Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Fourteen

John stopped at the 7-11 at the beach for two liters of water, a breakfast sandwich, and a small decaf coffee. The rising sun bathed Buckroe Beach Park in hazy golden light. He got out of the car and stared.

Across the street from the church, a huge square of green space had been all plowed up. Big signs proclaimed "Private Property." Beyond that, workers in hard hats climbed into a dump truck and a huge yellow steam shovel. With a rumble that shook the ground, the machines roared to life.

What the fuck?  Angry citizens had collected thousands of signatures last year, and he remembered Ma telling him the new high-end housing had been blocked. So what the hell was this?

If Ma wasn't so consumed with her own problems—make that her own ego—she could have told him. The whole letter issue had started because of her desire to write opposing the construction. If the construction were her real concern, she would have been angry about that. All she was really upset about was that she had been blocked from editorializing about it.

At Mallory and Buckroe, he backed his vehicle in, then got out and popped the hood. He opened the bottles of water and poured them past the radiator and onto the pavement. Then he put the hood almost all the way down, got in, and cranked the seat comfortably back to where he had a good view of the post office. He'd packed a lunch sandwich at Ma's.

He cracked the windows for comfort. It was only mid-April, and he wouldn't have to worry about it climbing to a hundred fifty degrees inside the car.

At length the convenience store owner, an elderly black man in a green apron, came out and squinted at the vehicle. John rolled the window down as he came over.

"Look like you got a problem, there, man."

"Yeah. I got a hose busted under there somewhere. It's leaking pretty bad. I called my brother on my cell phone, but he's in a meeting. He's supposed to come get me soon."

"Okay. You need to call a tow truck or somethin', there are a couple honest outfits you can call. Just ask me."

"Okay, thanks," said John.

The shopkeeper returned to his store. John could string him along with complications to the story, if necessary.

His real problem, he discovered, was staying awake. You couldn't really bring anything to read on a surveillance, and the quiet of the street and the comfort of the seat dulled his mind. He had to snap himself alert a couple of times. He'd have slept better if he hadn't been fuming about Ma.

Why couldn't she just grow up? One day, years in the future, he'd probably have to move her in with him, and dealing with this every day after a taste of freedom as an adult would be absolutely unbearable.

The hum of an engine a couple of yards away startled him and he realized he'd dozed off. He panicked and checked his watch. Eleven o'clock!  He had to have been out at least half an hour. If Clay had come and gone in that time, he was SOL. Stupid!

A car door slammed at the convenience store. John rolled his eyes in that direction and received an even ruder shock. He'd expected Clay to show up here, yes, but not at the convenience store. This close, there was no mistaking him, with his curly mop of blond hair and movie-star good looks. Clay hopped out of a shiny white pickup—not the Shelby Mustang GT 500 that he'd driven to the beach—and looked directly at John's 442. John scanned the license plate and tried to scrunch back into the seat in a nonchalant kind of way, thinking, Shit, shit, shit!