Sunset Tomorrow E-Book

E. Ervin Tibbs

• Herausgeber: CamCat Books
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 259

Beschreibung

Sunset Tomorrow

Leseprobe

Sunset Tomorrow

E. Ervin Tibbs

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

For Further Discussion

Inspiration for Sunset Tomorrow

About the Author

Also by CamCat Publishing

A Grave Too Many

Chapter 1

CamCat Books

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Brentwood, Tennessee 37027

camcatpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2020 by E. Ervin Tibbs

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 101 Creekside Crossing, Suite 280, Brentwood, TN 37027.

Hardcover ISBN 9780744302066

Paperback ISBN 9780744301083

Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744300475

eBook ISBN 9780744301106

Audiobook ISBN 9780744302400

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020937956

Cover and book design by Maryann Appel

5 3 1 2 4

For Deanna, whose light pushed back the shadows.

Chapter One

Dawn brought a breaking surf and a thin wash of sunlight that illuminated the beach, transforming it into a lustrous sheet of wet satin, pulled smooth by the retreating tide. In the frothy welter left behind by a departing wave, a waterlogged square of paper swirled to the surface and danced in the backwash like the cape of a matador.

Above the surfline, and beyond the water-polished sand, where the waves could no longer reach, a ragged line of flotsam curled like dark lace to the seaward. In the fringe, Jude Tyler sprawled comfortably, his compact body stretched and loose, with a sturdy arm pillowing his head. He lay deep in slumber, unaware that a muse called Fate had just rolled her loaded dice.

The sea pulled back to rally itself for another assault and drew with it the soggy, waltzing note. For a moment the missive lay on the crest, waiting for the wave to gather enough strength to once again assail the shore.

At that moment, stillness came over the sea and time slowed its inexorable march. For a heartbeat, gulls hushed their raucous calls, a distant foghorn held its breath, and the restless mist thickened into a curtain of translucent pearl.

Fate smiled grimly at what she’d wrought, and the wave rolled in, rumbling with determination. That instant of hushed expectation ended, and time’s forward rush resumed. A wave, frosted with creamy spume, charged up the beach carrying the small paper rectangle, but exhausted by its invasion, lost momentum and ran out on the beach without enough power to reach the high-mark of the one before.

One small tendril, however, rushed on, carrying Fate’s written proclamation. That stream of foam paused, then rushed back to the sea, leaving behind a sodden sheet of paper, lying slack in the curl of Jude’s fingers. Faded letters faced the sky with a message that, for this moment, only the gods could read.

And still Jude slept. In repose, his sun-browned face, neither handsome nor ugly, had by virtue of some personal alchemy also managed to escape being ordinary. Clad in ragged shorts, little more than blue-jeans amputated above the knee, he slept easily, his heavy breath disturbing tiny insects that had gathered to feed among the nearby seaweeds and debris.

A thick, red crescent sun pushed above the horizon and began to devour the warm mists that concealed the demarcation between sky and sea. Through a fissure in the mist, a beam of sunlight lanced down and touched Jude’s face. He turned his fluttering eyelids away from the light.

He opened his eyes and looked around without a hint of confusion. In late summer, he often slept on the beach, where a cool onshore breeze lessened the effects of a hot summer night. Although he was thirty-three, the rigors of beach life had not yet grown too difficult for him.

It’s the parties that sap your strength, he thought. I’ve got to stay away from the parties. But it was an idle resolution and he knew it.

With the indolence of a sated leopard, he stretched, yawned, and licked his salt-encrusted lips. He started to rise and discovered the piece of paper lying like a dead fish near his hand. Words, painstakingly hand-printed in black ink, drew his gaze as if they possessed the same arresting power of a eulogy chiseled into a headstone. Carefully, he picked up the sheet and spread it across his thigh. Crumple marks had damaged some of the letters, but the text remained legible. It was a poem.

Radiant light came out from me, and in joy I wept.

Now the light is dim, a fading star on a foggy night.

Life once so sweet is now a curse I face with dread.

My courage, carefully hoarded against the gloom, is spent.

Oh God, if there be a God, take me instead.

No signature, just a heart-aching cry of pain, written on cheap bond and tossed into the sea. For a long time he stared at the wet scrap, his mind in turmoil. Why did this enigmatic verse bring such a penetrating chill to his soul? It wasn’t great poetry, but it had surely been written from the heart, otherwise it would not have so profoundly touched a stranger. And it had touched him, deep where he thought the walls of indifference stood tall enough to protect him.

