Damaged

'She's putting the dog in on top of the guy.'

'You have got to be kidding me,' Ellis yelled, but Maggie thought it sounded like he was smiling.

'I told her not to bring up that dog.'

Maggie saw Bailey wave the all clear and up, and Kesnick didn't hesitate. He concentrated on raising the basket, keeping it steady. Maggie watched Bailey down below. She had crawled back farther onto the deck, under the cabin roof.

Kesnick pulled and yanked, getting the basket into the helicopter's cabin, sliding and grinding it over the entry. The whole time his attention was focused on the survivor and the dog. Maggie knew Kesnick hadn't even seen the second dog that Bailey had dragged from the cabin. She had it clutched tight to her chest and managed to harness it to her safety belt.

'Son of a bitch,' Kesnick said as he grasped the deployment cable.

'What now?' Wilson asked.

Maggie glanced between Wilson and Kesnick while watching the survivor settle against the cabin wall, hugging what looked like a broken arm. The dog stayed close to his owner, panting and licking the man's hand. Maggie was glad he couldn't hear the exchange between Kesnick and Wilson.

'There's a second dog,' Kesnick finally admitted.

'She better not be bringing up another dog.'

'She's bringing up the second dog.'

'Don't raise that dog up.'

'She has it in the quick strop. She's holding it.'

'Son of a bitch. Don't raise her up, Kesnick. Leave her butt down there until she puts that damn dog back.'

Maggie watched Kesnick's face, the half she could see below his eye shield. She thought she saw a hint of a smile. What Wilson didn't realize and couldn't see was that the flight mechanic already had Bailey halfway up. She was almost to the helicopter.

CHAPTER 22

Walter Bailey flipped over the OPEN sign on his Coney Island Canteen. It was later than he'd like. Sundays were big days for him, but he'd promised his daughter Liz that he'd get gasoline first. He'd gotten extra and took a couple of five-gallon canisters to his other daughter, Trish. As he'd suspected, his son-in-law, Scott, hadn't even thought about preparing for the hurricane. Trish, as always, defended her husband.

'He's from Michigan, Dad. He has no idea what a hurricane means.'

'He'll learn quickly. This one is on its way.'

Walter hadn't really believed that when he said it. But it made him mad that Scott chose to 'run into work'-- as Trish put it--instead of helping his wife prepare. It was a father's overprotective instinct kicking in, but he didn't like Scott Larsen. Sometimes that slipped out. Lately he didn't care. Trish deserved better. Though everyone believed this young man was a charming, hardworking, devoted husband, Walter saw beyond the veneer. Maybe it was just Scott's profession that annoyed Walter. In his mind, morticians were just better-dressed salesmen.

By the time Walter got to Pensacola Beach, the winds had kicked up and surfers were riding the waves. It was what Walter liked to call 'beatin' down' hot, not a strip of shade or cool around.

He had a line of customers before the first set of dogs were ready, but Walter enjoyed chatting and could make his hot, hungry customers laugh and share stories. His career as a navy pilot and commander not only made for good entertainment but also had trained him well in convincing people that his mission was their mission. They weren't just buying a hot dog and Coke from the Coney Island Canteen, they were paying tribute to Walter's boyhood. Okay, so perhaps the salesman in him simply recognized the salesman in Scott.

The crowd thinned out, finally replaced by a young guy--no more than thirty. Neat, short-cropped hair. Dressed in khaki walking shorts, a purple polo shirt--though Walter's wife would have corrected him and called it lavender--and Sperry deck shoes. Walter's wife had taught him how to dress. After thirty-five years of wearing a uniform he had no idea who Ralph Lauren was. But now he did and recognized the logo on the lavender shirt. He noticed other details, too--like the gold Rolex and Ray-Bans--without showing that he noticed. The guy was probably not a tourist. Maybe a businessman. He didn't look like he knew anything about boats, though Walter had seen better-dressed amateurs step off some of the yachts in the marina. It was ridiculous what people thought they needed to wear these days, even for recreation.

'What can I get on it?' the guy asked.

'Just about anything you want.'

'Green peppers?'

'Sure. Green peppers, kraut, onions.'

Walter thought he recognized the guy but couldn't place him.

'All of that sounds good. Add some mustard and relish. So what's with the Coney Island getup? You from New York?'

'Nope. Pennsylvania. But my daddy took us to Coney Island a couple of times for vacation. Those were some of the best days. You been to Coney Island?'

'No. But my dad talked about it. Where in Pennsylvania?'

'Upper Darby.'

'Get out. Really?'

Walter stopped with a forkful of kraut to look at the guy. 'You know Upper Darby?'

'My dad grew up in Philadelphia. He talked about Upper Darby.'

'Is that right?' Walter finished, wrapped the hot dog in a napkin, nestled it into a paper dish, and handed it to the guy. 'Would I know him? Where'd he go to high school?'

'You know, I'm not sure. He died a few years ago. Cancer. His name was Phillip Norris. He didn't stay in Philadelphia. Joined the navy.'

'Retired navy,' Walter said, pointing a thumb to his chest.

'No kidding?' The guy took a careful bite of the hot dog, nodded, and smiled. 'This is one good dog.'

'One hundred percent beef.'

'Hey, Mr. B,' a scrawny kid interrupted.

'Danny, my boy. Ready for your regular?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Danny here is quite the entrepreneur.' Walter always tried to bring his customers together.

'Is that right?'

'Working on the beach cleanup crew and living out of his car to save money.'

'And to surf,' Danny added.

'His surfboard is worth more than his car.'

Danny shrugged and smiled. Walter knew the boy enjoyed the attention. He wasn't sure what the kid's story was. He looked about fifteen but Walter had seen his driver's license and it listed him at eighteen and from someplace in Kansas. Maybe the kid really did just want to surf.

Danny had the routine down. Worked the cleanup crew in the evenings till about eleven, slept in his car, surfed all day, used the outdoor showers on the beach and the public restrooms on the boardwalk, ate hot dogs with mustard, onion, and kraut with a Coke. Not a bad life, Walter supposed.

He handed the kid his hot dog and poured an extra-large Coke, then accepted the boy's two bucks. Their agreement. Walter figured this was the kid's only real meal of the day, so he cut him a deal.

Another line started forming. A bunch of college kids, pushing and shoving at one another.

While handing Walter a ten-dollar bill, Norris was watching Danny get into his faded red Impala. Maybe the kid reminded him of himself.

'On the house,' Walter said.

That got his attention.

'I can't let you do that.' The guy looked stunned like no one had ever said that to him before. 'Besides, I can