Gathering Storm

by Sherilyn Decter

  Edith smiles and shrugs. “I can add all that stuff. I can fix the roof. I’ll put in a bathroom. People will come.”

  “There are much better business opportunities in Miami, Edith.”

  Edith smiles at her friend. “Probably too many. And maybe business opportunities aren’t the point, Mae.”

  The warm breeze plays with Edith’s hair. Diamonds sparkle on the water. Seabirds skitter along the shoreline. Edith holds her breath as a lone, stately heron stands on the sand, waves gently lapping its feet. “I’m prepared to work hard. Maybe I can get my second chance to roll up by rolling up my sleeves.

  “Looks like we got company,” Mae says, pointing toward the car with her chin. Coming around the parked car are two men dressed in patched overalls over collarless shirts. They’re the same height and sport the same tow-headed hair, even have the same strut.

  Edith and Mae meet them in front of the veranda.

  “Afternoon, ladies. Joe’s kinfolk said that you’d be stopping by today and we should give you a tour of the place.”

  “Hello. A pleasure to meet you. I’m Edith Duffy, and this is my friend, Mae.” She steps forward, hand extended.

  One of the men wipes his hand on the back of his overalls. “I’m Zeke, and this is my brother, Otis.”

  Otis, swaying, belches old beer. He leers at Edith and winks at Mae. “Ladies.”

  “They say yer looking to buy Gator’s.”

  “Yes. I’m wanting to settle near Miami. My late husband was in the entertainment business. I thought I might turn my hand to that. Mae said she knew of a place, and here we are.”

  “A dame, eh?” Zeke scratches his head. “Not sure how Joe would feel about that.”

  “When pigs fly,” Otis mutters.

  “Joe always kept us around. Said we were handy fellas. You gonna run it as a blind tiger, again? We helped him with the bootlegging. Could give you a hand with that. And the heavy lifting. Keep the place secure, too.”

  “Secure?” Edith asks.

  Otis nods, coughs, and spits. “A woman like yerself, all on her own out here, probably needs some protection. We got gators and panthers, and they’re the friendly critters next to some of the folks in town. No-sir-ee, you wouldn’t want to tangle with town folks.”

  “Mrs. Duffy hasn’t finalized her plans—”

  “If I do buy the place, I’ll want to interview a few fellas first. I’ll be doing the running of the business.”

  “Interview?” Otis horks up a large wad of phlegm and spits it on the ground. “That’s not how it works around here.”

  “Well, I’m not from around here and that’s how it’s going to work. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”

  Turning, Edith walks back to the dock with Mae following. She stands, arms folded, staring out over the water.

  “I think you made the right decision about those two. Shifty and rude. You can do better. And speaking of which—”

  “Mae, can’t you just feel how perfect it is?”

  “Honey, you said you’d think about it before you made a decision. We came down here on a bit of a lark. This is the only place we’ve looked at. You’re not really thinking of buying this place, surely? It’s run down, out in the middle of nowhere, and those two look like trouble.”

  “So perfect.”

  “Look, let’s go back to Miami. I know we can find a nice little spot. Like Tobacco Road. I bet we could pick up Donnie’s club for a song. You liked it there, didn’t you?”

  “Mae, Miami was built to be New York with palm trees. They’re the same people as up north, only tanned. Same troubles. Same attitudes. Been there, done that. I’m itching to try something new.”

  “But not too new. Just look at how rough this all is.” Mae can almost see the rose-colored glasses her friend refuses to take off.

  “Life gets boring when you stay in the lane of what you already know.” Edith eyes are sparkling. “When you’re scared to jump is exactly when you should. Otherwise, you wind up staying in the same place your whole life. And that I cannot do.”

  “Edith Duffy. I’ve never known you to be a foolish or impulsive woman. But why not something a little closer to Miami? Something more upscale?”

  “You and Anna and your ‘upscale’. I never painted you for a snob, Mae Capone.” Edith takes hold of both of Mae’s hands. “I don’t want to think. I want to act. I feel like I’ve been waiting for this moment a long time, Mae. Can’t you understand? I don’t want to miss out and then regret it my whole life.”

