spenser virtually stopped, as if deciding what to do. A high pressure area over Texas had drifted down into the Gulf, blocking the storm’s northern movement. As the high pressure expanded it steered Spenser in te path of least resistance.
The huge, and now violent, cyclone made a right turn – toward Southwest Florida.
At the National Weather Center, the chief meteorologist, an urbane and professorial man whose expertise frequently graced the network news shows, looked at his screens and said, “What the fuck?”
***
The approaching storm had stopped all non-essential work at the Shalimar II even before it turned toward the coast. Once it became a real threat, even essential work was abandoned. Construction workers left to prepare their own homes for the blow and only a skeleton building maintenance crew stayed to tie down potentially dangerous flying objects and otherwise secure the building. Then they also headed inland.
Saturday afternoon Sudden stopped one of the last maintenance men outside the building and asked him what the residents were planning on doing.
“No residents. Place empty.”
“I mean the people in the penthouse.”
“Mr. Longstreet, the owner?”
“Yes.”
“They crazy,” the man said in heavily accented English. “They stay.”
“Who is ‘they’?” Sudden asked.
“Mr. Longstreet and his friends in penthouse. Only ones here. They brought in plenty food and liquor. Even la puta, la prostituta.” He laughed. “But the women were smarter than the men. They left.”
“Is it safe?”
The worker shrugged.
“It good building.” He held two fingers more than an inch apart. “Glass very thick on windows and terrace doors.”
Before the weather became a factor, Sudden had initially considered taking Boudreau and Vocce out with the sniper rifle from a boat just offshore. He knew it could be done. During their introductory dinner, Rebecca Soul had told him that a Mossad team to which she was attached in 2008 had assassinated Mohammed Suleiman, a Syrian general active in that country’s nuclear program. At the time, Suleiman was hosting a formal dinner party at his home overlooking the Mediterranean. The Mossad sniper put two rounds into the general’s chest from a boat 700 yards away. Sudden’s rifle had the range and velocity to make the shot if the targets were standing out on the terrace, but the dum-dum bullets would shatter against glass that thick. He was now happy that he didn’t have that option. In fact, the more he thought about it, doing the job up close and personal would provide greater satisfaction.
“What about electric power?”
“Mr. Boudreau has own generator,” the worker said. “They probably OK.”
“Probably?”
“Me. I no trust hurricán. I trust puta.” He laughed. “Maybe Mr. Boudreau and others still get fucked, without women.”
CHAPTER 26 – JULEPS
In September of 1938, the Category 5 hurricane later named The Long Island Express (in some accounts, The Yankee Clipper) had formed off the Cape Verde Island and traveled across the Atlantic toward the United States. A deep trough over the Appalachians steered the hurricane away from Florida but high pressure over Bermuda prevented it from it being pushed east over the ocean. In effect, it was squeezed between those influences and had nowhere to go but straight north along the eastern seaboard. It lost strength, falling to a Category 3, but that was more than offset by its forward speed of 70 miles per hour, the fastest ever recorded for a hurricane. The forward speed exponentially magnified the storm’s 125-mile-per-hour rotational wind speed. Hurricane cones and spaghetti tracks were still far in the future and the storm arrived virtually unannounced on Long Island during the middle of the afternoon on Sept. 21. Beachgoers (those that survived) reported seeing a huge cloud bank rolling in, ruining an apparently gorgeous end-
of-summer day.
The hurricane actually cut Long Island in two at its narrowest point, sprinted into New England (drowning people in 12 feet of water in downtown Providence, Rhode Island) and wreaked havoc as far north as Quebec. More than 600 people died and some of the largest mansions on the Atlantic side of Long Island wound up in Long Island Sound, with bewildered residents clinging to roofs for their lives.
Survivors of Hurricane Spenser would recall just such a dark wall cloud, streaked with lightning, approaching the beaches of Southwest Florida.
