Duma Key by Stephen King

it’s sold, the owner can’t kick you out until your time is up.”
    Jack drove slowly up to the back door . . . only with its face hanging over the Gulf of Mexico, that was the only door. “I’m surprised they were ever allowed to build this far out,” he said. “I suppose they did things different in the old days.” To him the old days probably meant the nineteen-eighties. “There’s your car. Hope it’s okay.”
    The car drawn up on the square of cracked pavement to the right of the house was the sort of anonymous American mid-size the rental companies specialize in. I hadn’t driven since the day Mrs. Fevereau hit Gandalf, and barely gave it a glance. I was more interested in the boxy pink elephant I’d rented. “Aren’t there ordinances about building too close to the Gulf of Mexico?”
    â€œNow, sure, but not when this place went up. From a practical standpoint, it’s all about beach erosion. I doubt if this place hung out that way when it was built.”
    He was undoubtedly right. I thought I could see at least six feet of the pilings supporting the screened porch—the so-called Florida room. Unless those pilings were sunk sixty feet into the underlying bedrock, eventually the place was going into the Gulf of Mexico. It was only a matter of time.
    As I was thinking it, Jack Cantori was saying it. Then he grinned. “Don’t worry, though; I’m sure you’ll get plenty of warning. You’ll hear it groaning.”
    â€œLike the House of Usher,” I said.
    His grin widened. “But it’s probably good for another five years or so. Otherwise it’d be condemned.”
    â€œDon’t be so sure,” I said. Jack had reversed to the driveway door, so the trunk would be easy to unload. Not a lot in there; three suitcases, one garment bag, a steel hardcase with my laptop inside, and a knapsack containing some primitive art supplies—mostly pads and colored pencils. I traveled light when I left my other life. I figured what I’d need most in my new one was my checkbook and my American Express card.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” he asked.
    â€œSomeone who could afford to build here in the first place could probably talk a couple of B-and-C inspectors around.”
    â€œB-and-C? What’s that?”
    For a moment I couldn’t tell him. I could see what I meant: men in white shirts and ties, wearing yellow hi-impact plastic hardhats on their heads and carrying clipboards in their hands. I could even see the pens in their shirt pockets, and the plastic pocket-protectors to which they were clipped. The devil’s in the details, right? But I couldn’t think of what B-and-C stood for, although I knew it as well as my own name. And instantly I was furious. Instantly it seemed that making my left hand into a fist and driving it sideways into the unprotected Adam’s apple of the young man sitting beside me was the most reasonable thing in the world. Almost imperative. Because it was his question that had hung me up.
    â€œMr. Freemantle?”
    â€œJust a sec,” I said, and thought: I can do this.
    I thought of Don Field, the guy who had inspected at least half of my buildings in the nineties (or so it seemed), and my mind did its crosspatch thing. I realized I’d been sitting bolt upright, my hand clenched in my lap. I could see why the kid had sounded concerned. I looked like a man having a gastric episode. Or a heart attack.
    â€œSorry,” I said. “I had an accident. Banged my head. Sometimes my mind stutters.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” Jack said. “No biggie.”
    â€œB-and-C is Building and Code. Basically they’re the guys who decide if your building is going to fall down or not.”
    â€œYou talking about bribes?” My new young employee looked glum. “Well, I’m sure it happens, especially down here. Money