the travel dust.” Lily seized the convenient pretext, although in reality, it was contact with Pete Ferrucci that left her feeling decidedly unclean.
Locating the restroom a few doors down the hallway, Lily lingered unnecessarily, until she was positive the other panel members would be long departed. With a certain sheepishness, she opened the door.
And froze as Ferrucci’s loud, carrying voice reached her.
“So, McDermott, you got this study up and running again. We all know the reef’s in fine shape, but it’ll be nice to have these scientists confirm it for us. I couldn’t be happier about it, really.”
Sean answered. But although Lily strained to hear, his words remained frustratingly inaudible.
Ferrucci spoke again. “About this development proposal. The architects have drafted some preliminary plans based on the engineering reports. I think it’d be a good idea to walk around the marina with them, get a feel for what they have in mind. How about we do lunch? I’ll call your office and set a date with Evelyn.”
Lily closed the door softly. She didn’t need to listen any more. Overwhelmed with sudden weariness, she laid her forehead against the door.
“So what’s got you in such a piss-poor mood?” Dave Cullen asked. “I thought the meeting went pretty well.” He had his elbows propped on the Rusted Keel’s scarred and pitted bar, one hand wrapped around an ice-cold beer. He took a long pull, swallowed, and added, “After all, the good guys came out on top today.”
Seated next to him, Sean acknowledged his friend’s comment with a tired shrug. He supposed Dave was right. But that did little to dislodge the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that with Lily Banyon on the scene, things would go to hell in a handbasket awful quick. Too tired to explain the hows and whys, Sean concentrated on his whiskey, savoring its smoky peat-flavored bite.
Unperturbed by Sean’s silence, Dave nursed his beer, the fingers of his free hand drumming an accompaniment to one of the bar’s perennial favorites, Otis Redding’s, “Dock of the Bay,” which someone had selected from the jukebox’s list. The Rusted Keel was Sean and Dave’s preferred after-hours hangout, one of the few remaining places in Coral Beach the tourists hadn’t taken over, most likely because from the outside the bar looked like a run-down bait-and-tackle shop. Stepping inside, one’s second impression wasn’t much better.
Though there were a few tables covered in ancient red-and-white checked plastic, no one in town came to the Keel for its spiffy decor. Most of the regulars avoided the tables, preferring to congregate around the pool table in the back, or to while away the hours throwing darts at the dartboard with unerring, unnerving accuracy. For those more vegetatively inclined, the battered TV above the bar where Sean and Dave were sitting was tuned to ESPN twenty-four–seven. And, of course, there was the jukebox, which hadn’t been updated since Don McLean’s “American Pie.” Five songs for a buck.
But the finest thing about the Rusted Keel was its clientele. Not a single person in the place besides Sean and Dave had a political bone in his body. After a hard day fighting the good fight, there was nothing so relaxing as the sweet scent of beer, salted peanuts, and political indifference. Sean had never once been approached by someone wanting to know how to obtain a building permit for a two-car garage, nor been badgered about why he’d voted for or against such and such a proposal. And while every now and again a disgruntled fisherman or boat captain shot Dave a hostile look, the tacit rule at the Rusted Keel was that while bitching about the Marlins’ or the Dolphins’ miserable season was acceptable behavior, griping to locally elected officials who only wanted to throw back a couple of beers in peace was not.
But Sean’s drink of choice this evening was whiskey rather than Rolling Rock, and he was
Locating the restroom a few doors down the hallway, Lily lingered unnecessarily, until she was positive the other panel members would be long departed. With a certain sheepishness, she opened the door.
And froze as Ferrucci’s loud, carrying voice reached her.
“So, McDermott, you got this study up and running again. We all know the reef’s in fine shape, but it’ll be nice to have these scientists confirm it for us. I couldn’t be happier about it, really.”
Sean answered. But although Lily strained to hear, his words remained frustratingly inaudible.
Ferrucci spoke again. “About this development proposal. The architects have drafted some preliminary plans based on the engineering reports. I think it’d be a good idea to walk around the marina with them, get a feel for what they have in mind. How about we do lunch? I’ll call your office and set a date with Evelyn.”
Lily closed the door softly. She didn’t need to listen any more. Overwhelmed with sudden weariness, she laid her forehead against the door.
“So what’s got you in such a piss-poor mood?” Dave Cullen asked. “I thought the meeting went pretty well.” He had his elbows propped on the Rusted Keel’s scarred and pitted bar, one hand wrapped around an ice-cold beer. He took a long pull, swallowed, and added, “After all, the good guys came out on top today.”
Seated next to him, Sean acknowledged his friend’s comment with a tired shrug. He supposed Dave was right. But that did little to dislodge the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that with Lily Banyon on the scene, things would go to hell in a handbasket awful quick. Too tired to explain the hows and whys, Sean concentrated on his whiskey, savoring its smoky peat-flavored bite.
Unperturbed by Sean’s silence, Dave nursed his beer, the fingers of his free hand drumming an accompaniment to one of the bar’s perennial favorites, Otis Redding’s, “Dock of the Bay,” which someone had selected from the jukebox’s list. The Rusted Keel was Sean and Dave’s preferred after-hours hangout, one of the few remaining places in Coral Beach the tourists hadn’t taken over, most likely because from the outside the bar looked like a run-down bait-and-tackle shop. Stepping inside, one’s second impression wasn’t much better.
Though there were a few tables covered in ancient red-and-white checked plastic, no one in town came to the Keel for its spiffy decor. Most of the regulars avoided the tables, preferring to congregate around the pool table in the back, or to while away the hours throwing darts at the dartboard with unerring, unnerving accuracy. For those more vegetatively inclined, the battered TV above the bar where Sean and Dave were sitting was tuned to ESPN twenty-four–seven. And, of course, there was the jukebox, which hadn’t been updated since Don McLean’s “American Pie.” Five songs for a buck.
But the finest thing about the Rusted Keel was its clientele. Not a single person in the place besides Sean and Dave had a political bone in his body. After a hard day fighting the good fight, there was nothing so relaxing as the sweet scent of beer, salted peanuts, and political indifference. Sean had never once been approached by someone wanting to know how to obtain a building permit for a two-car garage, nor been badgered about why he’d voted for or against such and such a proposal. And while every now and again a disgruntled fisherman or boat captain shot Dave a hostile look, the tacit rule at the Rusted Keel was that while bitching about the Marlins’ or the Dolphins’ miserable season was acceptable behavior, griping to locally elected officials who only wanted to throw back a couple of beers in peace was not.
But Sean’s drink of choice this evening was whiskey rather than Rolling Rock, and he was
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