4 Shelter From The Storm by Tony Dunbar Page B

spirits with anecdotes about past floods and hurricanes. Her expression was troubled when he strung his shoes round his neck and rolled his pants legs above his white knees.
    Mrs. Lostus said she was game for the trip, but she had no interest in taking off her Nike’s which she had recently purchased at the Payless Shoe Source near her home. They could just get wet. Same with her orange J. C. Penny’s slacks. She expected her lawyer to demand reimbursement for her dry-cleaning bill from the time-share people.
    “Ready, my dear?” Tubby asked gallantly.
    Hand in hand, like a pair of bad school children, they stepped out of the sanctuary of the Place Palais garage and waded into the storm, guided through the drenching rain by the distant flashing neon of Canal Street.
    “I don’t like this,” Mrs. Lostus said immediately. “Oh, this water is cold.” Memories of Goose Creek were coming back.
    Tubby tried to comfort her, but her complaints did not stop. He had not realized, standing back in the garage, that there was a current in this water, and it was running against them. Their progress was very slow, and before they had made the first block Mrs. Lostus gave a shriek and plopped down backwards into the grimy water. She floundered about, unsuccessfully trying to keep her purse above the surface, while Tubby strained to help her get erect.
    “I stepped off the curb, I think,” she sobbed when she regained her feet.
    Tubby got his arm around her waist and propelled her forward once more.
    “Oh, oh,” she moaned with each step. Whiskey and dry clothes seemed very far away. Two more miserable, sodden humans would be hard to imagine.
    “It’s a boat!” Mrs. Lostus screamed, pointing out a canoe bearing down upon them.
    “It sure is,” Tubby said. “Hey, guys!” he hailed the vessel.
    There were three men in the canoe. They heard Tubby calling but kept paddling on a course down the middle of the street.
    “Hey, guys! Help this woman!” Tubby yelled.
    The men kept stroking, and even veered toward the far side of the channel. Clearly these fellows did not plan to rescue a pitiful damsel in distress.
    “C’mon men,” Tubby pleaded. “Those bastards are going to pass us up,” he said to Mrs. Lostus.
    “Like hell they will,” she exclaimed. Breaking free from Tubby she plunged into the street, where the water quickly rose above her waist. Hands waving in the air, she leaned into the flow and struggled to intercept the passing boat.
    “Hey, Mrs. Lostus,” Tubby yelled. Swearing, he stepped off the curb to follow her.
    He saw her make a grab for the aluminum gunwale and get her hand on it.
    He heard one of the men say, “Let go, lady.”
    He saw the man in the back raise a gun and point it at Mrs. Lostus and pull the trigger.
    He heard the report, quickly dampened by the rain, and he saw Mrs. Lostus sink beneath the surface. The canoe sailed on.
    Tubby dove headfirst into the stream and thrashed about blindly, groping for his companion.
    He felt a shoe and latched onto it, but the foot slid out. He came up for air, holding a wet brown Nike.
    Desperately, he went under again, reaching here and there for Mrs. Lostus. Between dives he could barely make out the faraway canoe sailing across Canal Street; then it was gone. He could not find his client.
    Tubby stood in the middle of the flood, clutching her shoe, yelling incoherently at the rain.

CHAPTER XII
    Oblivious to the state of his clothing and the dazed stares of other refugees flattened in doorways, Tubby splashed and swam to Canal Street. Here the many bayous converged to form a shallow brown sea. Stalled buses lined the neutral ground. The drivers were still in some of them, faithfully guarding the Regional Transit Authority’s property, and a few passengers had remained aboard others. There was a pay phone outside Rubenstein’s, and Tubby pressed 911. It rang and rang, but there was no answer.
    He hung up and sagged against the pole. Absently, he patted