Children and sandpipers and terns played at the edge of the water. The dumpy little swells came in off the Gulf, lifting in a lazy sheen to about an eight-inch height before slapping the wet sand and making a six-foot run of foam through the crab holes and broken shells. The sunbrowners lay like death under the hard weight of the hazed sun, their bodies shining and frying in oil.
Sam Harrison marveled at the unending column of high-rise buildings standing at attention at the edge of the water. Most of them had some supposed protection against high water, berms or seawalls or a slant of riprap. Far ahead they marched on, following the gentle contours of the sandspit island.
The unreality of the situation made Sam Harrison feel slightly dazed. Surely there were people here who knew what was happening. They had seen it happening. Didn’t they give a damn?
The predicted maximum-wave uprush was, according to Gus Garver, thirteen feet above the mean high-water line. There was no dune protection here. The vegetation line was nil. Sweet, dumb, innocent people were living in these things, with all their worldly goods. They were encased in solid concrete, so they felt safe. “Good God, mister, the real estate agent wouldn’t have sold it to me and the bank wouldn’t have taken the mortgage if it wasn’t safe as a church, right?”
Here were the big buildings, with their toes practically in the water, and out there was the benign and smiling sea.
With practiced eye he could see that the longshore current and littoral drift was from north to south. He could tell that from the visible erosion. The wave action far out gave him a clue as to the bottom contour, probably shelving off very gradually. Historically, this broad beach would have disappeared and reappeared many times, eroded and replenished over and over.
He went up to what he estimated to be the mean high-tide line and, with his eye, estimated a thirteen-foot crest against the nearby condominium. Of course, that thirteen foot was just the storm surge. Take storm surge and add to it all the factors to make a maximum-wave setup, and you could be looking at twenty or twenty-five feet, right here. Wave surge plus a coordinating high tide plus a wind increased by the velocity of the main body of the storm itself, plus recent heavy rainfall, plus a very low barometric pressure and, he thought, you could get those big gray bastards marching in and breaking against the third story and hurling spray up onto the roof.
He walked on. With sudden insight he realized that it was like the emotional anesthesia of combat. These condominium dwellers were absolutely positive that if something terrible did happen, it would happen at Sarasota, or Fort Myers, or Venice, or Naples, or St. Pete Beach. It would never happen here, at Athens, at Fiddler Key. And if it did, then it would knock down somebody else’s building. And if it knocked down their building, they would be evacuated in time and the insurance would cover everything.
Near the village the beach dwindled due to erosion, and after climbing over a couple of new groins which were supposed to help, and hadn’t, he went up to the road and walked through the village and then back out onto the beach, and through a public beach area. A couple of dozen cars twinkled and baked in the large parking lot. Lifeguards drowsed on their towers, shaded by fringed and faded canvas. A young girl was screening coquinas at the water’s edge. Two hefty old women were slowly shelling their way along the high-tide windrow of shell and weed, dropping their treasures into string bags. He happened to be staring seaward when a big ray leaped high, going eight or ten feet in the air. It had at least a six-foot wingspread. It came down and whacked the water with its wings, sounding to Harrison like a distant pistol shot. One ichthyologist had told him the ray does that to rid itself of parasites that fasten onto it as it swims near the bottom, through the weeds. A second believed it does that to stun schools of minnows and then feed at leisure. Sam held to the private belief that they do it for the hell of it, because it feels good and makes a nice noise.
He noticed that the small waves had begun to break on a bar about two hundred yards offshore. He could see the pallor of the bar under the very blue water. He guessed that it was almost dead low tide. Say the waves were a foot high coming onto the bar, they would break when the water was 1.3 times as deep as the wave was high. So, sixteen inches of depth at low tide, and not much of a tide in the Gulf, call it three feet of depth over the bar at high tide. It could be a little protection this far down the key, depending on how broad the bar might be, and how broad it might become in the winter tides.
After a time he saw the Islander in the distance. It was imitation Samoan, a lot of beehive structures of various sizes, linked by sheltered walkways. He found his way through the maze to the front desk where the male desk clerk, all beads, tan and hairdo, forgave him at once for not having a reservation and rented him a cabana between the pool and the beach for forty-one sixty a day, including tax, a special bargain in the off season.
“That unit rents for a hundred and fifteen double in February,” he said. “A hundred and nineteen sixty with tax.”
“I’ll remember to think about that,” Sam said, retrieving his credit card and stowing it away.
“If you want to know about the action …”
“Not particularly.”
“… there isn’t hardly any. There isn’t hardly any in all of Palm County. It’s conservative. You know.”
“I know.”
“On vacation, Mr. Harrison?”
“Yes and no.”
“Well … anything you want to know about Fiddler Key, we’ll be glad to try to help. Can you find it yourself? I can call …”
“I’ll find it.”
It was Cabana 3. It was air conditioned into the low sixties. He found the control and moved it up to eighty. He found that he had two double beds, a glass-enclosed shower, a lot of white furniture, an aqua shag rug, an ice maker, a closed circuit movie channel and a room-service menu for drinks and food.
