Sandbridge Box Set

Chapter 4-1

Chapter 4

Scooter was closing out the day’s cash when Jason came in, big hands clenching a dishtowel the way he did whenever he was upset.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Scooter,” he said. “You don’t know this guy.”

Scooter heaved a sigh. He didn’t want to do this right now. He had a headache, he had books to do (which were part of the reason he had a headache) and his feet were killing him. A large group had come in just before eight, forty out-of-towners claiming “we couldn’t get a reservation.” Scooter had been forced to push D’ante into a waiter’s apron and fetch Andy down from his apartment and put him to work despite the man being dead on his feet. And now Scooter was gonna have to make a special run tomorrow to get more beer, because they’d tapped out two kegs and the truck wasn’t due in until Friday.

Kat had been giggling like a lunatic as she waved goodbye to the party; the patriarch of the family had left over twenty percent on nearly seven hundred dollars’ worth of food and beer, so she was pleased.

“He seems harmless enough,” Scooter said. “He did okay tonight.”

“You trust too easy,” Jason said. “I think Kat and I should stay.”

“No, Anderson,” Scooter said, straightening and listening to his back pop unpleasantly. “You snore. It’s a wonder Kat hasn’t throttled you in your sleep. Now go home. I have to finish this up and tomorrow’s gonna be busy. I promise I’ll call you if Andy turns out to be the Parkway Strangler.”

“Call D’ante,” Jason said, still taking it too seriously. “He’s closer.”

“Oh for f**k’s sake,” Scooter burst out. “He’s staying in the apartment, not my house. I did manage to get to being a fully functional adult without your oversight, Jase. Go home.”

Jason scowled impressively, but Scooter just snorted and made shooing gestures. Jason was not all talk, not even close, and it wasn’t like Scooter had never made some terrible choices before. But Scooter’d saved his life a few times, back when they were kids and Jason hadn’t yet developed the muscle to back his too-ready mouth, so…Jason stalked away and Scooter stared back at the books.

The red numbers didn’t get much less red. They’d had a good night, but it would take months of good nights to get Dockside back into the black. Hopefully tourist season would see them through another year. It was always slow in the winter, but winter was over and school would be letting out soon. Things would pick up. He hoped.

Scooter rubbed at his eyes and jotted another entry into his log. At least he hadn’t had to pay a carpenter to fix the door. That reminded him, and he flicked a twenty and four fives out of the deposit bag, then locked the rest of the cash in the safe.

He shut up his office and went looking for Andy.

Andy was sitting on the porch steps, the orange leash across his knees as he watched Trick chasing the waves. He flinched as Scooter came out of the door, then relaxed with a sigh. “All done?” he asked, trying to act casual.

Scooter double-counted the cash and handed Andy forty dollars. “All done. Sorry you didn’t get more time to settle in. Weekdays usually aren’t that busy, but it’s good, it’s all good.” He stared out at the blackness over the water, listening to the waves roll in. Soothing. Safe. Home. “Can I ask a question?”

“Ask anything you want,” Andy said, but his guarded tone meant and then I’ll decide whether to answer.

“You weren’t in any barfight,” Scooter said. He reached for his smokes, drew one out slow, and tapped it against the pack. “And it’s none of my business what, but…is what you’re runnin’ from gonna bring hurt to me an’ mine?” He flicked his lighter and drew hot smoke into his chest, held it for a moment, then let out a smoke ring, watched it shimmer in the evening air and dissipate.

Andy seemed to give it some consideration, stone-faced. A couple of times, he drew a slightly deeper breath, as if planning to speak, but then let it go unvoiced. Finally, he shook his head. “Shouldn’t be able to find me,” he said, low. “I’ll run again, if I have to.” His eyes were fixed on the waves, or something far beyond them. “It’s not the law,” he said after another moment. “You won’t be in any trouble for harboring a fugitive or anything.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve run up against the law,” Scooter reflected, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette. “I don’t mind weatherin’ down a storm. Just like to know if one’s coming.” He took another drag; his ma was probably frowning down at him from Heaven; she never did like that he smoked, but one at bedtime and one before he started his day was just a habit he couldn’t give up. It settled him. “You’re gonna have wet dog and sea salt smell in your room, unless we rinse him off. Then you’ll just have wet dog.” He whistled for Trick. “Shake.”

Trick floofed himself out enormously, the whole body rocking back and forth, spraying ocean water everywhere and leaving the golden dog’s fur sticking up every which way like he’d been spin-dried. “Yeah, who’s a good boy?” Scooter nuzzled the dog for a minute, enjoying his simple joy and uncomplicated affection. “C’mon, hose is this way.”