As I walked across the parking lot at Cap’s Place, I noticed Moe’s car parked behind the building. Moe runs the physical operation around here while Marge manages the personnel and business operations. Me, well I own the place, but mostly I try to stay out of their way. When I first inherited Cap’s Place, and ran it myself, red was the most prevalent color on the balance sheet. Marge and Moe have actually turned the place into a viable business. Of course, they always turn to me for the serious business decisions. Yeah, right, Jack, just keep telling yourself that.
I came in the back door and found Moe sitting at the bar drinking coffee with the newspaper spread out in front of him. In even the most relaxed setting Moe is one imposing figure. His 6-foot-4-inch frame carries 240 pounds of solid muscle, and with his perpetually shaved head I can’t help but think of him as a black version of Mr. Clean, minus the goofy grin and the earring.
Moe looked up, locked me in his piercing brown eyes and said, “Morning, Boss, glad to see you survived another morning run.”
I replied, “Let’s not jump to conclusions, Moe. Once my heart slows back down it may just quit.”
He pushed a coffee mug toward me and said, “Here, have a cup of coffee, the stuff I made this morning will definitely either cure ya or kill ya.”
“Good, if I’m gunna die, I don’t want to languish.” I poured a cup, pulled myself up onto the stool next to Moe, and asked, “What brings you in here so early?” We don’t open until 10:00 a.m., so most days Moe doesn’t come in until after 9:00 a.m. I was thinking that maybe he was here to work on the secret project he and I have been pursuing. After a recent remodeling project to provide a small stage for entertainment, Marge had started eliminating the nautical flea market junk that had previously been the predominate theme of our decorating. She said it was inconsistent with the younger crowd that we were attempting to attract. One day Moe and I looked around and decided that Cap’s Place was losing its true character. Neither of us had the guts to confront Marge with our assessment, so we started to slowly reintroduce elements of decoration we felt more appropriately reflected our vision for a Florida bar.
Moe replied, “I’ve got some maintenance to do in the kitchen, so I wanted to get it done before Juan gets here to fire up the grill.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.” I had visions of money burning. Seems like we’re always replacing something or other in the kitchen.
“Nothing serious. Just changing filters and cleaning traps. Regular stuff.”
I took a drink of the coffee and nearly choked. “My God, Moe, this stuff could melt steel.”
He gave me a smirk and replied, “Yeah, Boss, I got it a little strong this morning.”
“Why don’t you use the pre-measured packets that are made for the brewer?”
“What’s the sport in that? Then it always tastes the same. This way you get some variety.”
I grimaced, “Variety. That’s what you call it?”
In an effort to change the subject, Moe said, “Hey, Marge tells me you’ve been going to LA Fitness regularly. Got to admit that when you joined there I figured you wouldn’t last two weeks.”
I took a cautious sip of the black death and asked, “Have you been to one of those places lately?”
Moe cocked his head to one side as if searching his memory. “Ah, no. As in never.”
I reached up and patted him on the back. “Well, let me paint a picture for you, Moe. Certain times of the day, half, if not the majority, of the people there will be women. There is the occasional woman who’s there out of a necessity to lose weight, but they aren’t frequent users. No, the women there already have bodies to die for and they wear skin-tight exercise clothes that would have made a striper blush in the 80’s. No, Moe, the scenery alone is enough to prompt a guy to return.”
“From the sounds of it, I’m surprised you can get any blood to your muscles.”
“Oh no Moe, when at the gym, I’m all business. I was just describing the place for you.”
Moe laughed that low baritone laugh of his and slid the paper over to me. “Here, Boss, read the paper, I gotta get started or I’ll have to endure the wrath of Juan, because I’m not finished when he get’s here.” With that he slid off his stool and strode toward the kitchen. I took another careful sip of my coffee and flipped the paper to look at the front page. Sure enough, the lead story was the approach of Hurricane Ella. Evidently Ella was entering the Caribbean from the Atlantic as a Category 1 hurricane, but was expected to rapidly intensify as it sucked in the warmth of the Caribbean waters. The projected probable path of the storm looked pretty wide to me, with landfall anywhere between Key Largo and Daytona Beach. After all, if you project wide enough, you’re bound to get it right.
Additionally, the articles discussed at length the possibilities that Ella could either turn back out to sea or go north before making landfall at all. After reading all of the articles, it was my learned opinion that no one really had any idea what was going to happen. Of course that didn’t stop them from reminding people they should prepare for the potential of an approaching catastrophe.
A few years ago when the talking heads were projecting another storm was coming, we put up the plywood coverings over all of the windows of Cap’s Place and threw a hurricane party. The storm never came, but we did experience a bump in business. Something about approaching doom that makes people want to party. When Marge gets in later, I’ll ask her what she thinks about having another hurricane party, maybe without going through the ordeal of shuttering the windows. With all of the glass across the back wall of Cap’s Place, shuttering up is no small task.
After finishing the paper, and the one cup of Moe’s coffee that I could tolerate, I headed upstairs to shower.
