Savannah Breeze by Mary Kay Andrews Page B

“Check the other hotels on the beach. Nothing going on this time of year.”
    â€œEspecially if you refuse to rent rooms to anybody who happens to knock on the door,” I pointed out.
    â€œScrew that,” Sorrentino said. “I’m doing work on all the units. Paint, plumbing, that kind of thing. Johnny knew that. That’s what you do in the off-season. Maintenance. It’s part of my deal.”
    I walked around the room to get a better look at it. There was a small kitchen just off the main living/dining room. It had ancient redFormica countertops, and rusting white metal cabinets, and one of those old round-shouldered refrigerators just like the one my dad used to keep beer in out in the garage. For a man’s kitchen, it was surprisingly neat. No dirty dishes in the sink, or grunge on the floor. Just off the kitchen was a large utility room with two huge commercial washers and dryers, white-painted shelves full of neatly folded bed and bath linens, rolls of toilet paper, and stacks of hotel-size shampoos and soaps.
    Sorrentino caught up with me at the kitchen doorway. “Anything in particular you’re looking for here?” he asked.
    â€œJust getting a look at my investment,” I said airily. “You don’t mind, do you?”
    â€œA phone call would have been nice,” he said. “To let me know you were on the way. I would have straightened up the place.”
    â€œI didn’t have a phone number,” I said evenly. “Anyway, it looks all right to me. Is there a bedroom?”
    â€œThere is,” he said. “But these are my private living quarters. Johnny never came poking around in my apartment. And I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same.”
    â€œFine,” I said. But secretly, I was dying to see what the bedroom looked like. And why didn’t he want me looking around in there?
    â€œSo,” Sorrentino said. “What’s the deal?”
    â€œDeal?”
    â€œWith you. And me. Do I keep my job? And the apartment? Johnny and I had an understanding. That I would stay here and work through the end of the summer, till I get my boat going again.”
    â€œWhich boat is that?” I asked.
    â€œThe Jitterbug, ” he said proudly. “A thirty-foot T-Craft. I run a charter-fishing business. She’s, uh, in dry dock over at Marsden Marina. Soon as I get her up and running again, I’ll be out of here. Say, September, probably.” He gave me a grudging smile. His teeth were big and white and even. “So, is it a deal?”
    â€œHarry,” I said. “Let’s be square with each other. You know, and Iknow, that the Breeze Inn has seen better days. This place is a derelict. To be frank, it’s a teardown.”
    â€œSome painting. And plumbing,” he protested. “I finished the roofing last week. Got toilets on order at Lowes. Two weeks, tops, we’ll be booked nonstop.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “We won’t. How much does one of these units rent for, anyway?”
    â€œHigh season? The one-bedrooms bring $750 a week, the efficiencies $500. Johnny says business is real steady. Same families come back year after year. I got a phone call from some folks in Tifton, just yesterday. They want unit six the week of July the Fourth.”
    I shook my head again. “Not enough. I haven’t seen the tax assessment for the Breeze Inn yet, but I know it’ll be a killer. The real value in this place, as far as I can see, is the location. I’ve got a little over one and a half acres here. Technically, it’s ocean-view property. And those are the magic words, Harry. ‘Ocean view.’”
    â€œShit,” he said, turning his back to me. “You too?”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œLook around the island,” he said bitterly. “Goddamn developers are ruining the place. Anything with any age, any character, they tear