Of course she had, but he had never entered it into his cell phone. Standing there under the streetlamp, feeling her arms around him made all his irritation drain off into the ground. Her cologne reminded him how much he had missed her.
“I just wanted to spend some time with you.”
“Well, it’s not too late,” she said. “I’ve got a pork roast upstairs and I was thinking of making that mojo pork you like.”
“With the Papaya Mango Salsa?”
“Well sure, if you’ll help me chop up all the stuff.” Their embrace tightened and, for a moment, their mutual obsessions with their professions faded into the warm night breeze. He pressed his mouth to her ear, delivered a soft kiss, and whispered.
“I have an idea how to spend the time while the roast cooks.”
“Ooooh, stop.” But as they moved toward the door with his arm around her, they both knew she meant just the opposite.
20
“Damn, you know how to make a girl work up a sweat.”
Hannibal sat up in the bed, elbows propped on raised knees. “Back at you, beautiful. Just wanted you to know I miss you when I’m away.”
“Well, I like the way you show it.” Cindy rolled toward him onto her left side, resting a hand on his. “And I love your eyes in this light.”
Cindy’s bedroom was filled with the first light of day, casting a glowing sheen on her golden skin. Her hair, moist from their activity, hung free around her neck and shoulders in the natural curls that he loved and she fought to control most days. Hannibal had nudged her awake before six, and they had made love through the sunrise. Now, as their breathing and heart rates returned to normal, he worked at recording the damp glow of her skin, her animal scent, and the sensuous sound of her afterglow breathing. He held that multi-sense image in his heart, like a hologram, to get him through the times when they were apart.
At moments like this he felt that God had designed her just for him, and that he could never be worthy of this special gift. She deserved the finest wine, gourmet meals, cruises to the islands, and so much more.
“I should have at least brought flowers,” he said, his thought leaking out through his mouth.
“Ever the romantic,” Cindy said, leaning to kiss his arm. “You could always read me some poetry.”
“Ha! You know I don’t get poetry. And besides, as much as I’d like to lie here with you for a week, I got to get my ass in gear. I have a very long day ahead of me.”
“We all do, baby,” she said, pulling open a drawer in her side table. “It’s the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. Did you know?”
“Not one of the dates I mark on my calendar.”
“Well, lie back and listen,” Cindy said, retrieving a small book from the drawer.
Hannibal lay back, lowering his eyes to half-mast. Cindy sat cross-legged on the bed, the sheet pooled around her waist. She held the book the way parishioners do on Sunday when they are about to launch into a hymn. Hannibal listened while his eyes traced the curve of her full breasts and the inverted “V” of her rib cage.
“This is by one of my favorite local poets, Cybele Pomeroy. It’s called Summer Solstice.” Cindy cleared her throat before reading the lines in slow, solemn tones.
“Too hot for spring,
But summer’s yet to peak.
By counting, it’s half over.
But sixty-one days later,
The heat smells like
Eternity.”
Afterward she lowered the book, establishing eye contact with Hannibal even as she blocked his view of her breasts. He could see by the movements of her eyebrows that she expected some reaction from him. He was sure that the short poem held some deep meaning, but for the life of him he could not imagine what that might be, so he said what he always said when someone read him poetry.
“Pretty.”
“Pretty?” Cindy said, dropping the book back into the drawer. “You’re hopeless. Didn’t you feel the desolation, the sense of resignation in those words? It’s never been so hot, and it feels like it might never end. The longest day is a metaphor for, oh, never mind.”
“Hey, I think I started this conversation with saying that I don’t get poetry.”
“You don’t want to get poetry,” Cindy said, standing, “which is why you’ll never get it.”
Hannibal swung his feet to the carpet. “Well regardless of how the stars are aligned it’s going to be a long day for me, but at the end of it I should be at the end of this case and collecting a fat payoff.”
“Yeah, long day for me too,” Cindy said. Hannibal thought he saw stars in her eyes as she stared through him. “A long day of anticipation. Tomorrow morning when trading starts I’ll know just how successful our offering has been. Tomorrow’s the pivotal day. All my work and planning has led up to this. I just don’t know how I’m going to get through this day.”
Hannibal felt that she was already gone someplace, leaving him behind. He stood and headed for the shower.
“Well, babe, I know how I’ll get through it. I’ve got a party to go to.”
The White Tornado slid into a parking space a little more than a block away from Rod’s house, facing the bulbous sun hanging low in the sky but still far from surrendering to the night. Hannibal mentally went over his simple plan for the hundredth time before stepping into the street and heading for Rod’s house.
He had thought through his straightforward tactics on the long drive back down to Virginia Beach, and again after the short nap he caught on the beach. He had gone through all the motions in his mind, considered what could go wrong and reviewed his exit strategy. He didn’t need back up for this, but it was wise to be prepared and to have his head in the game all the way. Mostly though, he thought about the number of people who would be happier if he were to execute the monster known as Rod Mantooth. Of course he wouldn’t be a killer to please anyone, but if all went as planned, it might be that someone else would take care of the problem soon.
Loud southern rock alternated with hip-hop sounds blasting from Rod’s house. As he mounted the steps to knock on the door, Hannibal could already smell the alcohol. He wondered how well he would fit in tonight. He’d settled for simplicity — tight new jeans and a bright red sleeveless Puma tee shirt that matched his shoes. The shirt was half tucked in because he knew that Huge paid two hundred dollars for the white Helmut Lang belt he was wearing and it seemed sacrilegious to cover it up.
The woman who answered the door had Angelina Jolie’s lips and waterfalls of dark brown hair flowing down around her shoulders. Between the twin cascades he could see a bit of studded black leather at her throat. She glanced only briefly at Hannibal’s face, and quickly lowered her gaze.
“Good evening Sir,” she said. “May I ask your name?”
“They call me Smoke.”
The woman nodded and stepped back, pulling the door open. Hannibal stepped inside, ignoring the woman as he assumed he was supposed to do. The room was dark, the air thick and laced with marijuana smoke. The music boomed from the stereo on Hannibal’s right, the baseline so insistent that he could feel his heart beat falling into synch with it. He removed his glasses and hung them on the front of his shirt. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw three men he didn’t recognize, all white, and three women following and fetching for them. The girls varied but were all well proportioned and dressed to display their assets in tight, short skirts and open shirts or plunging necklines. Everyone seemed to be dancing and drinking, which, Hannibal supposed, was what made it a party.
When Rod came toward him the others parted like a human Red Sea in his path. A large, hairy hand thrust forward and Hannibal shook it in a fierce grip.
“Dude,” Hannibal shouted, “This is off the hook. Thanks for the invite. Now where’s the beer?”