  Edith gives the property another once-over, then releases Mae’s hands. She is already running to the car as she says, “Wait here, I left something in the car that would be perfect for right now.” Seconds later she’s holding up a bottle of Mickey’s premium blend whiskey. She returns with the bottle and two glasses.

  “I brought this along. It’s one of Mickey’s—his best. I wanted a part of him here at the beginning, just in case things worked out.” She pours the drinks.

  “Here’s to you,” Mae says, raising her glass and sipping. “Oh, that is nice.”

  “And to Gator Joe’s. We’re both getting a second chance.”

  Mae surveys Gator’s and shakes her head. “Second chances are noble, Edith. This is more of a third chance. And third chances are just foolish.”

  Chapter 14

  M ae and Edith climb back into the car. “You’re going to need some place for customers to park. This just won’t cut it with gals wearing stockings,” Mae says.

  Edith grins. “I’ll start a list. Roof, refrigerator or cooler, a place for people to park—”

  “Cleaning, and more cleaning. And don’t forget that alligator.”

  “As if I could. Say, are you still up for stopping in Coconut Grove? I’d love to get a sense of the place. Maybe see about what they have for hardware stores and lumber yards. I do want to support the local economy.”

  “Sure thing, doll. Every dollar you spend here on materials is a dollar that will come back to you pouring drinks at Gator Joe’s. I know how small towns work. It’s a circular economy.”

  They park in front of a cute place, Stella’s Café: gingham curtained windows, pots of flowers on the sidewalk out front. Edith makes a mental note to change her address when she sees the post office across the street. I’m really going to do this.

  As they near Stella’s door, they’re almost knocked over by a man dragging a woman out of the café. She’s cowering against the onslaught of his shouts.

  “Where have you been? I should have known you’d come slinking back like the evil harlot you are. Just like your sister.” He’s shaking her arm, nearly lifting her off her feet.

  Edith and Mae freeze. The man is wearing a clerical collar and is dressed in black. The woman is exotically dressed, wearing ropes of bright beads.

  Mae pulls Edith to one side. “Don’t get involved in a pastor’s duty, Edith. You don’t know what’s going on. Ignore it.”

  Edith turns to stare at Mae. “What? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “He may not be a Catholic priest, Edith, but I was raised to respect the clergy; my faith and the support of the church got me through some tough times.”

  “But Mae, clearly that man is not offering support.”

  The preacher shakes the woman by the shoulders. “Your heathen ways are a contamination to this community. Psychics and fortune tellers like you are evil; an abomination to the Lord. He will chase after women such as you as though you were prostitutes and exclude you from the people.”

  An older, stately woman makes her way down the sidewalk, sun parasol in hand.

  “What is going on here?” she asks.

  “Sister Mavis, just in time. This evil woman has returned to Coconut Grove.” He shakes the fortune teller roughly. “I am saving the people from her wickedness. The Lord condemns people who turn to mediums and psychics, looking for easy, quick answers. God Himself knows their futures. They should trust in His wisdom instead of asking Satan’s mi
nions for help.”

  Mavis looks at Mae and Edith. “Perhaps this is best handled inside and not on the street, Brother Silas?”

  “We must drive this harlot from our town. The Lord himself has said not to turn to psychics or mediums to get help. They will make you unclean. They call on demonic spirits. With every visit, people become more attached and fall deeper into darkness.”

  Scrutinizing the cowering woman, Mavis’ lip curls in distaste. “And you, Cassie? What do you have to say in the matter?”

  Cassie stares mutely at the ground, tugging in vain to free her arm from his grasping claw.

  Edith is fascinated as the scene plays out in public display on the sidewalk, as is the crowd standing inside Stella’s and gawking at the spectacle from the large front window.

  The fortune teller says nothing to defend herself, standing limp in the face of the preacher’s sputtering rage.

  “Leviticus says every man or woman who is a medium or a psychic must be put to death. They must be stoned because they deserve to die.” Brother Silas underscores his threat by wrenching her arm, and Cassie whimpers with pain. Her pale face and panicked eyes lock on Edith.

