by Captain Sammitch
Miami International Airport:
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but nobody is going to be flying anywhere near La Perdita until the hurricane blows over and the airport there is repaired," the TWA clerk replied with characteristically feigned sympathy, peering at Leslie Kline over his wire-rimmed glasses.
Leslie sighed. "I understand, sir. But can they give me any kind of estimate on when flights to La Perdita will resume?"
The clerk shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
Leslie leaned over the counter slightly and looked him in the eyes. "I would really appreciate it if you could look into it for me," she purred as the clerk got an attention-getting glimpse of the generous cleavage revealed by Leslie's low-cut top.
It was like flipping a switch. The clerk finally managed to return his gaze to eye level and smiled. "Come back at nine tomorrow morning, and I'll let you know what we find out," he said.
Leslie flashed a smile at him. "Thanks so much. Have a wonderful day." She turned and walked away, pretty sure that the clerk was watching her departure intently, but not really caring. She had what she wanted.
It was funny, really. She had no idea what it was, but somehow Leslie could just turn on the charm, and everyone played her game by her rules. Mom had always called it natural charisma, but she could have called it the philosopher's stone, for all Leslie cared. It worked, and that was all that mattered. Leslie's charm was as predictable as a Swiss train schedule.
Hailing a cab, Leslie caught a ride to the hotel. Mysteriously enough, the cabby didn't even charge Leslie a fare, and for some odd reason he babbled on and on about the plural-marriage practises of his home country just about constantly. Ignoring the driver's advances and the odor of hummus and pita bread wafting from the front seat, Leslie hopped out at the Marriott Hotel and walked up to the front desk.
"Excuse me, I need a room for tonight," she said to the receptionist. The concierge was sipping a latte as he sat behind the counter near the receptionist, and just about spewed his drink all over the room when Leslie turned around and bent down at the waist to pick up her travel bag.
"I'll handle this," the concierge said to the receptionist as he stepped up to the counter. "We have some lovely suites available for you if you like, madam." He pointed to a diagram on the counter. "A penthouse executive suite, in fact. There's also a rooftop swimming pool for your convenience... assuming you'll want to do some swimming while you're here."
I'm sure seeing me in a bikini on your little hidden cameras would brighten your day, Leslie was about to reply, but thought better of it. "Oh, really?" she enquired, beaming at the concierge.
The receptionist cleared her throat. "The penthouse suite is running at $844 a night right now, and..."
Leslie gasped aloud. "I'm only going to be here until tomorrow. They keep delaying my flight, and I don't know how I'll ever be able to get back to Baltimore." Leslie put on a pouting expression, trying hard not to die laughing at what she knew was coming.
The concierge held up his hand, motioning for the receptionist to stop tinkering with the register. "It's such an unfortunate turn of events that she's been delayed, Claire. Let's not compound her worries." He grinned at Leslie. "The penthouse suite can be considered complimentary accommodations until you leave," he offered.
Leslie let her jaw drop. "Gosh, sir, that's really nice of you. I really appreciate it." She smiled, then beamed at a nearby busboy, who gawked at her until the cart he was pushing crashed into the wall. Maybe it is easy to be me, Leslie thought to herself as she headed for the elevator.
She would take care of things in La Perdita later.
South Shore beach, La Perdita:
It was nearly nightfall, but in the clouds and blinding rain, midnight and noon would be indistinguishable. Phil Smith kept running down the beach, looking for people in trouble and dodging the thunderous breakers that were inching higher and higher up the beach, driven by the rising tide and the fury of Hurricane Jason. Here was a surfer out to catch some monster waves who was very seriously in over his head. There was a father out looking for a lost daughter. Junk collectors who tried to slip out to the beach to pick over the flotsam that washed ashore for valuables were beaten into submission by the inexorable winds and needle-like, driving rain.
The South Shore was quite simply being erased from existence. Hundreds of tons of sand and soil were being washed away by the furious waves. All three breakwaters had been demolished. Soon, the southernmost point of La Perdita would be nothing but a slight drop-off into the water, if that much was left standing.
There she was! A little girl was cowering behind a big rock, frightened out of her wits and clutching a handmade rag doll for dear life. Phil hurried over and scooped up the frightened child.
"Who are you?" the girl cried over the storm.
Phil simply smiled at her, attempting to impart whatever calming effect he could manage. "My name's Phil. What's yours?"
The effect was slight but almost immediate. "I'm... my name's Sabrina." She held up the doll. "And this is Alyssa."
"Hello, Sabrina," Phil answered. "And hello, Alyssa." He looked back behind him. "Your daddy is looking for you. And he's very scared. So let's go find him, okay?"
Sabrina wrinkled her nose and looked at him curiously. "You're all dry!"
Phil chuckled. "That I am. And soon, you'll be dry too." He pushed with his mind and transferred the shielding effect from himself to Sabrina. He was rewarded by the myriad stings of thousands of raindrops flying into his face horizontally. But at least none of that was hitting the little girl.
Sabrina's eyes widened. "How did you do that?"
Phil thought a moment. "Actually, I don't know."
He strode back the way he had come and finally found Sabrina's father clinging to a rock as waves crashed down no more than fifty feet from him. It was only a matter of time before the man would be washed out to sea. Phil left Sabrina where she was and hurried out to where Sabrina's father was. He pried the man's hands off the rock, picked the larger man up bodily, and carried him back to where his daughter was waiting.
Sabrina threw her arms around her father, who finally managed to stagger to his feet. The two of them stepped back and yelled something to Phil, but he couldn't make it out over the waves crashing down behind him. He was now almost waist-deep in the ocean. "Get to the grocery store as fast as you can!" Phil shouted to them. "There's a temporary shelter set up there!"
They shouted something back.
"What?"
The father shouted it again, louder.
"I can't hear you!"
The man pointed and started to run: never a good sign.
Phil turned just in time to see a huge breaker wash over him. He slammed against the rock and was sure he'd cracked some ribs, but didn't have much time to think about it, as he felt himself being pulled out to sea. Crap.