Oh God, if there be a God, take me instead. How many times had he cried those words?

There had been a time when his life lay before him, a shining pathway that led to the stars and each step took him higher. He’d been joined in the journey by a gentle soul, her smile like sunlight after rain, her eyes as kind and ingenuous as a new-born fawn. Together they were stronger than each one alone, and their ascent swifter.

His mind recoiled from the recollection, for not long after came the Gray Time, a time when life had no love, no music and no laughter. The Gray Time eventually slipped away, but somewhere in its passage, he’d stepped off the rising path to take a way that led down into a shadowy land of indifference. But there he found peace. No one took his measure, and no one tried to cross the dark moat around his heart.

Abruptly, the painful memories became too much to bear. He peeled the poem from his skin and was about to toss it back into the sea, but something made him hang on to it. A tortured soul had composed those words, someone who at this moment knew the same agony he had once endured. It might even be one of his friends. With great care, he folded the note and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

A burst of sunlight warmed him and drove some of the sadness from his heart. Ten years of living in the shadow of grief had taught him how to shed melancholy as if it were a dirty shirt.

He arose and assessed the day. Unlike most Southern California coastal communities, Sunset Beach was usually quiet in the morning. The streets lay empty except for gulls hunting for food among discarded hamburger wrappers.

Threading his way among the dilapidated houses built on the strand, Jude left the beach and made his way toward Pacific Coast Highway. The light was strong now and far to the north, where the vast, sprawling smog machine of Los Angeles had begun to awaken, he saw a thick, brown haze rising to meet the sun.

Crossing the old railroad right-of-way, he came to a narrow street that led past the back door of Old Dan’s coffee shop. As he passed through the alley behind the Sittin Pretty hair salon, Lucy, the owner, opened the back door and shook out an apron. Chubby and middle-aged, Lucy had beautiful black eyes and round, red cheeks that would have looked just right on Santa Claus. She gave him a wide smile. “Morning, Jude. You’re moving kinda slow today.”

“Got nowhere to go, Lucy. And all the time in the world to get there.”

She laughed delightedly. “Sometimes, Jude, I can’t decide whether you’re a simpleton or a Solomon.”

“Lucy, do you know anyone who writes poetry—sad poetry?”

A quizzical look wrinkled her smooth brow. “Sorry, Jude.”

She turned back into her shop and Jude moved on. Where the alley opened into the side street, a movement caught his eye. The door in a small apartment just ahead opened a crack. Jude smiled. That was Wino Willy’s room and he had money again. If Willy was broke, and he usually was, he would have stepped boldly out into the sun.

Although his nickname Wino implied a man of advanced age, Willy had yet to see his thirtieth birthday. Even though he did have an affinity for the jug, he drank no more than anyone else on the beach. Then again, he drank no less either.

Born into a wealthy family and lacking any useful skills, Willy had spent the last three years merely surviving, waiting for an inheritance to work its way through probate. It was a large estate, and many of the young man’s relatives were trying to acquire a chunk of it. Once a month, sometimes more often, his lawyer sent him a little money.

Jude ducked behind a dumpster sitting next to Old Dan’s restaurant. The door opened no farther, but Jude was patient. The more caution Willy demonstrated, the more money he had, and among Jude’s associates, money was considered community property.

Finally, the door swung open, and one pale gray eye peered discreetly around the frame. No one moved. Even the gulls were gone. Willy emerged cautiously, head swiveling and eyes scanning left and right. He was a tall, thin young man with blond hair, bleached white from hours spent in the sun. A bland, vacant expression hid what Jude knew to be a first-rate brain.

Willy at last gave up his circumspection and started toward Old Dan’s. When he came abreast of the dumpster, Jude stepped out and laid his arm over Willy’s shoulder.

“Willy, my old friend, I’m so glad to see you.”

“I don’t have any money. I swear I don’t.” Willy didn’t try to pull away from Jude’s muscular embrace.

“Of course you do, Willy. I can always tell. You know that.”

“Come on, Jude. Give me a break. It’s got to last me all month.”

Jude laughed. “But it won’t, and you know that too. You’ll get drunk and spend most of it, then that bunch at the Shack will borrow the rest.”

Willy hung his head, crushed by the truth of Jude’s statement. He sighed and spoke softly. “Uncle Cragen says I don’t have proper respect for money. Guess he’s right.”

