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A thick rain pelted the metal rooftops of the beach
club, where gray daylight had begun to offer the palm
trees some definition. In thirty, maybe forty minutes,
the sky would be blue, the sand dry -- the island drying
out like a wet paper bag in a hot oven -- but as Ronnie
emerged from his trailer, the rain had yet to abate, and
it dumped on him. He ducked into a cubbyhole behind the
open-air kitchen, where the phone continued its
insistent ringing until he answered it.
"Conch Bay," he said. In Ronnie's Liverpool brogue, the
words came out Kunk Bye.
The voice on the other end of the line spat out a
request. In hearing the caller's aim, Ronnie took a look
behind the garden, where he could see, even in the dim
morning light, the stark outline of bungalow nine. Nine
was built of cinder blocks and painted a luminescent hue
of yellow; windows and doors screened, it appeared
older, shorter, and more eroded than its brethren, squat
and fierce in the face of their more recent
construction. It shared with the others the
architectural feature of a boxy porch standing six steps
above the garden -- high enough for a view of the
lagoon.
Completing his second stroll through the rain, Ronnie
ascended the stairs and banged on the door.
"Cooper!" he said, and took a step back.
It took a while, but when it did, the reply came in a
baritone, the voice sludge-thick with hangover phlegm.
"Keep out."
Ronnie grinned. "Brought you a gift, Guv. Mutual friend
of ours. You wanna guess who it is. You get it right,
she says she'll come in."
Another silence.
Then the voice said, "The new one. Dottie."
"Nah," Ronnie said, talking fast, "just pulling your
leg, old man." He took another backwards step. "You got
a phone call. It's Cap'n Roy. Says he's got a problem --
"emergency situation," he says. Gotta run now -- "
Ronnie made his move, ducking and spinning, arms
flailing for protection, but Cooper covered the distance
from bed to door in one long step. Fully naked, pivoting
at the hip, the permanent resident of bungalow nine got
his full weight behind the Ken Griffey, Jr.,
Autograph-Special Louisville Slugger and smashed the
front door's jalousie panes to splinters, the bat
bursting through the window's mesh screen and sending
shards of glass flying across the porch.
"Run, boy," Cooper said, and watched through the fresh
hole in the door as Ronnie shot down the stairwell and
darted off through the garden. He noted with
satisfaction there appeared to be blood on one of the
boy's shoulders.
Cooper dropped the Louisville Slugger and listened, eyes
closed, to the chock-chock of the bat as it settled on
the concrete floor of the bungalow. He rolled his
shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and pulled in a deep,
slow breath, inhaling the pungent scent of the rain.
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