***
Then wind had picked up considerably and the Gulf of Mexico looked like the North Sea, with huge swells driving waves that crashed onto a diminishing beach front. It wouldn’t be long before the water reached the protected dunes, and beyond. There was little doubt now that the ground floor of the Shalimar II would be flooded.
The beach chairs and umbrellas that had been intentionally thrown into the pool by the staff to ride out the storm were now joined by the Tiki Hut, which first toppled over and then slid into the water.
Upstairs in the penthouse, a nervous Fats Boudreau looked out through the thick glass doors leading to the terrace. As a New Orleans resident he was no stranger to hurricanes, but he didn’t like the look of the huge clouds heading toward the Shalimar II.
“You sure we’re safe up here?”
“This is the strongest building on the beach,” Longstreet said. He was lounging on a leather couch. “I spared no expense.”
That’s one reason I’m personally going to throttle you, you rotten bastard, Boudreau thought.
“What about this?” Boudreau said, tapping the glass. “It’s really fuckin’ blowin’ out there.”
“Stop worrying, Beauregard. That glass can withstand a 150-mile-an-hour wind.”
Longstreet loved calling him Beauregard. The mobster smiled. Just another reason his death would be slow and agonizing.
“What about flying debris? Don’t tell me they can’t crack the glass.”
“Yeah, sure, maybe. We have storm shutters on the lower floors. But we’re on the top floor, Beauregard. Facing the Gulf. Nothing is coming up here. Relax. Have another drink. All your talk scared the broads away. We could have fucked ourselves right through the hurricane. What are we going to do now? Play charades?”
Yeah, Boudreau thought. You can mimic a corpse.
Longstreet shook his head. This was a nightmare. It was bad enough that he had to play the beneficent host to Fats Boudreau and his hangers-on. He couldn’t believe his bad luck when they just showed up. Yet he couldn’t very well turn them away. But they gave no sign they were leaving any time soon, and were eating so much food Florida would probably have to close grouper season early.
Now Fats was talking about the depressed state of local real estate. He even suggested that he wanted to buy the Shalimar II! The New Orleans thug was constantly crying about all the money he lost when Tucci ratted out the family, and how he had to recoup it, somehow.
“He killed my father. And stole my money. If I ever get my hands on that son of a bitch, I’ll personally wring his fuckin’ neck!”
Longstreet, of course, commiserated, even as he almost lost control of his bowels. But he also wondered how much money Boudreau had left. Selling the high-rise to a man whose money had financed its purchase in the first place appealed to his thieving nature. As long as the dunce still believed Tucci was the turncoat, anything was possible. Not that he wanted to take a loss on the Shalimar II. He hoped that Fats wouldn’t try to take advantage of him for old time’s sake.
“What are you chuckling about, Auburn?”
Fats was looking at him. He had a strange grin on his face.
“Nothing. Just remembering a primo blow job. Wish the girls stayed here. I could use a good fuck. Nothing like screwing in a hurricane.”
Boudreau laughed, good-naturedly. Yeah, you prick. I know just what blow job you’re thinking about. I saw the video. And don’t worry, just as soon as I get your signature on a bill of sale for this joint, you’re gonna be fucked. But good. You stupid bastard. You don’t know that Tucci is dead and that I know you sold me out. This building is really mine. I can’t wait to hear your asking price for me to buy a building you bought with my money. Just as soon as this storm blows over, Vocce is going to waltz in here with a local lawyer and a bunch of papers you’re gonna sign, then I’m gonna rip your lungs out, one at a time..
“I think I want another drink,” Boudreau said pleasantly. “You want one, Auburn?”
“Why not? It’s a hurricane party, right.”
“Hey boss, maybe you should see this.”
It was Lucien, who was sitting with two other men sitting in front of a huge wall-mounted plasma TV that probably cost a fortune. From where he stood, Boudreau could see the screen filled with talking heads and weather maps with squiggly lines. Ominous-looking red notifications scrolled across the bottom of the picture. He heard the words “mandatory evacuation.”
He sighed. One of the downsides of being a mob chieftain was that he couldn’t show fear in front of his men and still hold their respect. He cast one more nervous glance seaward, then turned back to the room.
