Bullets of Rain (6 page)

    On the internet, Art found out about something called the Saffir-Simpson scale, a severity chart for hurricanes that reminded him of a preview card for a motion picture, with five categories: Minimal, Moderate, Extensive, Extreme, and Catastrophic. Category Five included Hurricane Camille, which had destroyed substantial portions of Louisiana and Missouri in 1969 with "sustained winds" over 155 miles per hour. That was long before Art's mother had moved to New Orleans. There was no category listing Galveston; Art thought "Apocalyptic'' might make a good Number Six.

    The National Weather Service had just upgraded their shortterm watch for the Bay Area and environs south, warning of possible flooding in terms of rainfall inches and throwing up a red flag for high winds. Storm watches specified the possibilities within a thirty-six-hour window. In the time it took Art to check, the report bumped from "watch'' to "warning." That reduced the window to twenty-four hours, and advised that hurricane conditions were to be expected, a general batten-down was nearly mandatory, and the less prepared should start thinking about evacuation.

    This was the condition Art had been waiting for, to stress-test the design of his beach house. If it reacted as blueprinted, the winds would shear away, deflected by the structure. If a ten-foot wave crashed straight down on it from the heavens, the aluminum braces would act as shock absorbers and slough off the impact in a sort of lightning rod effect-most of the force would be detoured straight into the ground. If the polymer windows bowed under pressure, the metal shutters could be dropped. If the "display areas" of the house succumbed, the garage was as secure as a bank vault in a submarine, with backup CB and NOAA radios, gas, fuel, supplies, even waste management and a power generator. Art thought of that concrete bunker as his own little Mars outpost, but it was a fallback, necessary only if his house design did not respond defensively, like a martial arts master who never hits you, yet never lets you land a blow: At its best, the effect would seem to be a confluence of physics and magic, the secret ingredient that pushed all the best designs into the spotlight.

    Dish reception on the big Proton monitor was disrupted by occasional digital frazzing, but nothing critical. The phones were still live and the cable lifeline to the internet displayed no ominous quirks. The power was on; there was still "fire in the wire," as electricians say. Computers did what satellites told them and subtly rearranged the disk network on the roof to snare more power. The barometer was dropping steadily but slowly, like a pearl descending through molasses. Art ran a power supply check on the shutter system and pronounced it sassy. His home was his castle, his literal Bastille.

    Derek's postcard was an excuse for him to lay in some guest stock before the weather worsened. He whistled Blitz to the kitchen. Their mission: Drop the drawbridge and sally forth into the enchanted faerie wood to procure supplies. The Jaguar XLS had been garaged for so long that its last wash-and-polish was membraned in a perfectly even layer of undisturbed dust. He really should have spread the car cover over it. For a steed, Art chose the Jeep-a muscular indulgence fully armed with padded roll bars and high-intensity lights, more equal to inclement turns of nature. Blitz assumed his accustomed sprawl in the suicide seat and Art remote-keyed the garage door shut. It seemed to crush the light from inside, cutting them off life support, leaving them in a world of blue-gray thunderheads.

    They took the coast road, a serpentine limited-access two-lane that fed inland to Highway One via intermittent tentacles. Art quickly gained on a laggard Volkswagen bug-one of the new ones- puttering determinedly south, pinballing in search of the center stripe, which was nearly invisible in the rain now sheeting off the slurry-sealed tarmac. Art flashed, signaled, and blew around it impatiently. There were several hunched silhouettes inside, but the fellow travelers gave no indication of acknowledgment. They dwindled in the rearview and were swallowed by the elements.

    Art passed the turnoff for the party house, spying only a quick impression of lights, parked cars, a little cluster of humanity. Perhaps the bold adventurers in the VW were bound for that good time. If they were headed anywhere else, they'd probably be in trouble before long.

    As he made the turn onto the highway, a big Peterbilt rig monstered past in the northbound lane, road spume billowing from its wheel wells; another Dexedrine-happy road jockey fighting to make San Francisco before the storm cornered him.

