Whisper of the Sea

Chapter Four

Town drunk.

That's who I'm resorting to for information, and I have to not hurt him or else. What the hell's wrong with this town?

Brian kicked at a stone along the side of the sidewalk and watched it bounced twice before going over the curb and into the rain gutter. It's small, that's what. Small and simple.

He shook his head and pushed his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker jacket as it snapped behind him from a gust of wind, sending a chill through him.

His hands caught on the pockets as he tried to pull them out. Three or four times he jerked and pulled to get them free. He knew he looked like an injured bird trying to fly, but he didn't care. All he wanted was to button the jacket against the next windy gust.

Finally, pulling free of the pockets he sent a handful of change and receipts scattering on the sidewalk. He stopped to look at the pieces of paper that scattered on the wind like they were cockroaches when the light turned on. In less than a second, all that was left was the thirty-six cents he'd received as change for a premade sandwich before reaching the town.

"Of course. So much for tax write offs. What a fucking joke." Huffing out a few breaths, he shook his head and turned back around. He saw the intersection ahead with Graves' Grocer across the street on the corner. Now if I can cross the road without another issue, I can get this over with.

He glanced both ways before stepping from the curb. The last thing he needed was a local cop giving him a hard time. Memories of his dad saying townies were useless came to mind, making him chuckle as he reached the four stone steps leading up to the store's small front porch.

More steps. If it was one thing he hated about the east coast was everything had to have steps leading to it. Maybe I'll try the Midwest next. Or Florida. I doubt they even know what steps are there.

His joke brought another chuckle as he reached out and opened the door. While the small bell hanging inside dinged, he doubted the two arguing a dozen feet inside heard it. Without a sound, he slipped inside and eased the door closed before stepping behind a six-foot-tall display counter.

"Get outta here, Freddie! Dontcha know what time it is?" Paul Graves stood between Fred and the wall of his small store where he kept the liquor.

Brian's eyebrows lifted at hearing that. His reporter's instincts switched on as he took in the details of both men. The pair couldn't look anymore different with whom he assumed was Paul Graves, the store's owner, in black slacks, an ironed white collared shirt, polished shoes, and short cropped, slicked hair and whom he knew as Fred— whether or not he was his Fred he had little doubt— in his threadbare jeans, old tee shirt with a faded monogram of a sports team on the front, and sneakers that threatened to fall apart at any moment.

Fred stared at Paul, unable to move for a second before he rubbed a hand down his face. The grating sound of the hand against three days' worth of growth filled Brian's ears. "That's never mattered before. Why now, Paul?"

Something in Fred's voice caught Brian's attention, so he zeroed in on their conversation instead of their attire and surroundings.

Paul stood with his arms crossed, but his features remained soft, despite his stance and previous words. Letting out a breath, he glanced at the clock on the wall. Not even ten yet. "Look, Freddie, I want to help you, you know that, right?"

Fred nodded, wiping something from his eyes.

Paul moistened his lips. "Look... June will skin me if I give you anything before noon. Ever since she was saved... Just trust me on this, all right? She'll be by in a few minutes, and if she sees you with..." His voice trailed off, but he didn't need to finish as Fred nodded his understanding.