“Forget it,” said Jude. “Your Uncle Cragen is a jerk. If he gave a church the same devotion he gives his bank account, he’d be a saint.” He shook Willy in a friendly way. “Look, why don’t you loan me twenty? Then you can tell the borrowers I got it all. At least I pay you back.”

Willy sighed, extracted a thin fold of bills, and peeled off a twenty for Jude.

“Come on,” said Jude. “Cheer up. We’ll eat breakfast, then we’ll go down to the Shack and have a beer.”

A solid grunt came from inside the dumpster, and someone cleared his throat.

“Eatin’ breakfast is stupid. Maybe we drink breakfast instead.”

Jude lifted the edge of the dumpster’s lid. “Come on out, Sherm.”

A head appeared slowly, like the upthrusting of a toadstool through sod. Sherman’s bright, close-set eyes shone with anticipation, and wilted cabbage dripped from his splayed beard. He sat up and shook his powerful shoulders like a wet mastiff, spraying vegetable scraps and damp paper. Jude noticed the scar on the side of Sherman’s head was now hidden by thick black hair.

“Willy got money?” Sherman licked his lips.

Jude decided to try a diversion. “Where are Crazy Ed and Lonesome?”

Sherman shrugged and hauled himself out of the dumpster.

“Went to a party last night. Haven’t seem ‘em since.”

Reaching back into the dumpster, Sherman withdrew a gallon bottle with a hand’s breadth of Red River wine remaining. Triumphantly, he raised it, resembling a barbarian holding a giant ruby up to the sun.

“Where did you get that?” asked Jude. Sherman never had money.

Sherman furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. He shrugged. “Can’t remember.”

“Don’t matter,” said Willy. “Give me a drink.”

Sherman’s blank expression turned to cunning. “You loan me enough for nuther bottle?”

“Yeah. Now give me a drink.”

After the bottle had made another round, the three seated themselves on the guardrail along a curve on the Pacific Coast Highway. For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, watching traffic.

The pleasant quiet was broken by a distant voice. “Hey, guys.”

“Here come Lonesome,” said Sherman, without looking around.

Jude peered over his shoulder to see the tall young woman bearing down on them with the gait of a racing thoroughbred. Long hair, the color of spun caramel, had been pulled back in a ponytail that waltzed around her slender neck as she moved. Over her shoulder, she carried a shovel.

She stopped and sat down next to Sherman. When her panting breath diminished, she grabbed the bottle, drank deeply, and returned the empty to a scowling Sherman.

“What’s the shovel for?” asked Jude. “You going to do some work?”

Lonesome crinkled up her dark blue eyes, compacting the freckles across her nose into a brown haze. “You crazy?”

“Why are you carrying a shovel then?”

She frowned at the shovel as if she’d just realized it was a tool. “There’s going to be a minus tide in about an hour.”

Willy sat up quickly. “You sure?” Minus tide meant there were clams to dig and the possibility his money wouldn’t be spent on food.

“Damn straight,” said Lonesome. “I just looked at Vinny’s tide book. We got about an hour.”

“That shovel won’t work for digging clams in the surf,” said Jude. “We need to find Vinny’s pitchfork.”

“And more wine,” said Sherm.

As they rose to leave, a sound stopped them—a rhythmic, ear-piercing squeak coming from a nearby alley. “I think we’re about to be ambushed by Cowboy Toby,” said Jude.

A small boy emerged from the shadows riding a two-wheeled tricycle. Cowboy Toby had acquired his strange vehicle because someone had found the old tricycle in a trash bin and passed it on to the little boy. His mother worked as a waitress and made just enough money to keep them both from starving. There was seldom anything left to buy toys. Its wheel bearings had long ago rusted away, and when he rode, the noise could be heard for blocks. Just before his fourth birthday, one rear wheel had collapsed and fallen off, but the loss didn’t bother Toby. He’d adapted and learned to ride it balanced precariously on two. It was an extraordinary sight.

When the wheel failed, Jude had offered to replace it, but Toby, with a shy smile, declined.

“It’s almost like a bicycle,” he said.

Toby stopped and used one leg to balance himself astride his lopsided steed while he straightened his white cowboy hat. He had spent most of his years in hospitals fighting a rare degenerative cancer. His hat concealed a head stripped clean of hair by chemical therapy.

“You guys going to the Shack?” he asked.

“Yup,” said Jude. “That where you’re headed, little pardner?”

Another shy smile warmed the boy’s face. “I’m sposed to warn Crazy Ed if I see you coming.”

“Well, you better get over there and do that, Scout,” said Jude.

