Remarkably Bright Creatures(39)

Not a great first night in Washington. But today is a new day.

Twenty miles to Sowell Bay, according to the last road sign. Twenty miles to Simon Brinks. How long will eight hundred dollars last? A while, especially now that he doesn’t have to pay for lodging. Until either he finds old Brinks or his duffel bag catches up with him. Eight hundred bucks is workable.

The camper’s wipers are worthless at keeping the drizzle off the windshield, so he leans forward, squinting at the slick ribbon of highway. Then, brake lights bathe the dashboard red, and he brakes hard as a wall of gridlock materializes ahead. At least the brakes work. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he inches along, eyeing the mossy guardrail and the weedy shoulder. Everything is so green here. And the forest, the enormous evergreen trees crammed so tightly together, looking at them makes Cameron almost uncomfortable, as if he’s claustrophobic on their behalf.

Ten miles to go, then five, then two. Off the highway, the WELCOME TO SOWELL BAY sign is faded and rusty. He drives straight to the address he found for the office of Simon Brinks, which turns out to be a nondescript space in a small commercial building off the highway. Brinks Development, Incorporated, the sign says. Cameron gets a bad feeling when there’s not another single vehicle in the parking lot. Sure enough, the door is locked.

Well, it’s still early in the day. Maybe Brinks and his staff aren’t morning people. Cameron isn’t a morning person, either. Clearly, it’s an inherited trait.

Now what? Maybe check out the aquarium? Maybe someone there knows something about when the Brinks Development offices open.

Streaks of mildew run down its domed metal roof, speckled with scab-like clumps of moss and bird shit. Seagulls circle overhead as he walks across the parking lot, which is also weirdly empty. When he pulls on the door and finds it locked, Cameron understands why.

“Open at noon,” he mutters, reading the sign. Of course. What is it with this place? Feels like it’s half-asleep, or maybe half-dead. He looks out at the deserted boardwalk. If Cameron didn’t know better, he’d think there was a sewage pit nearby because, ugh, the smell. But it’s just seaweed baking on the rocks. Sulfur, like rotten eggs. One after another, tiny waves lap at the break wall.

Noon is an hour away. An annoying length of time. Too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, but he could grab coffee. There was that deli up on the main road.

Twice, he almost stalls the camper on the drive up the hill. He lets out a relieved breath, easing off the clutch when he finally gets to the top.

THE DELI IS attached to a small grocery store, which appears to be deserted. Stepping inside is like a time warp. After a few moments, there’s a rustle from somewhere in the narrow aisles. Cameron half expects some black-and-white TV character to pop out.

Instead, it’s an oldish guy with a reddish beard. A green Shop-Way apron strains around his middle, and his thick arms are loaded with packets of ramen he’d apparently been shelving.

“Mornin’,” he says. “Help you find something?”

“Coffee? I thought this was a restaurant?”

“Deli’s up front. Follow me.” He drops the ramen packets in a heap on the floor.

“I can wait,” Cameron says, nodding at the pile. “I’m not really in a hurry.”

Red Beard turns back to him and says, “Nonsense. I’ll get Tanner in here.” Then, without missing a beat, he bellows, “Tanner!”

From somewhere in the maze of cramped, narrow aisles, a sullen teen, also wearing a green Shop-Way apron, materializes. He scuffles along behind them toward the front.

“Here y’are,” says Red Beard, flicking on the lights in the deli. Along with the tinge of bleach, there’s a used-food smell. Like pepper and onion. Hamburger Helper. It reminds him of his shitty old apartment, the one where he lived before moving in with Katie, where you could always tell what your neighbors were having for dinner from the hallway.

Tanner hands him a laminated sheaf.

“That’s the menu, there,” says Red Beard needlessly. “The lad will take your order once you’ve had a chance to look it over.”

Cameron scans the menu. It looks like someone’s dog, or maybe someone’s toddler, chewed off one of the corners. “I’m good with black coffee,” he says, even though his stomach is rumbling.

“Tanner, make him the special,” Red Beard commands, and before Cameron can object, the kid gives a dopey nod and lopes off. Somewhere, in the unseen kitchen, a pan clanks, equipment whirs to life. Red Beard leans over and confides, “Pastrami melt.”

What is it with pastrami? He hopes this one won’t be made of yams. “Okay,” Cameron agrees, hesitant.

“It’ll be on the house. Tanner’s a bit of a greenhorn. Been tryin’ to get him hours in the kitchen, but we don’t get many victims these days.” Red Beard grins, sliding onto the vinyl bench across from him, running a hand over his freckled bulb of a head. “Care for some company?”

Cameron shrugs.

“I always go the extra mile for out-of-towners. A proper welcome.” Red Beard winks.

“How’d you know?”

“I know everyone around here.” Red Beard chuckles. “Where ya from?”

“California.”

Red Beard lets out a low whistle. “California. Don’t tell me you’re one of those deep-pocket real estate wankers. You know, the flipper types.”