Gathering Storm

by Sherilyn Decter

  Pow. Pow. Pow. Zeke can feel the bullets strike the Rex. He slows further, the engines chugging as he makes another pass.

  The Coast Guard siren screams. “Heave to. Cut your engines,” blaring from the loudspeaker.

  There.

  Otis waving. Zeke comes about. “Here, grab hold of the line.” Zeke tosses him a rope.

  “This is the US Coast Guard. Heave to and prepare to be boarded.”

  Keeping one eye on the approaching picket and one eye on Otis who is making his way, hand over hand, along the rope to the Rex, Zeke stews. “Come on, they’re going to board us.” He reaches down and gives his brother an arm up.

  Otis coughs and sputters, spewing sea water. “Thanks, brother,” Otis says, gasping as he flops on board, water pouring off him.

  Zeke lurches back to the wheel and throws himself against the throttle, aiming directly for the picket. “Thank me later. Grab that gun.”

  Otis starts firing, causing the picket to swerve. Zeke tears past them, Otis firing a few more insurance shots. One may have struck home, as the picket slows and drops back. Zeke continues to hurtle through the water, putting distance between them and the Coast Guard.

  “Woo-hoo. We did it,” Otis says, cheering and slapping Zeke on the back. “That was some fancy steering, Zeke.”

  “You owe me a drink for that, brother.”

  “Heck, I’ll buy you the whole damn bottle,” Otis says, laughing and coughing up the last of the seawater.

  Zeke grins as they disappear into the dark night.

  The Rex is within sight of the moonlit dock at Gator Joe’s when they see fellow Wharf Rats in the Revenge. Zeke cuts the motor, and the other boat comes alongside.

  “Evening boys, you just getting back from the Row?” Buford says in a slow drawl. His fat belly rests on the gunnel of the Revenge.

  “You wouldn’t believe it. Pickets almost had us.” Zeke and Otis are laughing; an arm slung around each other, still thrilled with the chase.

  “And what cargo you got on board? You’re not doing a bit of moonlighting, are ya? Some rum running on the side? Whitey, go check it out,” Buford orders.

  Whitey jumps aboard the Rex. “A dozen hams of cheap whiskey, Buford.”

  “It’s for the skirt. We cleared it with the Boss.”

  “Tutt, tutt. You know the Boss has said that her shelves stay empty. Toss it here.”

  “Hey, that’s our whiskey,” Otis says, grabbing for Whitey. They tussle back and forth. Buford yells and jumps aboard, trying to shove Otis aside. Otis swings a punch, his fist connecting with Buford’s jaw.

  “Hey,” Zeke cries, lunging at Whitey. Buford bellows, throwing punches. During the brawl, Zeke and Otis are thrown overboard. First one splash and then another.

  Buford glares, chest heaving, as he leans against the gunnel. Otis and Zeke dogpaddle in the water. “Throw us a line, will ya.” “This ain’t funny, Buford.”

  “That’s for what you did to my brother, you assholes. You can swim to shore from here. Whitey, you bring the Rex back to Coconut Grove. Night boys. You can pick your rust-bucket up in the morning.” Buford climbs back aboard the Revenge, taking the wheel from Everett.

  “Hey, you can’t leave us out here.” “Throw us a line, Whitey.”

  Whitey manages to get the Rex started and follows behind the Revenge.

  Otis and Zeke, bobbing in the water, watch the boats pull away. Zeke gets a mouthful of water as he shouts after the departing boats.

  Alerted by the noise, Edith is waiting for Zeke and Otis on the dock. Zeke staggers ashore. Otis grabs hold of the edge of the dock, trying to pull himself up. He doesn’t have the strength and rolls back into the water. He scrambles onto the sand and lies there, gasping. Zeke helps him to stand as Edith wraps them in blankets.

  “I heard all the yelling. I’ve got some soup on the back of the stove to warm you up. Did you lose all my liquor?”

  “Yeah, pirates took it,” Zeke says, his hands on his knees, bent over trying to catch his breath. “And the Rex, too.”

  “Damn. Between the pirates and the Coast Guard it’s the second swim I’ve had today,” Otis says, scowling. “And that’s two swims too many.”

