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address his own problems. But he had known Pasquel Morgan for 20 years, and the old-timer had pumped down as much whiskey at the Gull House as he had anywhere on the island. "Make it snappy," he said brusquely. "I got other matters to tend to." |
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"Give me an hour," Pasquel pleaded. |
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Bart glanced at his watch and up at the thickening clouds. He was starting to see some build-up. "I'll give you forty-five minutes, and I'll be back to get you." He paused for a moment, looking into the old man's eyes. "And, Pasquel, don't let me down. When I come back to get you, you'd better be here, and you'd better be ready." |
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The old man twisted his parched lips into what had long served him as a smile. "For Christ's sake, Bart, look at me. I'm seventy-six years old, and I got a wooden leg and a birthmark that covers damn near half of this old face. Where the hell you figure somebody like me's gonna hide? How far you figure I'd get?" |
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Miller affectionately patted the old man on the shoulder. "Forty-five minutes, Pasquel, that's all." He turned and headed back up the beach knowing that Gleason would give him hell for trusting the old man. As he was crawling back into the cab of his truck, he heard the first distant peal of thunder out over the gulf. Out of the corner of his eye he caught |
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