“Naw,” said Toby. “I told him I wouldn’t spy on you.”

The boy’s adoration made Jude uncomfortable, and he changed the subject.

“Why don’t you let me squirt some oil on those wheels so they don’t squeak so loud?”

The little boy’s face lit up. “Don’t matter. Tomorrow’s my birthday, and Mama’s going to buy me a real bike. We already went to the hardware and looked at it. It’s blue, just like the ocean.” His eyes glowed with anticipation.

“How old you going to be tomorrow?” asked Lonesome.

Toby studied a moment, then held up a hand with all fingers and a thumb extended from the other. “Six.” He hitched up his drooping pants. “Soon when I get a real bicycle, I’m going to run errands for mom cause she’s so tired all the time.”

“That’s a real good thing,” said Jude.

“Got to go,” said Toby. With the careless grace of a circus acrobat, he balanced his odd little vehicle and turned back into the alley. “Mom’s fixin’ breakfast.”

He rode away, squeaking and waving.

An odd feeling came over Jude. A mix of compassion and respect. “I wish I was as brave as that little boy.”

Only Lonesome heard, and she gave him a strange look.

Sherman broke the silence. “We know Crazy Ed is at the Shack.” He gave Jude a sly look. “And he don’t want us to know he’s there.”

“That’s because he’s got money.” Lonesome said the words incredulously as if she had caught herself lying.

Willy looked dubious. “Where the hell did Crazy Ed get money?”

“Some tourist got drunk at the Shack last night and loaned it to him.”

“Damn! That inlander must have been sloshed out of his mind.”

“Her mind,” corrected Lonesome.

Sherman looked as reverent as a country preacher. “Everybody got money,” he said. The reverence mutated slowly to anticipation and cunning. “Now we have a party.”

Chapter Two

Hazy sunshine saturated the air without warming it, and a cool breeze, effervescent as dry champagne, blew in from the sea. Jude breathed in huge gulps of the pungent air, savoring the rich taste and aroma, ultimately more intoxicating than any wine.

Although this fine summer morning held great promise of charm and leisure, it refused to nourish any sense of urgency. He and his friends walked slowly and in companionable silence as they made their way to the Shack.

To Jude, and to the others in lesser degrees, each sunlit moment was a treasure to be hoarded, relished until its taste, smell, and touch were utterly exhausted, then grudgingly released. Without any grand philosophical reflection, they chose to measure their existence in that fleeting, ephemeral instant known as the present.

The Shack was more of a description than a name. Built on skids, the little clapboard building had survived the 1933 Long Beach earthquake. The original brick red exterior faded long ago to the color of cedar bark, and its white trim darkened with mildew. The entire building seemed to be bent on reaching color equilibrium with the surrounding beach.

A painted wooden sign had once graced the facade, but it had warped and fallen and was later burned by a passing tourist to cook clams. Few could remember the original name, and no one cared. One-legged Vinny had owned the little beer bar for as long as the residents of Sunset Beach could remember. He called it The Shack, and that was good enough for the patrons.

Just outside the door, Jude stopped. “If Crazy Ed’s got money, he’ll be harder to pin down than a jelly fish at high tide.”

“Yeah, and he can run like a scalded cat,” said Willy.

“We’ll surround him,” said Jude. “Sherm, you and Lonesome go around to the back door. Me and Willy will go in the front.”

He got a sly grin from Lonesome. “Good thinking, Jude. You should be a general.”

She and Sherm made their way around the building.

When he was sure his troops were in place, Jude led Willy through the door. The Shack’s interior was no more remarkable than the outside. It consisted of a square room with a three-sided bar taking up about half the floor space. Between the two ends of the bar sat an old brass cash register, and next to it, with his chair leaned back against the wall, lounged One-legged Vinny reading a newspaper.

Across the room, near the only window, sat a rickety table surrounded by benches and one crippled rocking chair. Faded photographs of forgotten people and momentous events shared the walls with dingy posters, all coated with a dark brown patina of old tobacco smoke.

Stepping into the somber light, Jude stopped. He caught the quick movement of a shadowy figure ducking behind the far side of the bar. And where the shape had disappeared, a half empty mug of beer, foam still running down its side, sat abandoned. Nearby, an old man stared at the mug as if he’d just witnessed an act of magic.

Chuckling, Jude straddled the nearest stool. “Somebody must have told us a wild story, Willy. Crazy Ed hasn’t been here. He would never leave a half glass of beer.”

