Read Online 4 Shelter From The Storm by Tony Dunbar - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tony Dunbar
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vault just for the hell of it on the way out.
He was wrong, as they found out twenty-five minutes later. It came to Big Top’s attention that there was water on the floor when he set the drill down for a second and got knocked for a somersault by some unseen powerful numbing force. He came back alive with Monk shaking him. LaRue was trying to get the damn generator turned off without electrocuting himself in the process.
Corelle, the security guard, was face down where he had fallen. He had made an abortive attempt to bolt the room in the confusion, and LaRue had clubbed him with the butt of his pistol. The water was now about an inch deep and rising fast to cover Corelle’s ears.
“Mama,” Big Top moaned, shaking his head, then his fingers.
“You stopped breathing there for a minute,” Monk informed him.
“Whoa,” Big Top crooned.
LaRue kicked a switch with his boot heel, and the roaring machine shuttered and died. They were left in a sudden silence, until the sound of trickling water got their attention.
“We’ve got what we came for,” LaRue said. “Looks like the party’s over.”
“Can you walk?” Monk asked Big Top.
“I think so,” Big Top said. He tentatively rose to his feet and leaned on the wall.
“Let’s get all our stuff out of here,” LaRue said.
“What about the guard?” Monk asked, indicating the limp wad on the floor.
“Leave him,” LaRue said.
“He’ll drown, if he ain’t already,” Monk observed.
LaRue splashed over to the fallen security man and pressed his wet boot squarely on the man’s neck. He gave a quick jump that produced a brutal snapping sound on the floor.
“I guess we leave him,” Monk said, wiping water from his eyes. “He’ll be a hero now.”
CHAPTER IX
So far Bourbon Street had been a bummer. Marguerite had started out with high expectations on Sunday night. She showered off all the grubbiness from her taxi ride. After putting on a white cotton outfit she had bought for this trip she ascended to the hotel’s open-air rooftop bar. She climbed onto a tall stool, allowing the hem of her dress to rise and show off her two best features, ordered a Tequila Sunrise and watched a handsome executive-type man swim. But he toweled off and left. So she allowed herself to get into a long conversation with a salesman from Michigan who finally moved to the stool next to hers. He ordered them both pink rum drinks in tall glasses. Together they soaked up the humid evening breeze, a wall of clouds moving in, ships moving slowly up the river, and the strings of lights flickering on the bridges.
He had an unusually strong chin, a roving Adam’s apple, and slightly wild eyes, but he might do. The good-looking swimmer returned, dressed in beige slacks and a blue cotton blazer and went to sit at the other end of the bar with a woman who had obviously been waiting a long time for him, so he was off the list. Marguerite ordered another of the syrupy rum drinks.
At a table near the pool, two men in business suits were talking seriously.
“It’s the deal of a lifetime,” she heard one say. “The oil’s ready to come gushing out of the ground. If you can just make it all legal.”
“I don’t think that will present much of a problem,” the other man, hair streaked with silver, replied.
By then it was completely dark, and Marguerite was thinking of dinner by candle light. But the man with the wild eyes got weepy and started confessing about his wife back home. Off balance and frustrated, Marguerite stomped back to her room and ordered a pizza. The bellhop, Dan, recommended that she call Mama Rosa’s, and he was the one who brought it to her door.
She tipped the friendly fellow a dollar and got a courtly bow in return. With David Letterman for company, Marguerite ate as much as she possibly could. It was self-destructive, she knew, but she was feeling blue. She also raided the mini-bar in her room for wine coolers and vodka and cranberry juice.
She fell
He was wrong, as they found out twenty-five minutes later. It came to Big Top’s attention that there was water on the floor when he set the drill down for a second and got knocked for a somersault by some unseen powerful numbing force. He came back alive with Monk shaking him. LaRue was trying to get the damn generator turned off without electrocuting himself in the process.
Corelle, the security guard, was face down where he had fallen. He had made an abortive attempt to bolt the room in the confusion, and LaRue had clubbed him with the butt of his pistol. The water was now about an inch deep and rising fast to cover Corelle’s ears.
“Mama,” Big Top moaned, shaking his head, then his fingers.
“You stopped breathing there for a minute,” Monk informed him.
“Whoa,” Big Top crooned.
LaRue kicked a switch with his boot heel, and the roaring machine shuttered and died. They were left in a sudden silence, until the sound of trickling water got their attention.
“We’ve got what we came for,” LaRue said. “Looks like the party’s over.”
“Can you walk?” Monk asked Big Top.
“I think so,” Big Top said. He tentatively rose to his feet and leaned on the wall.
“Let’s get all our stuff out of here,” LaRue said.
“What about the guard?” Monk asked, indicating the limp wad on the floor.
“Leave him,” LaRue said.
“He’ll drown, if he ain’t already,” Monk observed.
LaRue splashed over to the fallen security man and pressed his wet boot squarely on the man’s neck. He gave a quick jump that produced a brutal snapping sound on the floor.
“I guess we leave him,” Monk said, wiping water from his eyes. “He’ll be a hero now.”
CHAPTER IX
So far Bourbon Street had been a bummer. Marguerite had started out with high expectations on Sunday night. She showered off all the grubbiness from her taxi ride. After putting on a white cotton outfit she had bought for this trip she ascended to the hotel’s open-air rooftop bar. She climbed onto a tall stool, allowing the hem of her dress to rise and show off her two best features, ordered a Tequila Sunrise and watched a handsome executive-type man swim. But he toweled off and left. So she allowed herself to get into a long conversation with a salesman from Michigan who finally moved to the stool next to hers. He ordered them both pink rum drinks in tall glasses. Together they soaked up the humid evening breeze, a wall of clouds moving in, ships moving slowly up the river, and the strings of lights flickering on the bridges.
He had an unusually strong chin, a roving Adam’s apple, and slightly wild eyes, but he might do. The good-looking swimmer returned, dressed in beige slacks and a blue cotton blazer and went to sit at the other end of the bar with a woman who had obviously been waiting a long time for him, so he was off the list. Marguerite ordered another of the syrupy rum drinks.
At a table near the pool, two men in business suits were talking seriously.
“It’s the deal of a lifetime,” she heard one say. “The oil’s ready to come gushing out of the ground. If you can just make it all legal.”
“I don’t think that will present much of a problem,” the other man, hair streaked with silver, replied.
By then it was completely dark, and Marguerite was thinking of dinner by candle light. But the man with the wild eyes got weepy and started confessing about his wife back home. Off balance and frustrated, Marguerite stomped back to her room and ordered a pizza. The bellhop, Dan, recommended that she call Mama Rosa’s, and he was the one who brought it to her door.
She tipped the friendly fellow a dollar and got a courtly bow in return. With David Letterman for company, Marguerite ate as much as she possibly could. It was self-destructive, she knew, but she was feeling blue. She also raided the mini-bar in her room for wine coolers and vodka and cranberry juice.
She fell
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