CHAPTER TWO
After I showered and shaved, I grabbed a yogurt from the refrigerator, one of the few items on my approved list of breakfast foods, and ambled out onto the balcony behind the apartment. I slumped into a chair and gazed out past the marina behind Cap’s Place to the Atlantic and the still funky looking morning sky. I was concentrating on the less than memorable experience of my yogurt breakfast when my gaze drifted down to a couple of the boats in the marina. They were backing out of their slips and heading out for open water. I recalled that during past storm warnings, many people had relocated their boats, presumably to get them out of harm’s way. Maybe this was the beginning of that exodus.
As I was looking at the boats in the marina, I felt as if something was out of place. Was something missing? No, it was something that had not been there previously. There was a boat in the slip that had been Justin’s. The slip had been empty since the night Justin’s boat had blown up as it accelerated for open water. Johnny, the manager at the marina, later told me that Justin had paid for the slip for a year and that it was going to remain his for the entire year, whether he was there to use it or not.
Justin had been a shadowy character I had come to know since inheriting Cap’s Place. Well, I doubt that anyone really knows Justin, but I probably was as close to him as anyone around here. He had a military background and, as near as I could surmise, he was working as some type of mercenary. He helped me protect Sissy Storm, a bartender here, when her life was in danger and had even rescued my ass one time when I got on the wrong side of a mob guy from New Jersey. Justin had been one of those guys that was great to have on your side, but you couldn’t be confident he would always be on your side. At least that was the way I always saw him.
I was sitting on this very balcony one night as Justin backed his boat out of the slip and idled toward the Atlantic. As he got to open water, he hit the throttles and the boat exploded as I watched. No matter how many times I blink my eyes when looking out toward the ocean, I still see the image of the boat disintegrating into a ball of flames. Like Johnny, I wanted to think that Justin would return one day, but I knew better. At least I thought I knew better. His persona had always been so shadowy that I do harbor a thought in the back of my mind that
the whole thing was some kind of ruse for him to disappear. Sissy had called me a few months ago and sworn to me she was certain she had seen Justin at the airport in Atlanta. I told Sissy that she must have been mistaken, but her call had only added fuel to my nagging speculation.
I looked at the boat in Justin’s slip. I don’t know a lot about boats, but I knew that this was some type of trawler. You could walk all around the cabin and it had an open deck in both the bow and the stern. It was a lot more utilitarian looking than the sleek boat Justin owned. Somehow, it just didn’t look like Justin’s style. I’ll have to wander down and see Johnny later, he probably just faced the reality that Justin wasn’t returning and released the slip.
Mid-morning I plopped down on the small couch across from Marge’s desk in the office. She looked up from the mountain of invoices she was processing and said, “Hi, Jack. How are you today?”
Marge is in her fifties and can probably best be described as having the appearance of an attractive stylish professional woman. In many ways she looks out of place around here, but there’s no doubt that she’s the catalyst that keeps everything functioning. It’s not that things didn’t function when I ran the place, it’s just that we make money now. Probably a good attribute for a business.
Marge has seemed more relaxed and laid back lately and I attribute that to a couple of things. First of all, she came here fresh from a career in investment banking. I have to believe that the atmosphere she had been accustomed to had been much more demanding than things around Cap’s Place. She’s probably finally becoming comfortable in a world that isn’t one crisis after another. Secondly, and maybe more importantly, she seems to have developed a relationship with Harry Ward, a regular customer. Harry is a little older than Marge, coming to Florida after he had retired from the hardware business. Harry’s wife had died shortly after he retired and I think he was a little disoriented when he first arrived here. Marge and Harry have developed a relationship that seems to have brightened both of their outlooks on life. I don’t know if it’s any more than just a platonic relationship and it’s really none of my business. It seems to work for them, and that’s all that counts.
I replied to Marge, “I’m great, especially for a guy whose reward for jogging before the sun awoke was thick milk as a breakfast.”
“Oh, you poor baby.”
“Somehow I’m not feeling a strong sympathetic vibe from you, Marge.”
She smiled and said, “You are a quick one, Jack. A gal just can’t fool you, can she?”
I feigned hurt and then said, “Hey, with all of the hype the media is giving to the weather, I was wondering if the timing would be good for another hurricane party? Something like the one you put on a couple of years ago, but maybe without all the work of putting up the shutters.”
A serious expression swept away the smirk on her face. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the weather, Jack. I think that we should start to make hurricane preparations, but for real this time. Do you remember that I told you I had a nephew who worked at the National Hurricane Center? Well, he left there and went to work for American Airlines as a meteorologist. As you can imagine, the airlines keep pretty close tabs on the weather. Well anyway, he called me this morning and told me that he believes Hurricane Ella is going to develop into a major hurricane and that we may well be in store for a direct hit. I think we’d better prepare for the worst.”
“Wow, you’re a real wet blanket. Pardon the pun. Here I’m thinking party and you’re saying doom. You really think it’s that bad?”