  In the kitchen, Edith puts down two bowls of hot soup. “I’d feel badly for you, except my shelves are still empty. And what are we going to do about that?”

  Chapter 20

  S tanding next to the piles of roof shingles, Edith crosses her arms, baleful eye directed at the men.

  “Okay fellas, here’s the deal. This roof would take a crew from Miami two weeks. Shingles stripped, rafters repaired, new roof on. I’m going to give you two weeks. You have barely any travel time and, if you have to, you can bunk in the barn some nights.”

  Zeke examines the roof, then appears to count the piles of shingles. Otis, chewing on a piece of grass, shakes his head. “Can’t be done, ma’am. No way. No how. A crew would be four fellas. All we got is two.”

  “But you have no travel time. Surely you can find a couple of helpers.”

  “There’ll be a bonus, right?”

  “Two weeks and there’s a bonus. For every day after two weeks I’m going to dock your pay.”

  “That’s not fair,” Otis says, eyes narrow. Zeke clears his throat, looking at him. Otis glares back.

  “No darn way, Zeke. I ain’t doing it.” Otis crosses his arms and scowls.

  Throwing his hands up in frustration, Zeke turns to Edith. “Sorry Miz Edith. You’re going to have to make other arrangements.

  * * * *

  The Boss stands and steps toward Zeke and Otis who are standing in front of him. The barn is casting bars of sunlight over the dirt floor. Swallows dart in the rafters. The brothers take a step back and stop.

  “You turned her down?” the Boss asks.

  “It’s too much work, Boss,” Otis says, his hands outstretched. “Works us like dogs, she does. And you don’t know what she’s like. Hell, she makes a hornet look cuddly. Always going on about something we’re doing wrong, or not doing. There’s always a lot of that. And she serves us thin sandwiches.”

  Zeke turns and looks at his brother, a warning written there.

  The Boss turns his back on them, thinking.

  “What if we sweetened the pot, gentlemen,” he says, turning to face Zeke and Otis again. The small smile on his face makes them shiver.

  Otis clears his throat. “More money?”

  “No, something better. Her renovations are going far too smoothly, and if we can’t get this resolved she’s going to be ready to open soon. From your words, I sense some dissatisfaction with her treatment of you. How would you like to vent a bit of it, cause a bit of mischief?”

  “Do we get to rough her up?” Otis asks.

  The Boss’ lip curls in distaste. “No. That will be my prerogative at some future date. No. I said mischief. Scare her. Make her wake up in the night. Give her bad dreams, gentlemen. Can you do that?”

  Otis grins, rubbing his hands. “Yeah, Boss. We can look after it.”

  “And you’ll look after the roof as well. Correct?”

  Zeke nods. “Yeah. We can do the roof.”

  * * * *

  Another productive day. Gator Joe’s is looking good. I can’t believe Zeke and Otis came back and are starting on the roof. I’m a sweet negotiator. And those blue flowerpots on either side of the barroom door look great. The petunias should do well as long as I keep them watered. Reggie’s promised to have what I need for liquor in the next few days, and Mae’s said that she would find someone who can fill the order if he doesn’t come through.

  Edith, tucked under her yellow quilt, nestled in her blue bed, smiles. She watches the shadows from the moonlight dance along the wall.

  The soft muslin curtains flutter in the breeze. Through the open window, the surf pounds the beach. The clackity-clack of the palm trees, and the singing frogs, complete the outdoor music.

  It’s better than I imagined it could be. I know nobody ca
n figure out what the heck I’m doing way out here. Sometimes I’m hard-pressed to figure it out myself. But lying here, the moonlight, the water—it is just so right.

  Her shoulders are sore from the day’s work. She rolls over, trying to find a comfortable spot. The springs on the bed squeak, adding their voice to the night music.

  I wonder what Mickey would say? It’s a far cry from my beautiful art deco mansion. Rough pine floorboards instead of white wall-to-wall carpet. Cotton replacing velvet. Would he recognize this new me, content at Gator Joe’s? Would he find the old Edith, the one he fell in love with?

  Funny where life leads you. A year ago I was in a mansion in Philadelphia, married to the King of the Bootleggers. Not happy, but used to it. You really can get used to anything. If Mickey had stayed on his medication, none of this would have happened. The abuse. Having to kick him out of the house. That dame he was with—in my bed. Ah Mickey, why didn’t you follow doctor’s orders?