Leaning against the bar beside him, Willy grinned. “You’re right, Jude. Ed’s got more class than that.”

The old man shook his head slowly. “I was talking to him, and he just goddamn disappeared,” he muttered. He drank the last of his beer and shuffled out through the front door.

One-Legged Vinny peered over the top of his newspaper. “You got money?”

“We do.” Jude pointed to Willy.

Vinny waved his hand toward the beer taps. “Help yourself.”

Snagging two mugs from behind the bar, Jude leaned over to fill them from a spigot. He set one in front of Willy. The other he drained without setting it down and quickly refilled.

“Willy, put some money on the bar,” he said.

With a kick, Vinny rocked his chair upright. He grabbed his crutch and heaved himself erect, leaning heavily on the structure of yellow wood, permanently bowed by his enormous weight. Vinny owned a prosthetic leg but refused to wear it.

“You guys keep track of how many you drink. I’m going out back.” He made his way through the rear door and across a narrow alley, where an out-building housed the restroom.

Jude nudged Willy and whispered. “Follow my lead.”

Willy nodded.

“Out on the street, Willy.” Jude let his voice rise excitedly. “Look! That girl’s bikini is smaller than an eyepatch.”

“Man,” said Willy. “It doesn’t cover anything.”

Although their remarks seemed to indicate their attention was directed elsewhere, neither Jude nor Willy moved their eyes from the dripping mug. While they watched, a hand crawled into view, wrapped around the glass, and without spilling a drop, slid it gently over the edge. The glass reappeared, empty.

With a quick scuffling sound, a shadow ducked out the back door. Jude and Willy touched glasses and drank deeply.

Wiping foam from his lip, Willy peered out the back door. “Crazy Ed’s moving fast. He must not be drunk yet.”

Jude nodded sagely. “Probably has some money left too.”

From outside came a sharp yelp of surprise. A few seconds passed, and Crazy Ed stumbled back through the door, Sherm holding one arm with Lonesome on the other.

“He try to run,” said Sherm.

“I tackled him in the alley,” Lonesome added.

With an impatient swipe, Ed brushed sand from his long black hair. “How did you guys know I got money?”

“Word gets around,” explained Jude.

A look of defeat crossed Ed’s long face. “You’re a goddamn mind reader.” He put a crumpled bill on the bar and helped himself to a pitcher and two glasses.

“We’re going clam digging,” said Jude. “Know where we can find Vinny’s clam fork?”

Crazy Ed shook his head. “Haven’t seen it since last low tide.” He poured beer for Sherm and Lonesome.

Vinny thumped through the back door, drying his hands. “You guys left it in the alley. Some tourist probably stole it.”

“Maybe we can borrow one from the baitshop,” Lonesome offered. The eternal optimist, she knew but refused to accept the universal animosity of Hal, the baitshop owner, toward all those who did not work for their living.

“Hal wouldn’t loan us a gutter to die in,” said Ed.

“Maybe he don’t need to know we borrowed it,” offered Willy.

“No,” said Jude. “Hal watches us too closely, and there’s no time to plan a diversion.”

Leaning over the bar, Vinny peered at Sherm. “What the hell’s wrong with Sherm? He looks constipated.”

“He’s thinking,” said Jude.

Vinny leaned closer. “Damn! I never seen him do that before. You sure?”

“Yup. Seen him do it once about a month ago.”

“When he tricked the tourist into buying him a jug of Red River?”

“That’s it.”

Lonesome took Sherman’s arm. “Sherm, stop that. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

The big man ignored them. “We need—clam fork,” he finally got out.

“Okay.” Lonesome sounded agreeable. “We know that, but you let Jude do the thinking. That’s what he does best.”

“What do you need a clam fork for?” The voice was feminine and unfamiliar.

Two well-dressed women had slipped unnoticed into the bar. One was having trouble getting onto the barstool. She looked drunk.

Jude classified them instantly. Female. Wealthy. Bored. Their type appeared frequently on the beach; middle aged, often full of booze, and desperately trying to recapture their youth. The women were more welcome than the men. They rarely wanted to fight and usually had more money to spend.

“Conditions are good for digging clams.” Jude added his friendliest smile.

“Oh!” said the drunk one. “Never dug clams before.”

The sober one, an attractive lady of perhaps fifty with eyes a bit too hard, gave Jude a long appraising look, then held out her hand. “My name is Ellen. Tell me more about clam digging.”

