Red Tide Read Free Page A

the cop was through talking. His jaw was set like a bass. He snapped a response. Then another, before chopping the air with the edge of his hand in a gesture of finality. The cop held up a hand of his own…fingers spread, as if to indicate five of something.
    An older woman in a shiny black dress swooshed up to Dougherty.
    “This is wonderful work, my dear.”
    “Thank you so much,” Dougherty said.
    “You should be so proud of yourself. I’ve never seen—”
    Ding. Ding. Ding. Cecil Taylor was tapping the rim of a glass with a spoon. The woman scowled and sought the source of the noise.
    “People…people,” Cecil Taylor shouted. Ding. Ding. Ding.
    Slowly…in stages…the crowd noise began to diminish. Ding. Ding. Ding. “People. Please.”
    The room fell silent. “Apparently there’s been some sort of…”—he looked over at the cop—“some sort of toxic spill or something in the neighborhood. It seems we’re going to have to evacuate the building immediately.” His tone suggested it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “These gentlemen…”—he threw a glare at the pair of cops—“insist that we be out of here in the next five minutes.” He set the glass and spoon down and raised his upturned palms to shoulder height. At that point the whispering cop took over.
    “When you leave the building, please move south. Down toward the stadiums. The area between Cherry and King Streets has been cordoned off. Transportation is available at Safeco Field.”
    “My car—” someone in the crowd began. The cop waved him off. “If your car is parked between Cherry and King…from the waterfront to Fourth Avenue, you’re going to have to find some other way home tonight.”
    A flurry of protests and questions filled the air. The cop shouted them down. “Move, people,” he yelled. “Let’s go. MOVE.”
    Slowly, one and two at a time, the crowd began to head for the door.
    Cecil Taylor stood in the opening alternately offering agonized apologies and casting scowls at the cops, who continued shaking their heads at shouted questions and herding the disgruntled patrons like sheep.
    As the final guest disappeared into the darkness, Taylor turned to the cops. “I know Chief Dobson personally,” he was saying. “I’ll be on the phone…first thing in the morning. This damn well better not be some goddamn training exercise…I’m telling you right now—”
    The cop cut him off. “Let’s go, sir,” he insisted. “We’d appreciate it if you’d leave the lights on.”
    Before Taylor could muster a comeback, Maury Caulkin appeared carrying an armload of coats. He handed Corso two and kept a pair for himself. Cecil Taylor shouldered his way into his long black cashmere overcoat and then turned his attention to Dougherty. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I can only imagine how you must feel…on this of all nights…to have something like this—”
    “Let’s go, people,” the short cop shouted. “Need you to move now.”

4
    “G ive it a rest, huh?”
    Corso stood in the street and watched a ragged pair of street people lurch around the corner and disappear. “What?” he said.
    “You’ve braced every person we’ve run into. You’re down to winos. Rate we’re going neither of us will ever get home.” She waved an arm. “Let’s go.”
    “I’m just curious.”
    “Be curious while you’re walking.”
    “I’ve got a feeling.”
    “You’ve always got a feeling.”
    The plan had been to walk down to the stadiums and grab a cab. Fifteen minutes…tops. That was an hour ago, before Corso began stopping everyone they encountered. Asking question after question. Picking everybody’s brain. Getting absolutely nothing for his trouble, either. Nobody knew a thing.
    The night air was heavy with mist. Fluid and gray, it dampened their cheeks as they walked. Behind them, a single strip of yellow police tape marked the southern edge of Occidental Park. Beyond the yellow plastic barrier, the