  Seemingly from nowhere, a small boy launches himself at the preacher. “You let Cassie go.” He pummels Brother Silas and kicks his shins.

  The preacher howls, dropping Cassie’s arm and grabs at the boy. “Come here you little heathen imp.”

  “All right, that’s enough. Let the boy go, now.” Edith, drawn up to her full height, steps forward, shouting into the preacher’s face.

  He doesn’t even glance at her but lifts the yelling boy off the ground and shakes him like a terrier with a rat. Cassie grabs the preacher’s arms, crying out, trying to get him to release the boy.

  “I said enough,” Edith shouts and, with both hands, shoves the preacher hard. He drops the boy as he falls backward.

  The tableau stands in shocked silence as Brother Silas, sprawled on the sidewalk, glares up at Edith. From inside Stella’s, someone from the crowd at the window laughs.

  “I meant what I said. You don’t treat women and children that way, even if you are a preacher.” Edith turns to Cassie. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  Cassie stares open-mouthed at Edith. She gulps, nods, grabs the boy and is down the street before Edith can say anything more.

  “Father… erm, Brother Si—, please excuse my friend. She got carried away.” Mae reaches down to help him up but he slaps her hand away, his blazing eyes never leaving Edith's face.

  Snarling, Brother Silas struggles to stand. Mae again steps forward but halts in the face of his fury.

  “I think that it’s best you two move on. I’ll see to Brother Silas,” Mavis Saunders says, taking his elbow and steadying him, gently leading the preacher back into the café. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we? And maybe a glass of water?” The café door swings shut.

  “Oh, Edith, you’ve done it now,” Mae says, glancing warily at the open-mouthed crowd still at the window.

  “What have I done? Protected a woman and her son from rough treatment? I thought you’d be on my side.”

  “I am, sweetie. I am. But you don’t go shoving a man of the cloth onto his keister in front of a bunch of people. It’s just not done.”

  “Well, if that’s the way they treat women, maybe it should be.”

  * * * *

  “Who was that lady? Wow, did you see what she done? Whoo-ee.” Leroy is hopping up and down with excitement.

  “Come along, Koone. I want to get out of here as quick as we can. Brother Silas may call the sheriff. We need to go.” Cassie pulls Leroy along.

  Who was she? Is that who I saw in the cards? She sure wasn’t afraid of the Preacher-Man. Ha, he got what was coming.

  “Cassie. Slow down. You’re going too fast.”

  Cassie looks down at Leroy. “I’m sorry, Koone. I’m just wanting to be back where we belong. We shouldn’t have come today. Now, let’s go quick, back where it’s safe.”

  Chapter 15

  T he run-in with Brother Silas is a jarring note in what appears to be an idyllic, sleepy little town. Close enough to the big city that you can be tempted, but far enough away if you’re not. Quiet streets are lined with simple clapboard houses bordered by flowers and picket fences. Polished store windows on the charming main street invite customers inside. A steepled church with a broad lawn is the picture of faith and fellowship. All in all, it’s a sunny, charming bit of tropical America.

  And the bright sun casts deep shadows. There’s a mysterious smell under the porch. A rustling sound in the bushes. The longer grass out back ripples as something unseen moves through it—secrets behind those front doors.

  While strolling along the sidewalks, a suspicious sideways glance slides over newcomers. Narrowed eyes follow them. Conversations can stop suddenly when that newcomer or certain locals pass by. A welcoming hug in greeting tightens. An open palm clenches. A comforting closeness becomes smothering. In a small town, not every smile reaches the eyes.

  And there was that incident with the preacher.

  Out behind the steepled church, there’s an old barn. Light filters through the gaps in the weathered, gray boards creating speckled patterns on the barn’s dirt floor. The last four-legged animal to find a home in the old structure was the former preacher’s mare, and that was over ten years ago. Yet the smell of animals lingers. There’s still the odd hay bale and feed sack against the wall. Pieces of old tools and equipment are scattered about, hanging from wooden posts or pegs in the wall.