    Rocko's primer-gray Charger lurked at the far end of the
Toot 'N Moo
lot like a cannonless panzer tank waiting in ambush. Four hundred and twenty-seven cubes, glass-packed twin Cherry Bomb mufflers, no trim, and dark blue tinted windows like wraparound sunglasses. It had a leather-sleeved doughnut steering wheel that Rocko had once joked was "in case I have to drive with handcuffs on.'' Art appreciated the jacked Seventies gas guzzler in a sidelong way, as though it was the only aspect of Rocko's odd personality he, as an older guy, was permitted to comprehend.

    The brightly lit interior of the stop mart was awash in some bass-heavy hip-hop that sounded, basically, like a factory stamping out metal folding chairs. It was sampled and snarly, white boys grunging out nursery-rhymed despair in cinderblock time, throttling their instruments like gator wrestlers. Rocko grinned at Art's entrance, interrupting his jammy little air dance to mouth,
Hey, good-lookin’!
Art could only hear the vowels. From the jewel case atop Rocko's boombox, he gathered that this new musical horizon was the work of a person or assembly called NegrAlien, with the N turned around backward, no umlauts.

    

    

    "… fuckin’ blow, huh?" Rocko said as he cut the volume.

    "Say again?''

    "This fuckin weather. Sucks. I was just about to close up arid say fuck it, right?" He blew a huge pink bubble from the wad of gum in his jaw.

    "Doesn't look like it wants to give us a break, does it?"

    "I fuckin’ heard that." Rocko popped his neck bones and ran a worn black comb through his pomp.

    Art prowled the aisles and accumulated whatever junk snacks struck his fancy, gradually building a small pile on the counter. "Got any Dixie Double Hex?"

    "How many cases?''

    "Just one." Art added, "for company," too quickly, smarting at his own memory of how he used to destroy a case and a half a day, not so long ago. The bad part was that Rocko remembered this, too. Art pulled down a thick plastic packet of beef jerky, mostly because Blitz was a slave to it, and at the last minute decided to toss in two packs of cigarettes, just so he could be the compleat host, should Derek actually show up.
Not for me. For company.

    "You staying or going?" Rocko hefted the case of longneck bottles on one shoulder. Art raised his eyebrows. "The storm. They say it's gonna punch in. You staying or going?"

    "Staying. I have to see if my house is up to it." Another excuse, basically.

    "Well, don't forget to wear your fuckin’ rubbers. They say the waves will be intense. If I was a better surfer I'd take my board out. They say waves like this only come along during hurricanes in Australia. Fuckin extreme." About once every fifteen seconds, Rocko would slide his palms against the dark thighs of his gas-station-issue trousers. A big chromium chain for a biker's wallet hung down nearly to his knee on the right side.

    "Where do you live, Rocko?"

    "Half Moon Bay. I got a studio. I was living with this chick but she took off to follow some fuckin band up to Seattle, and that was six months ago. Love's a fuckin bitch, y'know?''

    Art suddenly felt ridiculous, maundering on in his head about his dead wife. This crap befell everyone, sure as spoiling fruit; all you had to do was live long enough, and getting your heart broken was basic field issue. "She never calls, she never writes-right?'' Rocko said around his gum.

    "I don't think she knows how to write. You start smokin’ again?"

    Art felt a defensive flush creep up his neck. "I've got company that might. Just in case."

    "I tried to quit. Fuck that action. I quit for my girlfriend and she dumped me, so now…" He shrugged, bobbing his head side to side. Rocko was essentially a lot like Blitz.

    New rain started pelleting in, changing directions every minute. Rocko helped Art load the Jeep and they both got instantly soaked. "Stay dry, furhead," he said, grabbing Blitz's ears and ruffling his head. Blitz dealt out one of his single enthusiastic barks.

    "You're my last customer of the day," Rocko said. "I'm bagging this shit and taking to higher ground. Good luck!"

    "You, too," said Art.

    Rocko had killed the outside lights to the stop mart before Art was out of the lot. It was time to batten down.

    

    

    Technically, the entire day classified as twilight; Derek showed up with the drop of actual nighttime, forgoing the bell, banging on the door as though the Eaters of the Dead were chasing him on horseback.

    "I don't believe it," was the first thing Art said.