With a sigh of relief, Jude leaned over and patted Sherm’s shoulder. “You can quit thinking now.”

The strained expression disappeared from Sherm’s broad face. He downed a full glass of beer. “Thinkin’ make me thirsty.”

Grabbing the pitcher, Lonesome refilled his glass. “Everything makes you thirsty.”

Jude turned back to the two women. “There’s a big sand bar about sixty feet offshore. If the tide is low enough, you can dig clams there; big Pismo’s the size of hubcaps. They make the best clam chowder in the world.” He sighed despondently. “But we don’t have a clam fork.”

“Where can I get one?” asked Ellen.

“Hal’s Bait Shop, just down the street.”

She turned to her friend. “What do you think, Marge?”

Marge shrugged. “Beats the hell out of playing bridge with that pack of bitches at the Yacht Club.”

“Okay. You come with me, Marge. If I leave you here alone, you might steal this handsome young man.”

Marge leered at Jude and fell off her stool. Ellen helped her up and led her out the door.

When the two women were safely out of earshot, Willy spoke. “Those two inlanders will just get in the way. The water’s going to be cold, and I want to get in and out quick as possible.”

“Me too,” said Jude. “We’ll just have to think of something.”

Before they could agree on a strategy, the women returned carrying a clam fork with a price tag still fluttering from the handle.

“We’re ready now,” said Ellen. Marge leaned against the bar, futilely trying to swing her leg over a stool.

“Did you get a knife?” asked Jude.

Abruptly, Marge stopped trying to mount the stool and managed to focus on Jude. “Why the hell would we need a knife?”

“You didn’t tell them?” Lonesome’s voice squeaked with alarm.

The room fell silent as if everyone was reluctant to discuss some special horror. Jude let the silence draw out.

“The giant killer clam,” he said softly, letting a degree of awe creep into his voice.

Ellen laughed. “You’re putting us on.”

“They all say that at first, lady.” Jude drew a long face. “Truth is, the giant killer clam got my best friend.”

“How did a giant clam get in these waters?” asked Ellen. “They’re a tropical species.”

Jude hadn’t counted on zoological knowledge.

“In the hold of a banana boat,” said Willy. “It was little then. Got pumped out with the bilge water.”

Vinny choked and coughed while turning away to wash glasses.

Lifting his glass, Crazy Ed managed to look teary-eyed. “A toast to old George. He was a hell of a man. Fought that clam right down to the end.”

“But we never saw him again,” said Willy.

“At least not in one piece,” Ed added.

Mournfully, Jude shook his head. “Every few days, a bone would wash up on the beach. Took us six months to collect enough to bury.”

“Never did get his left foot,” said Lonesome.

“To hell with it,” said Marge. She gave up trying to mount the stool and leaned against the bar. “Water’s probably cold anyway.”

Ellen held up her clam fork. “You mean, I bought this thing for nothing?”

“Why don’t you let me borrow it?” Jude patted her on the shoulder. “I’ll bring you some clams.”

She looked suspicious. “You’re not afraid of the Giant Killer Clam?”

“I got a knife,” he said. “And I’m anxious to avenge old Gregory.”

“I thought his name was George.”

“Yeah,” said Jude. “Old George Gregory. Hell of a man.”

Chapter Three

Jude paused as he reached where the beach steepened and led down to the retreating surf. His friends gathered around him. Although the sun was well up, sustaining the promise of a warm day, the breakers looked cold, gray, and hard as lead.

The sea, the mother of life, but she cared little for her children, thought Jude.

Last night, someone had tossed a poem into those pitiless waves, an act of utter despair.

“Willy, you ever write any poetry?”

Willy stared as if he’d misunderstood. “Poetry. What the hell you talking about?”

“Just a thought,” said Jude. A rush of foam writhed around his toes, and the chill caused him to shiver.

“Water’s cold,” said Willy. “Wish we could wait till the sun was higher.”

“Tide won’t wait,” Jude replied.

Crazy Ed stepped up to the surf line. “Come on, Sherm. Let’s get this over with.”

Jude waded the surf until the water swirled around his calves. Out beyond the breakers, he could see the smooth rushing of water over the sand bar. He hoped the tide was low enough to permit them to stand. Free diving for clams was hard, cold work, made especially so because none of them owned a wet suit.

With a shout, Willy ran toward the incoming breaker and dove into the foaming precipice. Jude tightened his grip on the clam fork and followed. After him came Lonesome, swimming side-stroke and holding a wine bottle above the water with her free hand.