Damaged (16 page)

Maggie’s eyes darted around but she stayed with elbows on the table, hands circling her condensation-drenched plastic glass. “I guess I’m surprised there doesn’t seem to be much panic or anxiety.”

“Oh, there’s anxiety. Long lines yesterday. Hardware stores are sold out of generators and plywood. Grocery stores’ shelves are picked clean. Can’t find any bagged ice or bottled water. Most of the gas stations are pumped dry or just about there. But these folks”—Wurth pointed discreetly with his chin—“they look out for themselves and their neighbors. They know the drill. The Panhandle has already had a couple of tropical storms hit earlier this year, and with three hurricanes making landfall on Florida, they realize their odds.

“That’s the locals. Now the transplants—and there are plenty of them—they’re the ones I have to convince to evacuate and get to a shelter. The city commissioners will be declaring a state of emergency later this morning. You watch. We start getting closer to the realization that this storm’s gonna hit, that quiet anxiety will boil. Tempers will flare. Patience wears thin. We’ll start getting some pushing and shoving.”

Rita appeared again with half a dozen plates to set on their table. Maggie had to admit, everything smelled wonderful and it reminded her that she hadn’t had dinner last night.

She sliced into the omelet with her fork and melted cheese oozed out. Wurth scooped his grits into his scrambled eggs and using a slice of toast as a wedge he proceeded to wolf down the concoction.

“I haven’t exactly figured out what to do with you,” he said in between bites.

“You’ll drop me at the morgue. I can probably find my way back to the hotel.”

He shook his head, smothering his hash browns with salt and pepper. “No, no, I can pick you up and get you back to the hotel. I mean during the hurricane. We won’t be able to stay on the beach. Actually most of the hotel guests were checking out this morning. The manager’s doing us a favor letting us stay until he’s ordered to leave. Which will probably be tomorrow, depending on how soon the outer bands hit.”

“Ordered to leave?”

“Mandatory evacuation on the beach and in low-lying areas. Sheriff’s department goes door to door. Anyone wants to stay they have to sign off that they’re doing so at their own risk and are relieving the authorities of any further obligation.”

“Where will you be during the storm?”

“Probably working one of the shelters.”

“Then I’ll work one of the shelters.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Maggie.”

“You’re not asking. I’m volunteering.”

He put his fork down and sat back to look at her. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I asked you to ride down here with me. All three hurricanes this season I’ve been the anti–Jim Cantore. Wherever I was sent, the storm turned and headed in the opposite direction. But I should have known my luck would change. Now I’ve brought you smack-dab in the middle and this one looks like it’ll be a monster.”

“Charlie, I can take care of myself. It’s one storm. How bad can it be?”

The look he gave her said she had no idea.

CHAPTER 32

Scott Larsen had left before Trish woke up. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all. His eyelids were heavy. His head throbbed. His mouth insisted he had swallowed a wad of cotton. Even his hair hurt when he combed it. Never again would he drink so much. In fact, he didn’t care if he had an ounce of alcohol ever again.

To make matters worse, he saw Joe had been back to the funeral home. One tap of a button and the alarm system revealed that someone using Scott’s key and code had entered at 3:10 in the morning and left at 4:00. What the hell was Joe doing?

Scott hoped he wouldn’t be sorry he had given Joe the code. As he came in the back door of the funeral home he caught himself wincing, the throbbing in his head bouncing off the backs of his eyeballs. He dreaded finding another mess in the embalming room. He could already smell the pungent odor of cleaners mixed with … what was that? Oh, yeah. Menthol.

He stopped before he got to the doorway. Clean. Thank God, it was clean. So the odors were from their afternoon work. Maybe Joe had added some specimens to the walk-in fridge. Scott was on his way to check when the buzzer at the back door went off. He glanced at his watch. The power guy he had called earlier was right on time.
Damn well should be for what they were charging just to show Scott where to flip a switch for the generator.

“Mr. Larsen?” The guy towered over Scott. Or maybe the massive tool belt and size-twelve work boots made the man seem huge. An embroidered patch on his breast pocket said his name was Ted.

“That’s right, I’m Larsen,” Scott told him while he straightened his tie. It was a nervous habit and he stopped himself. Stupid to think he needed to show some authority with this guy. “I think all the electrical stuff is outside, around back.”

Scott led the way. He could feel sweat sliding down his back and sticking to his crisply pressed shirt. Luckily he kept spares in the office. Nobody trusted a sweaty funeral director.

The sky was murky, but it didn’t seem to block out the heat. If anything it heightened the humidity. Scott noticed the wind had picked up. Son of a bitch, that storm might actually hit.

“Here it is.” He pointed to the rectangular metal boxes with electrical wires weaving their way out of the top and bottom.

Ted flipped open the box’s door.

“Yeah, you’re all set up.”

Scott held back a sigh of relief. Of course, he was set up. He just needed to know how to turn the damn generator on.

“You push this button.” Ted pointed. “Followed by this one. That sequence, okay?” He was talking to him as if Scott were a third grader.

“Yeah, sure. No problem.” Scott answered, wanting to add “bastard.”

“Then you pull this lever.”

“Got it. Guess I’m good to go.” He turned, ready to walk the guy back.