  Edith sits up in bed, rolling her shoulders. There’s a knot between them that has little to do with today’s work. She tries twisting one arm over her head, then the other, to work it out.

  Sighing in frustration, she throws back the covers and goes over to the window. Finally, the night is quiet. Even those darn frogs have gone to bed.

  Mickey. Philly. Henry. Maggie. I didn’t appreciate how alone I’d be out here. Maybe not lonely—there’s too much to do for that. But I do miss someone to talk to. I’d love to have a good heart to heart with Maggie. I bet she’d understand this yearning that I have to be someone different, to discover a new me to replace the one I want to leave behind.

  She’s one of the few people who ever took me seriously, who saw beyond the wife of a gangster. All I want is a bit of respect. I want people to be a little in awe of me. Just like the way folks acted around Mickey, and still act around Lansky. It’s not just the tough-guy reputations, it was what they built. I want people to look at me that way, too.

  I bet when I get Gator Joe’s done, they’ll sit up and take notice. ‘There goes Edith Duffy. She is one smart broad. One tough cookie. A real go-getter.’ Not look past me, like I was invisible.

  Edith turns away from the window and climbs back into bed. Maybe when things settle, I’ll go home for a visit. Or maybe Maggie could come here? She chuckles. If she does, I’ll need to buy another plate and knife and fork.

  Nestled in her pillow, the yellow quilt tucked around her, Edith drifts on the idea of Maggie’s visit. The two of them lounging on her beach, sitting on the veranda, sharing a cocktail and watching the sun set.

  The moonlight, the waves, gentle thoughts, a soft breeze. As all doubts recede, she floats in her little blue bed, a contented smile lingering on her lips.

  A series of smashing sounds erupt from outside.

  Edith eyes snap open.

  More noises—closer, louder.

  She sits up straight, her heart hammering, clutching the quilt close to her.

  SMASH! CRASH!

  Listening intently, she hears nothing else. Cautiously, Edith swings her feet to the floor. She slips on her dressing gown and creeps into the hall.

  She stops. Listens. Silence inside Gator’s. Outside, the frogs are singing again.

  Should I get a knife from the kitchen? She peers down the hall into the dark barroom. Moonlight glitters in the windows.

  “What the hell?”

  Edith sees two smashed windows. Shards hang like jagged teeth, catching the moonlight. Glass glitters on the floor. She steps closer and finds two rocks. Carefully, she steps barefoot around the broken glass and opens the door. The veranda floorboards are covered in earth, her flowers uprooted and scattered everywhere, the flowerpots smashed.

  Edith stares, not believing her eyes. A low moan escapes. They were so pretty. Why would someone do that?

  She turns to go back into the barroom and stops. It takes a moment for the horror in front of her to work its way to her brain. Nailed to the doorframe is a dead rat. She shrieks, then swallows the sound.

  Back into the barroom, her foot lands on a jagged shard of broken glass. Yelping and gasping, she hops to a chair and sits, foot on her knee. Her foot is sticky with blood as she gently feels around the piece of glass in the dark. It hurts—a lot.

  She slowly pulls out a piece, then presses to see if there’s more. “I think I got it,” she says. Edith holds her bleeding foot, the glittering glass around her, the smell of damp earth, the rat. The assault to her spirit slowly sinks in. Someone wants to hurt her, to frighten her.

  A tear escapes and rolls down her cheek. Her foot throbbing, she gulps back another tear and then another. She lets go—deep racking sobs, mourning her windows, her flowers, her absent friends, a lost life in Philly, and Mickey.

  There’s no one to see. No one to hear. Just the sea, the choir of frogs, and the clickity-clack of the palms.

  Chapter 21

  A sleepless night. Jumping at each sound. Sweaty palms. Pounding heart. At dawn, a nightmare.

  Rising early, Edith cleans up the mess and goes looking for Zeke so he can cover the window. She won’t rest if there’s a gaping hole in her wall where anyone or anything can get in.

  “I’m not going to get that roof done in time to get my bonus if I got to cover up them windows.”

  “I don’t care about your bonus. Somebody nailed a rat to my door. Fix it or get lost.” She spins around and storms out of the kitchen.

