Tilly #3
“How short are we?”
“Right now we don't have enough to do half of the build on the East side. And that isn't even considering the West bank.”
I take the clipboard from him. He has quantities written in the margin beside the January and February work windows. I run my finger down the numbers, already doing the math.
“What about the place outside Beaufort?”
“Called them. They're too small.”
“The supplier Marion used last year?”
“Already committed through spring.”
“There was another one north of Savannah.”
“Raw shell. We'd have to cure it, and unless we build something to do that, we can't for the quantity we need.”
I hand the clipboard back and walk toward the pallets.
“So we don't need a shell supplier. We need several.”
“That is our only option right now, but you'll be spending twice as much getting it here.”
I turn. “What's the actual deadline?”
“If we want to stay on the winter placement schedule, I need the first delivery here by the second week of January.”
“That gives us a little time, but not much.” I tap the pen on my lip as I think this through. “What if we pull from farther north and consolidate somewhere before it comes down?”
“You planning to open a trucking company over break?”
“No, but there has to be somebody already doing regional loads who can combine them.”
“Maybe.”
We spend another twenty minutes going through what he has already tried. By the time I leave the shed, I have six names in my phone, two notes to call Marion, and one supplier outside Wilmington that might be worth chasing if I can figure out how to make the freight cost work.
Six months ago, anything going wrong at Oak Moss felt like another hand closing around my throat. Now it's just a problem with numbers and a deadline. I can work with those.
Cooper is in the kitchen when I come inside, standing at the island with a knife in one hand and half a ham sandwich in the other.
“You look stressed. You sleeping okay?”
I throw a loaf of bread at him. They all think that is the best joke now.
“I'm thinking.” I shrug out of my coat and hang it on the back of a chair.
"Can I help?"
“Our cured shell supplier is tapped out.”
He takes another bite. “So call another one.”
“Why didn't I think of that? You're a genius. We can get what we need by piece-mealing, but that's not ideal. The bigger issue is moving it here without spending stupid money.”
Cooper chews for a second, then points the knife at me. “Call Rhodes.”
My hand stops halfway to the refrigerator. He says it so casually that for a second I think I heard him wrong.
“What?”
“Rhodes. Call him. I'm pretty sure he can help you.”
I open the refrigerator and stare into it without seeing anything useful. “Why would I call Rhodes? What does he have to do with cured oyster shells?”
“He's in logistics, remember? He coordinates suppliers and freight for smaller projects now. And New Orleans goes through enough oysters that somebody down there has to have shells.”
I shut the door.
“Seriously?”
Cooper gives me a look. “Uh, yeah.”
“He told me at The Boot he'd gone to work with Cain, but I never got the job description. Why does that seem so crazy?” I ask snarkily.
It looks like he’s going to push back, and then he drops it.
“Valid. Rhodes is handling a lot of the operations work for the smaller logistics loads. He does vendor sourcing, transportation, getting weird shit from one place to another when clients can't figure out how to do it themselves. That’s why I was thinking he could help.”
I lean against the counter.
“That's his job, huh?”
“He was in Texas last month because somebody needed equipment moved through three states without shutting down production. Before that, I think he was in Mobile chasing down some supplier problem.” Cooper takes another bite of his sandwich.
“This sounds exactly like something he'd know how to handle.”
Cooper wipes the knife on the edge of his plate.
“You've already got the restoration plan. You know what you need and when you need it. You're just looking for somebody who can pull it from a few places and figure out the cheapest way to get it here.”
I turn away and pull a glass from the cabinet.
Behind me, Cooper says, “Why are you acting weird about this?”
I fill the glass from the tap and drink half of it before setting it down. "I'm not. I'm thinking."
"Okay," he says with his mouth full. He opens the trash bin and throws away his napkin and puts the plate in the sink.
“There are plenty of logistics companies,” I say finally.
“Sure.”
“So I'll call one.”
Cooper watches me for a second longer than I like. Then he shrugs. "Suit yourself. I just figured using somebody you already know makes more sense. Want me to call him?”
“No.”
It comes out fast enough that he lifts his eyebrows.
I grip the edge of the counter.
“No?”
“I'll call him.”
Cooper's expression changes, not much, but enough that I know he noticed something.
I pick up my phone and open his contact. His name is still there, exactly where I left it.
For the first time in months, I press call.