“Wait a minute. What’s this one?” Ted had opened the other box.

“Oh that’s some stuff I added when I bought the place. A walkway to connect the buildings. Brand-new walk-in cooler. Couple of freezers. The old ones were too small. Pretty outdated.”

“You know that everything on this circuit board isn’t connected?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You won’t have generator power for anything you added on these circuits.”

“No, that can’t be right.”

“It’s not connected.” Ted pointed down below both boxes.

“Will it take long for you to connect it?”

Ted laughed. Then he must have seen the panic on Scott’s face. “Sorry, man. Even if I could connect it, your current generator wouldn’t have enough juice for everything on the second panel.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“If you have a separate generator, you can hook it up directly. Make sure you use the double-insulated power cord. You say you’ve got a walk-in cooler. That’s probably going to need 5500 all to itself.”

“So I just go out and buy a 5500 generator. No problem.”

“Go out and buy one? You mean you don’t already have another generator?”

“No.”

“Maybe you could use your home one.”

“I don’t have a home one. So I need to go to Home Depot or Lowe’s and get one?”

Now the guy laughed again. “I don’t think you’ll find one. Not around Pensacola anyway. My guess is they’re sold out.”

CHAPTER 33

Liz brought in the
Pensacola News Journal
and handed it to her dad on the way back to the kitchen.

“Thank you, darling.”

“Dad, you’ll never guess who I ran into on the beach last night.”

“Who’s that?”

“Scott.”

“Scott?”

“Scott Larsen, your son-in-law.”

“Scott? At the beach? Scott never goes to the beach.”

“Well, he was there last night and he was drunk.”

“Drunk? Scott? Scott doesn’t drink.”

“Very drunk.”

“Maybe a beer now and then. That’s about all I’ve ever seen him drink. What are you doing there?” He had followed her into the kitchen and was standing beside her, more interested in the stove top than in anything she was saying.

“I’m fixing us breakfast.”

“Eggs and bacon?”

“Dippy eggs.” That’s what he called them because he liked to dip
his toast into the yolk. When he didn’t answer she added, “Sunny-side up, right? Or have you changed your preference.”

“No, no, that’s perfect.” He stayed watching. “You can cook?”

“Dad, I’ve lived on my own for eight years now. What do you think I do? Eat out all the time?”

“Trish always said you didn’t cook.”

“Yeah, I bet she did.”

“So what did Trish say?”

“About what?”

“About Scott being drunk.”

“I didn’t tell her.”

“She wasn’t with him?”

“Uh, noooo. You think he would be drunk if Trish was with him?”

“He’s an odd duck. Won’t even have a beer with me.”

Walter shook his head. Now at the refrigerator he poured orange juice for both of them. Then he did something that almost made Liz drop her spatula. He started setting the table: plates, coffee cups, sugar bowl, cream, silverware, even napkins and place mats. She stopped herself from commenting. Trish would have to correct him, make sure he switched the fork to the other side of the plate or that he folded the napkin. Liz just dropped bread in the toaster.

“I’m off until noon today,” she told him. “Anything I can do to help you?”

“In the canteen?”

“No, Dad. Here at the house. For the hurricane. Did you get everything you need? I’m sure store shelves are picked over by today.”

“Apple Market had all their refrigerated items discounted. Ground beef, twenty-five cents a pound.”

“Aren’t your own refrigerators full enough?”

“Maybe I’ll take the grill and do up a few burgers alongside the hot dogs.”

“Are you really taking the canteen out on the beach today?”

“Thought I would for a few hours around lunch.”

“People are going to be packing up. Everything will be closing down.”

“Exactly, and folks are still gonna need to get a bite to eat.”

She prepared their plates and, again, stopped herself from commenting. The canteen had saved him. Liz was willing to recognize that even if Trish wasn’t. It had given him something to do after their mom was gone. He didn’t need the money. The house was paid for and his pension as a retired navy commander seemed to be more than enough for him. But he did need the routine the Coney Island Canteen had brought into his life. More important, it surrounded him with people. Everybody on the beach knew the hot-dog man, or if they knew him well, it was “Mr. B.”

“So what will they have you doing today?” He asked as he dipped the corner of his toast into his egg yolk.

“Little bit of everything, I imagine. Patrolling the waters, warning boaters, at least until the winds get out of hand. Then we’ll probably be helping evacuate.”

“You know Danny? Works on the beach cleanup crew? Little guy. Loves to surf.”

She watched her dad out of the corner of her eye. He was devouring her breakfast and she wanted to smile. That was probably the biggest compliment Walter Bailey could pay her.

“I’ve seen him around.”

“Lives in his car. An old red Chevy Impala.”

“Yeah, he lives in that car?”

“Make sure he evacuates, would you? He’s from Kansas where they try to outrun tornadoes. I just want to make sure he doesn’t think he can do the same with a hurricane.”

“Sure. I’ll look for him.”

“Say, whatever happened to that fishing cooler?”

Before Liz could answer there was a knock at the front door, a twist of a key followed by, “Hello, hello.”

Trish stomped into the kitchen. She didn’t seem to notice that she was interrupting a meal. She led off with: “I’m going to kill that husband of mine.”

CHAPTER 34