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 more than afford it,” he said, swinging his head and his eyes back in Danny’s direction.
“I know you can. Come back and buy one tomorrow. That one’s on me. For your daddy—one vet to another. Now go enjoy. You’re holding up my traffic.”
Norris wandered off to the side, glancing at the people behind him. The ten-dollar bill stayed in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it. He thought he might have offended the guy. That he might stick around and try to pay him again.
Walter wished he could figure out what was so familiar about him though even the name Phillip Norris didn’t ring any bells. He realized he should ask where his dad was stationed in the navy. But when he looked up the guy was gone.
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?”