He stretched out for a few moments to plan the rest of his day, and, as always when in a new place, he wondered if he was living as well as his ex-wife. He had seen a needlepoint framed on the wall of a restaurant once. It said, “Living well is the best revenge.” He had never quite understood what it meant. Stel had to be living well, or she wasn’t trying. She had fallen in love with a chubby, jolly little man from Shreveport who had a natural gas flow of half a trillion feet a day. It had turned out to be Sam’s fault for being away so much. What do you expect? Anyway?
24
THE SPECIAL MEETING of the Golden Sands Condominium Association was called for one thirty, with notification posted beside the elevators on every floor forty-eight hours ahead of time.
The meeting was in the dayroom on the first floor, situated almost directly over the office and the manager’s apartment. It was a room thirty feet by sixty feet, with windows looking west. There were minuscule toilet facilities at one end, and at the other end, behind folding doors kept locked by Julian Higbee, rudimentary kitchen facilities. This public space had been made available by limiting the size of the first-floor apartments.
During the period of intense sales effort to show and sell the Golden Sands apartments, the dayroom had been most attractively furnished, with Naugahyde, imitation slate, decorator lamps and inlaid game tables. It was pointed out to all prospects that this lounge area, along with the tennis courts and swimming pool, were for the use of the residents, with a small monthly charge for lease and maintenance. In late February when most of the apartments had been sold, two men in a moving van leased by Investment Equities had pulled up and off-loaded a considerable quantity of cheap new wicker furniture, folding card tables and gooseneck floor lamps with flower-pattern paper shades. They had taken away all the attractive furniture.
There were roars of outrage from the owners. Julian Higbee, at that time not subject to restraint, roared back at them. It was only out of the goodness of their hearts, he said, that Investment Equities put in any furniture at all. The owners were leasing the space. Nobody had ever said that the furniture was permanent. If the Associatio
n wanted better furniture they could go buy it and put it in there and Investment Equities would gladly take back this fine wicker furniture and put it somewhere else. In a few weeks the fevered objections faded as new impositions took priority. And in a few months the wicker furniture looked as if it had had a generation of use, and the card tables tended to collapse without warning.
As was customary at such meetings, several card tables had been aligned in front of the folding doors to the kitchen, and the directors sat behind them. Pete McGinnity, the president, in the middle, with Hadley Forrester, the vice-president, on his left and David Dow, the treasurer, on his right. Beyond David was the secretary, Stanley Wasniak, and on the other end, beyond Forrester, was Gus Garver, the director at large. Wasniak was nearest the windows. Seated at right angles to him, her back to the windows, was Francine Gregg from Apartment 1-A, an intensely affable little woman who was a wizard at shorthand and typing. Her husband, Rolph, spent most of his time soldering wire AB to terminal CD. He had become such an expert that when the Heathkit manual said the remote control color television set could be built in forty evenings, Rolph could manage it in less than forty-five. In addition to the electric organ, the high-fidelity components and a CB radio, Rolph had built the public-address system used at Association meetings. The mike stood on the table in front of McGinnity, and the speaker stood under the table, aimed at the audience, with the controls atop the speaker cabinet. Francine and Rolph were, McGinnity realized, essential to the proper operation of the Association. She kept the minute books, and she did a great deal of the bookkeeping for David Dow. Rolph Gregg had posted the notice of the meetings, had taken it on himself to remind everyone, and was ever ready to run any errand the directors devised.
The Greggs had an odd compulsion to serve. They sought no reward, not even recognition, for they were both self-effacing. It seemed to be enough to be a part of some form of formal organization. McGinnity was grateful to them. They lifted the burden of scut work. And they looked alike.
Julian Higbee sat at the other end of the line of card tables, at right angles to Gus Garver. He was there by invitation, to impart information and to relay requests.
McGinnity looked at his watch, looked at the audience and tapped the big black gavel on the ebony block, leaned toward the mike and said, “We’ll wait another few minutes before starting the meeting. I don’t believe we’re all here yet.” The clamor of voices began again. Rolph Gregg darted up and adjusted the controls on the speaker, then trotted to the open door and looked down the hall toward the elevators. He turned and nodded at McGinnity. More coming.
At twenty minutes of two, sensing his audience was growing restive, Pete McGinnity banged the gavel and said, “I now call this meeting of the Golden Sands Condominium Association to order. As you know from previous meetings, our roll call is a complicated procedure. For any action within the stipulations of the Declaration of Condominium, a simple majority of those present, in person or by proxy, is required. An amendment to the Declaration requires a two-thirds majority of all owners, which in our case means the owners of thirty apartments. In the case of the absentee owners, Mr. Secretary, can you tell us the status of the proxies, please?”
Wasniak said, “With the permission of the Chair, I’d like for Mrs. Gregg to cover that part of it.”
McGinnity nodded and Mrs. Gregg cleared her throat and said, “There are eleven apartments where the owners do not reside in the apartments. The owner of Two-E and Two-F, Mr. McKay, is present. We have proxies in hand for the secretary to vote on Two-C, Mr. Horuck; Three-F, Mr. Kubit; Five-E, Mr. Pastorelli; Six-A, Mr. Birnbrode; and Six-B, Mr. Stetman. Our manager, Mr. Higbee, has been authorized to vote in behalf of Investment Equities, Incorporated, for the two apartments they own, Five-A and Six-E. So there are only two proxies missing.
