Read Under Cover of Daylight for Free Online Page A
Authors: James W. Hall
up at the clear summer sky, said, yes, she’d just had the top repaired from the last public meeting. This way, if someone slashed anything, it would be just the seats.
Thorn walked between them, feeling spiffy in long pants for a change, an ironed shirt. Nodding at folks he knew, catching some of them with distressed looks as they saw Kate.
She had her silver hair back in a bun. Wore a white cotton dress and carried a yellow legal pad. Her bifocals were pushed up onto her forehead. And on his other side, Sarah. Tonight dressed like a lawyer. White long-sleeved blouse, sleeves rolled up, black straight skirt, black pumps. A no-nonsense expression. Her hair barely under control with three barrettes.
They entered the auditorium. A stage at one end, with a basketball goal cocked up above it. The big room also served as the cafeteria, and Thorn smelled the scent of fried food.
“Where are we on the program?” Sarah asked.
Kate said, “Near the end.”
Thorn asked if that was good or bad.
“Both,” Sarah said. “By then the hooters are warmed up. Or drunk. And a lot of people have gone home. But at least she’ll have had a chance to hear the other speakers.”
“Not that anything’ll be new,” Kate said.
They took seats in the last row. Chairs for seven-year-olds. Thorn had already been working up a case of awkwardness, and now these pint-sized chairs. His was yellow. He tried to find the right position in it. But the back kept catching him just below the shoulder blades. Sitting up straight, turning to the right, crossing his legs, finally settling on a forward lean, his elbows on his knees. Player on the bench ready to go into the game.
Thorn recognized some people from high school days. And there were retirees, some boat captains he knew. Lots of people he assumed were realtors because they all seemed to know each other and they were dressed for church.
Four men with bandanna scarfs and headbands and grimed T-shirts took the chairs right in front of them. One of them still wore his leather sling, hammer, and measuring tape. The one in front of Thorn had a red beard. He set a six-pack of Miller on the floor at his feet, tore three cans loose, and passed them to his buddies.
Sarah took a deep breath, fanned her hand in front of her nose. Thorn sat back in his chair.
“End of the pay period,” he whispered to her. “Low on Brillo.”
“Mr. Natural lives on,” she said, loud enough for them to hear.
Redbeard glanced over his shoulder, saw Kate. He leaned forward and whispered down the row to his buddies. While one by one they checked her out, redbeard twisted around and took in Sarah, then Thorn. Gave her a beefy smile.
“Want to move?” Thorn asked her.
“It’d be the same,” she said.
At seven the program began. By seven-thirty Thorn’s shirt was soaked. He had tried every position he could in that chair and was coming around for a second attempt at each one. Kate had stayed unmoving, her feet flat on the floor. Memorizing, it seemed to Thorn, the words of that first speaker.
For thirty minutes it had been Philip Grayson, a smug, compact guy, making the case in his patronizing Yankee voice for the group of investors trying to build Port Allamanda. Allamanda was a condominium community, but not just another hundred-unit glorified apartment complex. This one was a small city. Over four hundred acres. A thousand units, complete shopping center, banks, a couple of marinas, a golf course. Fifteen miles of internal roads, its own sewage plant.
But the particular issue tonight was wood rats. The Key Largo wood rat had been designated by the federal government as an endangered species, and its last major stronghold in America was in the hardwood hammock where Grayson’s investors wanted to build Port Allamanda. And the county commission had assembled to hear the will of the people.
Thorn knew wood rats. They weren’t anything one way or the other to him. He’d caught one coming up the stairs
Thorn walked between them, feeling spiffy in long pants for a change, an ironed shirt. Nodding at folks he knew, catching some of them with distressed looks as they saw Kate.
She had her silver hair back in a bun. Wore a white cotton dress and carried a yellow legal pad. Her bifocals were pushed up onto her forehead. And on his other side, Sarah. Tonight dressed like a lawyer. White long-sleeved blouse, sleeves rolled up, black straight skirt, black pumps. A no-nonsense expression. Her hair barely under control with three barrettes.
They entered the auditorium. A stage at one end, with a basketball goal cocked up above it. The big room also served as the cafeteria, and Thorn smelled the scent of fried food.
“Where are we on the program?” Sarah asked.
Kate said, “Near the end.”
Thorn asked if that was good or bad.
“Both,” Sarah said. “By then the hooters are warmed up. Or drunk. And a lot of people have gone home. But at least she’ll have had a chance to hear the other speakers.”
“Not that anything’ll be new,” Kate said.
They took seats in the last row. Chairs for seven-year-olds. Thorn had already been working up a case of awkwardness, and now these pint-sized chairs. His was yellow. He tried to find the right position in it. But the back kept catching him just below the shoulder blades. Sitting up straight, turning to the right, crossing his legs, finally settling on a forward lean, his elbows on his knees. Player on the bench ready to go into the game.
Thorn recognized some people from high school days. And there were retirees, some boat captains he knew. Lots of people he assumed were realtors because they all seemed to know each other and they were dressed for church.
Four men with bandanna scarfs and headbands and grimed T-shirts took the chairs right in front of them. One of them still wore his leather sling, hammer, and measuring tape. The one in front of Thorn had a red beard. He set a six-pack of Miller on the floor at his feet, tore three cans loose, and passed them to his buddies.
Sarah took a deep breath, fanned her hand in front of her nose. Thorn sat back in his chair.
“End of the pay period,” he whispered to her. “Low on Brillo.”
“Mr. Natural lives on,” she said, loud enough for them to hear.
Redbeard glanced over his shoulder, saw Kate. He leaned forward and whispered down the row to his buddies. While one by one they checked her out, redbeard twisted around and took in Sarah, then Thorn. Gave her a beefy smile.
“Want to move?” Thorn asked her.
“It’d be the same,” she said.
At seven the program began. By seven-thirty Thorn’s shirt was soaked. He had tried every position he could in that chair and was coming around for a second attempt at each one. Kate had stayed unmoving, her feet flat on the floor. Memorizing, it seemed to Thorn, the words of that first speaker.
For thirty minutes it had been Philip Grayson, a smug, compact guy, making the case in his patronizing Yankee voice for the group of investors trying to build Port Allamanda. Allamanda was a condominium community, but not just another hundred-unit glorified apartment complex. This one was a small city. Over four hundred acres. A thousand units, complete shopping center, banks, a couple of marinas, a golf course. Fifteen miles of internal roads, its own sewage plant.
But the particular issue tonight was wood rats. The Key Largo wood rat had been designated by the federal government as an endangered species, and its last major stronghold in America was in the hardwood hammock where Grayson’s investors wanted to build Port Allamanda. And the county commission had assembled to hear the will of the people.
Thorn knew wood rats. They weren’t anything one way or the other to him. He’d caught one coming up the stairs