  In the middle of the room, an odd assortment of wooden chairs form a loose semicircle facing the best seat in the barn. Two dozen men sit sprawled, or stand in small groups, glancing nervously over at the silent, still figure in the throne-like chair.

  He’s in his mid-thirties, dark hair slicked back, closed faced, and thin. The only movement as he looks out on the men around him is a spasmodic gripping of the arm of the chair.

  Clench. Release. Clench. Release.

  His elegant fingers, long, white and smooth, are not the hands of a laborer or a farmer. Unique among the assembled crowd are his clean, trimmed fingernails.

  A few men, separate from the rest, huddle behind the chairs. Thumbs in pockets or looped around overall straps, they whisper, snigger, and smirk. Snatches of conversation drift to the silent sitter. “Broke his damn kneecap.” “Fifty bucks, easy.” “A lesson he’ll never forget.”

  The largest man, his youthful muscles long replaced by fat, sports a belly hanging over a waistband that may or may not be cinched by a belt. He breaks away from the group and grips the back of a chair of a man with shocking white hair, pale skin bright pink from sunburn, and watery pale blue eyes. The fat man tips it forward, sending the pale man sprawling onto the dirt floor.

  The room erupts in guffaws as the pale man scrambles up, slapping the dust from dirty overalls. He slinks to the opposite side of the room, away from the bully, and sits again, shoulders hunched, sulking.

  The fat bully swings the pale man’s original chair around and takes a seat, his arms draped across the chair back. His voice booms as he addresses the room. “So where’re Zeke and Otis at?” He scans the room, shaking his head. “Those two are as useless as a one-legged man at an ass kicking contest.”

  “Ain’t seen ‘em since this mornin’, Buford,” answers a hoodlum with ginger hair. The rest of the group, settling into empty chairs, shake their heads or shrug.

  Buford spits a wad of chewing tobacco. It splatters on the dirt. “A pair of losers. Probably out sleeping it off somewheres.”

  The man next to Buford leans in to say to him, “Always screwing up, them two.” Buford nods. Across the circle, the man with ginger hair glances at Buford while muttering to his neighbor, “You remember what happened to Buford’s brother with their last screw up? Criminal, that’s what it was.”

  Buford looks to the front where the silent sitter broods. “Want that we start without ‘em, Boss?�
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  All eyes turn to the man in the best chair, who nods once. The room falls silent.

  Buford stands. “We had a good night last night. Boarded twelve boats, three was booze and the rest was cash. Took fifty-seven hams, moved all but the Chivas.” He walks toward the Boss and focuses on an open metal box that rests on a table beside him. He drops in a thick wad of bills. Turning, he barks out, “Everett, whatcha got?”

  Everett of the ginger hair, stands and approaches the Boss. He reaches into a back pocket and pulls out a small stack of bills, placing them into the cash box. “Hit up the blind tigers on the north side. No trouble. Everybody paid.” The Boss nods, his eyes swallowing Everett, who ducks his head and returns to his seat.

  “Jackson,” Buford barks, “whatcha got?”

  Jackson, his cauliflower ear and crooked nose the reminders of a short but glorious prizefighting career, shambles forward. He reaches into one pocket, fishing out some crumpled bills. Pulling a handful of change from the other pocket, he dumps the haul on top of Everett’s neat stack inside the box. “South-side pickings were lean, Boss. This was all I was able to get.”

  The Boss studies the crumpled bills, then stirs them with an elegant finger. He looks at Buford. “Pay them a visit, Mr. Buford. Their lack of business acumen is not my problem.” His voice is a whisper, slithering around the room.

  Buford nods. Jackson returns to his seat, hands in now empty pockets, shoulders hunched. The man next to Jackson sniggers and then turns it into a cough with a glance from Buford.

  Roll call continues. The stack of bills in the battered metal box mounts until all that’s left is the pale man. “Whitey, whatcha got?” Buford barks.

  Whitey is approaching the Boss when the barn door bangs open and Zeke and Otis burst in. “Sorry we’re late, Boss. Wait ‘till you hear. There’s a dame at Gator Joe’s looking to buy the place.”