“Planned what?” she asked.
“This. Having me stay over.”
“What makes you say that?” she asked, in uniform, leaning back against the kitchen counter, her fingers interlaced around a mug.
“You told me last night you'd had too much to drink to risk driving. Your vehicle's in the driveway. You left it here so that you could get a lift.”
She put down her mug and took the two steps across the kitchen and gently cupped my testicles. I felt the heat of her hands, warmed by the hot mug, seep through the fabric of my pants. “So, what you gonna do about it?” she whispered. “You wanna pull me in for questioning, Special Agent? I promise I'll come quietly. On second thought, maybe I'll scream a little — you seem to have that effect on me.”
Old faithful stood to attention. Again.
She whispered in my ear as she undid my fly and slipped her hand inside. “And I seem to have a certain effect on you.”
In order to keep up with Lieutenant Colonel Clare Selwyn in the sack, I figured I'd have to run at least fifteen miles a day. We kissed and I said I'd call her later, exhaustion permitting.
It was light, but the sun still hadn't cleared the pines on a distant low hill. I decided not to drive back to Hurlburt Field, but to keep on going to Pensacola. I had the addresses and phone numbers in my notebook, and a bunch of questions in my head.
TWENTY-THREE
Pensacola lay on the far side of the Pensacola Bay Bridge. A brisk early-morning wind was pulling at the gray water, dragging up little white triangles all over the bay and blowing them into spindrift.
According to the digital display on the dash, it was only 8:45. I was too late to catch Ms. McDonough at home. Elmer's Sports Store was a ten-minute drive away, so I headed there. It wasn't hard to find, a shop in a mall off Pensacola Boulevard that looked like it had seen better days. Or maybe these days were the best it was ever likely to see. Or maybe it was just being punished by progress — there was a newer, bigger version a couple of miles back up the road. The place looked blackened and eroded by road grit and exhaust fumes that had been blowing off the adjacent multilane since the day the mall's foundations were laid. Faded “SALE” signs hung askew in almost every window. Paper cups, burger wrappers, straws, and plastic bags from the fast-food joints that had refused to read the writing on the walls of this shopping Alamo had gathered in the corners of the buildings and perimeter cyclone fencing like discarded ammunition boxes on a battlefield where the fight had moved on. The parking lot, which was so vast as to seem more an exercise in wishful thinking, was dotted here and there with vehicles in not much better condition than the buildings, most of which were closed, shuttered, and barred. The aforementioned writing on the walls was everywhere — black, angry, aggressive, and mindless. I wondered how many tennis rackets Elmer's was selling these days.
I walked inside and found a joint selling coffee to early-bird shoppers and retail staff. I bought a cup — strong and black, no sugar — and a cheese-and-bacon sandwich. The food was surprisingly good. I ate the sandwich and ordered another. A few of the shops were getting ready to open. Most of the salespeople were no more than kids, and were either lardy or anorexic, depending on their chosen eating disorder.
I sat on a bench outside Elmer's, drank the coffee, ate the second sandwich, and waited for Amy McDonough to make an appearance. More shoppers were starting to arrive. They were a listless bunch. All the fight had gone out of them. Several stood outside the shops, waiting, staring, waiting.
I noticed movement inside Elmer's. I went to the window and had a look inside. A guy in a blue tracksuit-style uniform was at the counter, on the phone, one of his arms waving about like he was bronco busting. He was yelling. Good soundproofing stopped me from hearing what he was yelling about.
Five past nine. No sign of Ms. McDonough, but there was a chance she'd arrived early and I'd missed her. The shutter rolled up on Elmer's. I went inside and had a walk around, making like a shopper nosing for a bargain. Elmer's was basically a large rectangular room with an office at the back. I knew this because there was a door behind the free-weights section with the word “Office” on it. Posters showing various athletes achieving greatness and others depicting women who looked like they were in the middle of an orgasm while they worked out hung on the walls. The showroom smelled of new rubber, cardboard, and old dust. Elmer had a large selection of running shoes. He also specialized in jogging machines and home gym equipment like the machines Ruben had bought.
The guy in the blue tracksuit stayed behind the counter and leaned on it, studying an old Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. He didn't look up. Maybe he didn't want to look up in case he found himself standing behind the counter in a run-down sports shop. He was in his early twenties, baby-faced and big. Not in an athletic way, but in an extra-cheese-and-giant-fries way. He had white, greasy skin, pimples, and a fine black mustache that looked like it might come off in the wash — if he ever had one. The way he flipped over the magazine's pages, every few seconds and violently, suggested there was nothing in the issue he hadn't seen a thousand times already, and that something had pissed him off. Maybe it was the phone call; maybe it was the fact that there was nothing in the magazine he hadn't seen a thousand times already. His name tag said I should call him Boris.
“Yeah,” he said when I approached, looking up from the mag with a look of flat boredom.
“I'd like to speak with Amy if she's in.”
“Related to something you want to buy or return?”
He said this like he was reading it off a card.
“No.”
“Then it's private business. Private business may not be conducted during business hours. Company policy.”
Spoken like a true dipshit. “Then she's here?”
“Perhaps you didn't hear me, sir.”
It was obvious Chuckles didn't know this great nation of ours was built on the idea of service with a smile. I headed for the office.
“Hey!” he called out to my back as I opened the door. Behind it was a small room with a desk, a computer, a filing cabinet, and an old Pamela Anderson calendar on the wall. It was March 2002—ancient history — and Pammy was playing with a python. There was no Amy McDonough.
“Turn around real slow, mister.”
I turned. Boris was armed with a baseball bat. A wooden one. It was old by the look of it — didn't want to abuse the stock, most likely. Elmer himself had probably put it behind the counter thirty years ago in case of folks coming in and asking questions about things other than sports. “Baseball season's over, sonny,” I said.
Boris had fifty pounds on me, maybe more. He was working through the odds. I could see it in his face, in the curl of his lips, the narrowed eyes, the flared nostrils, the pupils dilated by the adrenaline surging through his system. I could tell he'd come to the conclusion that the odds were in his favor. He swung the bat to get a feel for it.
“Y'all want to tell me who you are and what you want?”
“Not unless you say the magic word.”
This confused him. He had a weapon; I didn't. Why wasn't I scared, or at least conciliatory? The reasons had a lot to do with experience. In fact, I wish I had a dollar for every weapon I'd taken out of the hands of drunken airmen and soldiers. Mostly those weapons were either broken bottles or bar stools rather than baseball bats, but the principle was the same.
“Please,” I told him. “The magic word is please.”
He swung the bat again — a ranging swing — and took a step forward.
I didn't move. “Look, I just wanted to talk to Amy. She's not here? Fine. I'm happy to walk out.”