    It was Derek, sure enough and against the odds, which was his custom. Neon-blue eyes, shaggy black hair (he was bareheaded and his hair was damp), wrapped up in a shearling bomber jacket and bulky merchant marine sweater and still standing two inches above Art's own five foot eleven. "I brought flesh,'' he said with a satanic grin. "You'd better have a fucking grill in this showoff dump."

    "Any dead bodies in your car?"

    His visitor's brow puzzled. "No. Oh, wait, well… there might be a-"

    "Shut up, Derek." They used their firm handshake to yank each other into a bearish combat hug. Art knew his long-lost friend would slap him on the back exactly three times, back off, and repeat the process again, starting with the handclasp. It was way too manly.

    "All the right parts in all the right places. You astonish me," Derek said, his smile big enough to cleave his face. "Invite me in before I moisturize to death."

    "I forgot-you've got to invite the monsters over the threshold."

    Derek stomped droplets from his canvas-sided military boots. His jeans were snugged inside the uppers. In one arm he slung a big, wet bag of groceries. He looked rakish and windblown, as though he'd just stepped from the cockpit of a Sopwith Camel after a good run against those blasted Jerries.

    Blitz caught a whiff of Derek and went berserk, drowning them both out with a fusillade of barks until Art himself barked, "
Sitz, du blodei Vieh!
" The dog shut his trap and sat down immediately.

    "Damn," said Derek, marveling.

    "He's sort of trained." Art shrugged; no biggie. "Actually, he's just showing off." He shut the door firmly to make sure it seated, since the door's weight was gradually skewing the hinges, and got down to the most crucial introductions.

    "Derek, meet Blitz. Blitz is a dog. Blitz, meet Derek. Don't eat him, just yet."

    Derek squatted down slowly, careful not to move fast. "Hey, guy." He held out his hand, palm up, empty. No threat. They worked their way toward each other and after about thirty seconds were best friends. Blitz was peculiar that way. Art suspected it had to do with scent tracking; Blitz could smell whether Art thought somebody was okay or not. If it wasn't true, it should have been.

    Custody of the bag-the next thing to interest Blitz-was remanded to Art while his pet and his guest checked each other out.

    "That's T-bones, four of 'em, plus spuds, plus your basic salad shit. You get to do dressing, beverages, and dessert."

    "Done deal," said Art. He looked in the bag and saw each steak was the size of a Frisbee. "Four steaks?"

    "Y'know, in case we just want to eat the good bits, and give the rest to… I don't know who." He said this last right in the dog's face and Blitz was overcome with rapture.

    "Remove your spacesuit and grab a beer, why doncha?"

    Derek shucked his rain-speckled leather. "Dos Equis still your poison?"

    "I made sure I had a case of Dixie Double Hex when I saw the postcard. It's like a porter, but you'll live. Be adventurous and try something besides your usual watery swill."

    "Only one case? You sure you don't have me confused with, like, a lightweight?" Derek was looking at the living room like someone unsure of the correct address. "This is your house?"

    "Every square foot. Try not to gape."

    Art led the way to the kitchen and church-keyed a pair of Hexes.

    "Never trust a beer that unscrews." They clinked longnecks and Derek commenced to wander. Despite his weakness for snack-bribery, Blitz kept track of every step. The dog would behave this way until he ultimately decided on his own that Derek was approved.

    Art marinated the steaks in red wine and garlic while the potatoes baked, then seared the cuts over a quarter-inch flame for exactly eleven minutes. The salad was in no way a beacon of nutrition, and the potatoes were burdened with real butter and sour cream, on top of too much salt and pepper. Both Art and Derek agreed, numerous times, that their repast was sufficiently unhealthy to commemorate their reunion. In the gaps between, Derek got caught up on the Lorelle story, and did his best to ease his friend past the awkwardness it imposed as a duty.

    "It sucks," said Derek. "I could say I'm sorry for you a million times over, and it wouldn't change a thing."

    "No, it's an obligation." Art picked up a scrap from his plate and instantly had the full attention of Blitz. "I can't see you after all this time, then string you along with chitchat all night, then, suddenly, when I'm drunk enough, go, oh, by the way…"