Page 4 of Tropical Heat

Before I could respond, my radio went off. “Shoot. I’ve got to go,” I said, gathering up my napkin and coffee cup.

“Leave it, I'll clean up. Be careful.”

I took off at a trot, hoping I would get another chance to ask her out. When I got to the rig, it was already running. I jumped in the passenger seat, turned on the siren and Clive jammed it in to gear. “So, did you get to talk to her?”

“I did, and it was amazing. She knew my name. I think she’s been asking people about me.”

“You really like her, don’t you?” Traffic stopped and Clive turned onto Route 1.

“She’s the total package. Caring, sexy as hell, and smart, too. Graduated at the top of her class. I think she could be the one.”

“Easy there, big guy. You've had one cup of coffee with this woman, and you already sound like a man in love.”

My partner did not believe in love at first sight. He and Toni, his wife, had known each other for three years before he even asked her out. I tended to lead with my heart. When we neared the break wall, I spotted a group of people huddled around a man on the ground. “That must be our customer.”

Clive threw the unit into park. I grabbed my bag and jumped out the side door. The crowd parted, and I got my first look at the patient. Mid fifties, male, a hand clutching his chest and a look of absolute terror in his eyes. “You're going to be okay, sir. I’m Zak Weston and the guy taking your blood pressure is Clive Reeseman. We're from Largo County Emergency Services and we're here to help.”

Three

Morgan

I hung around the hospital for another hour before a gray-haired psychiatrist from the fourth floor finally showed up. I am not sure what irritated him the most—my age or gender. Either way, he did not share my concerns for Dixie.

He told me that even if he thought she was suicidal, which he did not, there wasn’t a bed available to admit her. His dismissive attitude pissed me off, but I was new, and there was little I could do about it. The worst part was he was right. Dixie was not suicidal. But given her lifestyle, there was a real possibility she would end up dead if she did not get help.

I called the Largo County Sheriff’s Office and asked to speak with Deputy Garcia. Dispatch put me through and I let him know he could pick up his prisoner. Instead of gloating like I expected him to, he actually sounded sympathetic.

“She’s going to be charged with battery of a law enforcement officer. I talked to the DA and requested she serve enough time to get the help she needs.”

“That was very nice of you. I am not sure Dixie will see it the same way, though. At least not yet.”

“I’m not doing it for her. I did it for you.”

Maybe I had misjudged him, and he was one of the good guys. Or maybe he was just trying to get into my pants. I wasn’t sure which, so I told him I appreciated it and then hung up before he could say anything to ruin the gesture.

Finally, tired enough to sleep, I said goodbye to Elenora and told her I would see her the next day. She only works mornings, but as the newest member of the staff, I would be back at work that evening.

There are many beautiful hotels and resorts in Turtle Key, unfortunately my current address was not one of them. The Paradise Fishing Lodge, a single story structure, is a relic from the 1950s. There is no lobby, just the small office where I checked in. The neon sign out front, half of which still lights up, advertises color TVs and air-conditioned efficiency units.

My parking space was directly in front of my room, so I could look out the window and keep an eye on my car. The old man who handed me the key said he was surprised to see a single woman checking in. Most of their clientele are ‘rednecks who come to fish and get drunk.’

The room had a small kitchen with a two-burner stove, a mini fridge, and toaster; but no microwave or coffee maker. Along with mismatched plates and silverware, there was also free basic cable but no internet. Thank God for mobile Wi-Fi.

It was stifling hot, so I turned on the ancient window unit. After groaning for a long moment, the AC kicked on. I shut it off when I am at work because the temperature control is broken. After my first shift, I came back to find the entire room covered in frost.

I ate a grilled cheese sandwich, which I cooked on the stovetop’s one working burner. Then stripped out of my work clothes and crawled into the least uncomfortable of the two beds. The room appeared to have been cleaned prior to my arrival, but I saw no sense in taking chances and had picked up new sheets, pillows, and blankets at Bell’s Discount Outlets. I fell asleep almost right away.

When my eyes popped open, without looking at my phone, I knew it was four o’clock and time to get up. Whatever faults my fellow guests might have, at least they were as reliable as a Swiss watch. Every morning before dawn, they would leave to board one of the many charter boats docked near the motel.

After fishing for eight hours, they would return to harbor and stop for a few drinks at the Southern Cross to celebrate that day’s catch. Then, without fail, they returned to the motel at four o’clock, to drink more and grill dinner. I knew all of this because only a single pane of glass separated me from the courtyard and their boisterous voices.

I got out of bed and dressed in a WVU t-shirt, blue nylon shorts, and a pair of ASICS running shoes. Then pulled my long hair into a ponytail. As soon as I opened the front door, the aroma of charcoal and fish on the grill reminded my stomach that all I'd eaten in the last eighteen hours was a grilled cheese sandwich.

As I stretched in the courtyard, a sunburned man at the grill checked out my legs and offered me a grouper sandwich and a beer, which I politely declined. From the motel to Black's lighthouse, and back was exactly five kilometers. When I returned from my run, thirty minutes later, I was sweaty, but felt good about sticking to my routine. I was also starving.

My shift didn’t start until eleven, so after showering, I drove down to Gabby's Clam Shack. I’d only been in town a week, but the food truck, parked near Smoot’s Beach, was already a favorite of mine. It’s hard to say which I enjoyed more; the perfectly cooked shrimp tacos or the spectacular sunset views. I couldn’t imagine ever growing tired of either.

After finding an empty picnic table, I sat the cardboard box of food down, just as my phone buzzed. I checked the caller ID. It was Carl, a guy I dated back in Pittsburgh. Eventually, I would have to talk to him, but not today.

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