Marge looked me directly in the eyes. “All I can tell you is that since I first came to Florida, through all of the weather alerts and warnings, this is the first time my nephew ever called me. He thinks it’s serious, so yes, I think it may well be the real deal this time. I think we should do everything we can to secure the building and prepare to evacuate.”
The word evacuate hit me like a ton of bricks. I had thought about shuttering up the building, that seemed like something we would do if a real storm approached, but I had never really thought about evacuation. I’d heard the references to evacuation plans in the public service announcements on television, but had never really paid much attention to the maps they displayed. I asked, “You really think we’ll need to evacuate?”
“Yeah, we’ll need to evacuate. Look outside sometime, Jack, we’re only a few feet above sea level. Much storm surge at all and this whole area will be flooded. You do realize that this little slip of land we’re on between the ocean and the Intracoastal is only a few blocks wide and a few feet above the water. Any significant storm here along the coast and we’re underwater.”
This conversation had suddenly turned much more serious then I expected when I brought up the party idea. I pondered her words and then asked, “How much time do you think we have? Sounded like the storm was still quite a way out in the ocean.”
“Two or three days before things get real serious, but we’ll have a much better idea later in the day when the reports from the latest Hurricane Hunter flights are released.”
Two or three days—now she really had my attention. “That’s not that long. Where do we start? What all needs to be done?”
A small smile crossed Marge’s face. She reached into a file drawer in her desk and withdrew a thick folder and tossed it onto the desktop. “One thing I have to say for Mickey, he put together a robust storm plan for this place. Everything we need is right here, complete with a checklist, so we don’t miss anything.”
I picked up the folder and flipped through a few pages. “I remember seeing this in the drawer, but never really looked at it. Wonder what prompted him to do such a thorough job? It’s not like he’d experienced hurricanes in Detroit.”
Marge nodded and said, “I can tell you why. Your Aunt Jean was very worried about storms. I can remember her telling me so right after we met. She came down here with the expectation that hurricanes were an annual occurrence. I think Mickey did it to help put her mind at ease. To show her that they were prepared.”
Holding up the file, I asked, “Have you looked through this lately?”
Marge shook her head and replied, “Not this season. I glanced through it once last season when one of the storms was churning around out there, but in all honesty I haven’t really looked closely at it in a couple of years.”
I gestured toward the stack of invoices on her desk and said, “How about I take this upstairs and read through it while you finish what you’re doing. Maybe this afternoon you and I and Moe can sit down and talk through what needs to be done and when we need to do it.”
Marge nodded. “That would be great, Jack.” Then she smiled and added, “And I appreciate you taking this seriously, Jack.”
I stood and started for the door. “What, me not take something seriously? You must have me confused with some other good-looking jock named Jack around here.” Marge’s groan suggested that she didn’t fully appreciate my wit.
CHAPTER THREE
I took the file Marge had given me upstairs to my apartment and spread it out on the table. I started to go to the refrigerator to get a Landshark, but remembering my new fitness program I opted to make a small pot of coffee instead. As I paged through the file, I gained a new respect for Uncle Mickey. He had obviously put considerable effort into planning for numerous contingencies, including evacuation. I was especially impressed by his listing of the various tasks in a decision tree format. By following the developing conditions and impact of the storm, you were guided through the sequential steps to be taken to prepare to ride it out, or when conditions warranted, to evacuate. Simple, but important, instructions from how to start the emergency generator in the event of the loss of electrical power, to the application of waterproof caulk to the exterior doors as you secured and evacuated the building.
Under its weathered wood exterior, Cap’s Place is a cement block building that should withstand most storms. The most vulnerable aspects of the building are the large win
dows and sliding glass doors running the across the back on both levels. They afford great views of the marina and ocean, but they are certainly vulnerable to flying debris during a storm. Mickey had reinforced plywood covers built for these areas as well as the smaller windows on the front side of the building. The ground floor is about four feet above the parking lot, but in the event of significant storm surge, Mickey had planned to utilize waterproof caulk on the three exterior doors, all of which open out. His instructions read, Open the door. Apply copious amounts of caulk all the way around the door jamb. Slam and lock the door. Apply plywood sheets to the outside. Pray.
It was chilling to think of actually preparing for a storm that would prompt these types of actions, but if Marge’s nephew was correct, that was exactly what we would be doing. Even with the detailed instructions Mickey had prepared laying before me on the table, I could feel self-doubt enveloping me. Could I do this, could I make the correct decisions at the correct time to lead us through the coming days? Oh, Marge and Moe would be here to help in the decision making, but in the end Cap’s Place and the people here are my responsibility. That’s what you’re afraid of, Jack. It isn’t the storm, it’s the responsibility. It’s your lack of self-confidence that stokes your fear. People are relying on you, depending on you, and you don’t think you’re up to the challenge.
I had just slipped into a serious session of introspection when my cell phone vibrated on the table. I couldn’t help but smile when I saw that the call was from PJ. I answered, “Hi there, how’s South Florida’s best-looking private eye this fine day?”
Chaotic Be Jack Page 2