“Now for the remaining thirty-six apartments, I have the master list here and I have been marking off the people I recognize. The first floor would seem to be complete: Gregg, DeLand, Garver, Rastow, Furmond, Taller and Simmins.
“On the second floor, I see Mrs. Santelli … and Mr. Quillan. Is Mrs. Neale here? Oh, there you are. Thank you. And there you are, Mr. Kelsey. Four present and proxies on three, completing the second floor.
“For the third floor I’ve marked as present Truitt, Gobbin, Dow, Dawdy and Branhammer. I am missing Mr. and Mrs. Schantz. Are they here? No? One missing from the third floor then.
“On the fourth we are missing a proxy and I have checked off as present Elbright, Ames, Twigg and Prentice. I am missing Mr. Barker.”
A voice in the audience said, “He had to take his wife back to the hospital last night. She was pretty bad again.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Twigg. So there’s another one absent. And is Peggy Brasser here?” There was a sound of snickering. Somebody faked a loud hiccup. Laughter. Ignoring it, Mrs. Gregg said, “Two absent on four, plus the proxy. On the fifth floor we have the two proxies, and I have marked as present Jeffrey, Winney, Wasniak and Hascoll. I do not see either Mr. or Mrs. Protus.”
A voice said, “They’re on another cruise.”
“Thank you. On the sixth floor, we are missing one of four proxies, and I see that the Clevelands, the Mensenkotts and the Churchbridges are all here. We have just five terrace apartments on the top floor. Mrs. Messenger? Present. And of course Mr. McGinnity and Mr. Forrester, officers of the Association. And Mr. Davenport, present. And the Reverend Doctor Starf?”
“He knew about it. I told him.”
“That should complete the roll call, Mr. Secretary,” she said and slid her sheet over to where Stanley Wasniak could read it.
He picked it up and cleared his throat. “Mr. Chairman, I’d like to report as follows. Present are members representing forty apartments. Missing are proxies from two absentee owners and five residents, making seven. This is the best attendance we’ve ever had, and it is enough so according to the Articles of Condominium we can change the Articles if thirty of the forty present vote in favor of the change.”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary. Inasmuch as the minutes of the last meeting were duplicated and distributed to all owners, I will entertain a motion that we dispense with the reading of the minutes of the last meeting at this time.”
“So move,” said Forrester.
“Second,” said Garver.
“In favor? Opposed? Carried. And now we will proceed—”
Frank Branhammer sprang to his feet, red fists clenched, big red face scowling and bulging. “Just one goddam minute here!”
Pete McGinnity banged his gavel. “Please sit down, Mr. Branhammer. You’re out of order.”
“I want to know what the hell is going on!” he yelled, ignoring his wife, who was tugging at his arm and whispering at him.
“We are dispensing with the reading of the minutes,” McGinnity said. “That means we are not spending time having Stanley here read three pages of minutes. That’s why we had copies sent to everybody. You got a copy. Now sit down!”
“Does that mean nobody gets any chance to talk about any of the shit you people put in those minutes?”
McGinnity roared at him. “When we get to that part of the agenda, to that part of the list of things we are going to talk about here today, we are going to talk about what’s in those minutes, under old business. But maybe you won’t be here because if you keep up that garbage mouth of yours, I’ll have you put out of the meeting.”
After five seconds of fixed glare, Branhammer, mumbling almost inaudibly, sat down.
“What did you call me?” McGinnity demanded.
Branhammer studied him and said distinctly, “I called you an ass hole, you ass hole! I don’t trust a one of you overeducated ass holes sitting there in a goddam row.”
McGinnity stood up and dropped the gavel on the table, making a thunderous sound over the amplifier. He shook his big head. “I don’t have to take this, do I? I don’t have to take this at any time from anybody. Have yourselves a nice meeting.�
��
There had been gasps of astonishment and outrage at Branhammer’s language. There was a shocked silence as Pete McGinnity strode toward the door. Wasniak and Garver went after him. Gus turned in the doorway and said with the clear and unmistakable ring of authority, “All of you sit quietly until we get back.”
Brooks Ames came forward from the back of the room and edged along a row until he was behind Branhammer, who sat with chin on his big chest, fists on his knees, huge belly in his lap. Brooks Ames wore the symbols of his authority, his armband, ID tag, whistle and handgun. He wore his khaki shirt and shorts. He tapped Branhammer on the shoulder and said, “As Sergeant at Arms of this meeting of the Golden Sands Condominium Association, I must request that you leave the meeting.”
Branhammer turned slowly and looked up at him. “Eh?”
“You have to leave now, Branhammer.”
“Or what?”
“Or … I will escort you out.”
“Escort me?” Branhammer looked startled and then he smiled, and with reptilian quickness hooked a big finger in the red woven cord around Ames’s neck and yanked his head down to within a few inches of Branhammer’s red face. “Escort me?”
Condominium Page 23