“Lucien, get off your fat ass and mix some juleps. Try to remember to use the mint in them this time. I don’t want another fuckin’ parsley julep.”
“Sorry about that boss. They were right next to each other in the vegetable drawer in the fridge.”
CHAPTER 27 – PUBLIC SAFETY
By the time Sudden was prepared to make his move, he knew that his hard-hat strategy wasn’t going to work. In fact, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to keep his hard hat from blowing off his head. But he still had his trusty clipboard.
Just getting to the Shalimar II was a struggle. Sudden’s car seemed to be the only one not heading away from the beach. Not a particularly great sign, he knew. He talked himself through a couple of police road blocks by saying he was just running down to the beach to pick up his wheelchair-bound grandmother from her condo and take her to safety. Wheelchairs and condo-owning grandmothers are as ubiquitous on the West Coast of Florida as alligators. He was so convincing about the plight of his poor grandma that he narrowly escaped from having to accept a police escort.
Sudden pulled into the driveway of Longstreet’s building. Nearby palm trees were bent at a 45-degree angle and the storm’s roar was noticeable. He knew he didn’t have much time.
When he entered the lobby carrying his tool box and clipboard, he spotted a huge man sitting on a chair by the elevator bank looking fretfully out the lobby windows. The man struggled to his feet as Sudden approached. There was a bulge under his left armpit. Sudden had not expected a lobby guard. The man tensed but visibly relaxed when he saw the clipboard. Somebody should add clipboards to the lesson plan in Security 101, Sudden thought. Shoot on sight anyone approaching you with a clipboard. The guard raised his hand.
“Hold it right there, pal. Building’s closed.”
Sudden was ready for that.
“I’m with the County Office of Hurricane Preparedness. We’re doing our final inspections. Have to make sure everything is secure.”
“All the workers left. There ain’t nobody here.”
“You’re here.”
The guy had no answer for that, so he just said, “You gotta come back next week, once the storm blows over.”
“You want to run that by me again? Why would I want to inspect the building after the storm?”
The guard was thinking that over when there was a loud bang. Both men looked out at Sudden’s car. A large trash can was now wedged under the rear bumper.
“What happens if this building blows over in the meantime,” Sudden said, thankful both for the visual special effect and the fact that his car was a rental. He wondered if Nigel had taken the optional damage insurance. “What do I tell the mayor and the chief of police? You want me to lose my job?”
Sudden didn’t know if the town even had a mayor, o
r a police chief for that matter. They probably were called sheriffs in this part of Florida. But the thug was unlikely to know that. The mere mention of police instantly made the man uneasy.
“What do the cops have to do with it?”
Sudden gave what he hoped sounded like a bureaucratic sigh.
“I work for Hurricane Preparedness, a division of Public Safety. The Police Department has jurisdiction over them. I got more goddamn bosses than a Mormon husband. Come on, pal, I’m just doing my job. I gotta check the leaks we found in the penthouse during our last inspection. Especially the ones around the terrace doors. See if they’ve been patched. If not, I’ll put a temporary seal on them.” Sudden lifted the toolbox slightly. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“Nobody tells me shit.” The guard looked at the toolbox. “You gonna fix leaks with that?”
“Got some tubes of thermonuclear bonding epoxy. Standard in Florida in hurricane zones. Withstand a Category 5 hurricane or a small atomic detonation. Of course, then there will have to be a permanent fix.”
“I dunno, man. I can’t even call upstairs. Intercom hasn’t been connected. And I can’t leave my post.” The thug straightened slightly. “I was in the Army.”
There was a row of buttons on a brass panel next to the elevator, with a key slot at the very top of the row. It said “Penthouse.” The key was undoubtedly in one of the guard’s pockets. Sudden knew he could just shoot the guy and get the key. But the poor bastard was just trying to do his job. He’d never liked killing sentries and avoided it when he could.
TWO SUDDEN!: A Pair of Cole Sudden C.I.A. Thrillers Page 11