Hell of a Mess by Nick Kolakowski

Author:Nick Kolakowski [Kolakowski, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shotgun Honey Books
Published: 2022-08-26T04:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

The storm had found a hole in the depot roof. What started as a slow drip maybe ten feet to Bill’s left intensified into a miniature waterfall, a pool creeping toward him. Bill shifted his legs to the right, anxious to spare his shoes.

Crew Cut paced the rear of the warehouse, a phone pressed to his ear. It was difficult to hear his conversation over the hurricane’s nonstop roar, but Bill figured he was talking about the logistics of a boat. The other cops clustered around the table, checking their phones. They had settled in for the long haul, piling their guns and jackets and half-empty snack bags and soda cans atop Bill’s notes and the tools.

The closest weapon was Hardaway’s Glock-19 in the shoulder holster she stripped off and hung on the back of her chair, but it was still a good twenty feet away—too far for Bill to reach without someone tackling or shooting him, even if he did pick the handcuff locks.

Tattoo fiddled with the knobs of a police radio, producing nothing but static except for the occasional burst of voices, loud and panicked and stuffed with cop jargon.

“Flooding at the stock exchange,” Soul Patch said, flicking his phone screen.

“You got signal?” Hardaway said.

“Yeah, but it keeps going in and out.” Soul Patch swiped again. “Coney Island’s getting smashed.”

“You mean, smashed in a different way than usual.” Katzen chuckled at his own witticism.

“Hey.” Soul Patch jabbed a finger. “I’m from there. You watch your mouth.”

“All those folks drifting out to sea on a swell of crushed beer cans and needles,” Katzen said. “It’s a real tragedy.”

Soul Patch rose from his seat, his right hand clenched into a fist. Katzen raised his hands, palms out, and said, “I’m sorry, man. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

“Lighten this,” Soul Patch said, grabbing his crotch as he sat down again.

“You know that big crane on top of that skyscraper off Fifth?” Tattoo said, tapping his screen. “Looks like the wind twisted it down. Gonna fall.”

The lights flickered. The rasp of something heavy on the roof. Bill did some math: if they were on Ninth or Tenth, it was a few yards to the West Side Highway, which had four or six lanes—he couldn’t remember. And beyond, the piers they used for tour boats and such. Not much elevation. If there was a storm surge of three or four feet, would it come far enough inland to flood this place?

A drop of water smacked the table, followed by another. The cops stood and backed off, cursing. From the far side of the depot, Crew Cut lowered the phone from his ear long enough to shout, “Just move it away, okay?”

While the cops shifted the table, Bill figured it was a good time to fiddle with his smartwatch. Press the bezel twice to open the app menu, then—well, there was no way he could tell the apps apart by feel. What happened if he pressed the little button beneath the bezel? It would open a screen of recent apps, including the messaging app he’d just used.

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