  “I won’t give in to this,” she says through gritted teeth as she tears the rat off the door.

  Missions accomplished and intentions pronounced, she heads for the truck and slams its door shut before spinning out onto the road. Time for justice. She marches into the sheriff’s office, her face grim. One hand is clenched around the strap of her purse and the other grips a paper bag.

  The sheriff’s office is a small room with large windows looking out onto the main street. A solid, wooden counter divides the room. At the moment, an older man in a panama hat is leaning against it, talking with Deputy Sheriff Roy Purvis, according to the sign on the desk. Edith sits in a row of chairs along the wall.

  “There’s a great spot back in the Glades. Biggest bass you’ve ever seen.”

  “I doubt that, Marvin. I caught one over fifteen pounds in the Miami River last year.”

  “A monster. What were you using for bait?”

  Edith stands. “Excuse me. I need to report some vandalism.”

  Both men turn and look her over. “Be with ya in a minute, ma’am,” Deputy Roy says. He turns back to the man at the counter. “Crawdads. Works every time. They can’t get enough of it.”

  Edith moves to the counter. “Excuse me for interrupting your conversation, gentlemen, I need to report a crime.”

  “Sure thing. Just have a seat over there, ma’am and I’ll be finished up here in a sec,” Deputy Roy says. He turns to the other man, who rolls his eyes.

  “I’ve used frogs before, but never tried crawdads,” Marvin says.

  Edith reaches into the bag and slaps the dead rat onto the counter. The men look at it and then her.

  “I guess I’ll be seeing ya, Roy,” the man says, tipping his hat to Edith as he leaves.

  “Sure thing, Marvin.” Deputy Roy puts both hands on the counter, leaning in. “What seems to be the problem, ma’am?”

  Edith looks at the rat and then at the deputy. “My name is Edith Duffy. My place, Gator Joe’s, was vandalized last night.”

  “I know who you are Miz Edith. It’s a small town. Word gets around. Tell me what happened.”

  Edith describes the broken windows and the flowerpots.

  Deputy Roy ponders the rat. “Sounds like it might have been kids.”

  “No. I think it was the Wharf Rats. Because of this.” Edith takes a pencil from a jar on the counter and pokes at the rat.

  Deputy Roy scratches a spot behind his ear. “Never heard of no Wharf Rats, ma’am. No, can’t say that I have.” He leans across the counter to pat Edith on the
hand.

  Edith snatches her hand away, slamming it on the counter. “Everybody in town talks about the Wharf Rats. What kind of sheriff are you?”

  “You seem a mite excited. Why don’t you head home now and lie down for a spell? Put your feet up. That might help.”

  Edith glares. “I don’t need to lie down. I’ve heard about Wharf Rats from people who’ve been working at Gator’s. The electrician said that they’re local pirates and thugs. That they’re riled because I bought Gator’s. I need you to question these Wharf Rats and tell them to back off.”

  “I’m telling you ma’am, there are no Wharf Rats in Coconut Grove. This trouble of yours is probably a hobo passing through town. That’s it. Vagrants. Why don’t you get yourself a shotgun?”

  “It’s not vagrants, it’s not hobos, it’s not kids. Are you telling me you’ll not do anything about it, Deputy?”

  Deputy Roy slowly looks her up and down, taking in her high color, her white knuckles around the handbag, her big city clothes. “Look, Miz Edith. You seem like a nice-enough gal. Why don’t you move back to Miami, or wherever it is you call home? Some folks just aren’t cut out for living out here. Way out there at Gator’s, all on your lonesome, your mind is playing tricks on you.”

  “A smashed window and broken flowerpots are not my imagination,” she says through gritted teeth, jabbing at the rat again with the pencil. “This is not a trick of my mind.”

  Deputy Roy heaves a great sigh. “I’ll look into it as soon as I can but, as you can see, we’re just about run off our feet here with real crime. I’m sure that whoever caused that mischief is long gone, Miz Edith. As I said, you head home now and don’t fret.”

  Edith stands glaring at him and then whirls, slamming the door behind her.

  On her way out of town, she picks up a shotgun. Cowed by her grim determination, the clerk behind the counter doesn’t even try to pretend he won’t sell her one.