“No, problem, Jack. It’s Wayne Akana. But everybody calls me Beach Dog.”
“So what outfit are you with here, Beach Dog?”
“I retired from the Night Stalkers. I keep planning on moving back to the North Shore, but right now I’m flying for Black Management. As a matter of fact, this afternoon I flew Camille Black herself from Ramadi into the bubble.”
“Camille’s here in the Zone?”
“Sure is. See that big guy over there?” Beach Dog pointed to a man whose belly hung over his Bermuda shorts. Several men crowded around a table with him. “He’s buying drinks for everyone on his crew, says the rounds are on Ms. Black’s tab.”
“Any idea where she is right now?”
“What do you want to know for?”
“We used to have a thing.”
“Sure you did. I’ve heard that from a lot of guys.” Beach Dog smiled and gulped his Heineken.
A Rubicon security team walked into the bar, dressed for work, not a night on the town. They wore photographer’s vests with bulging pockets over Kevlar body armor and they carried AKs. Hunter hunched down a little and moved so that Beach Dog was between him and the door. “Can you get me to Camille?”
“Now?”
“She’s got some big problems and I have something she needs.” Even if Stella were really furious at him, Hunter was sure he could talk her down. All he needed to do was get her to understand the truth. And besides, he had to find a way to make things right with her. He ached inside as he thought about how much he wanted her. Suddenly it didn’t make any sense to flee Iraq to save his ass if it meant leaving his heart behind.
“Yeah, right,” Beach Dog said. “I don’t think she needs anything in your pants.” He waved to a waitress, then pointed at his empty beer bottle. “I’ve heard talk from the guys that she might even have something going on with Pete. You know, the woman with the short hair and comfy shoes who works in her Baghdad ops.”
“I’m not joking.” Hunter grabbed him by the arm. The Rubicon operators scanned the crowd. Hunter slouched lower and looked around for options.
“Dude, you are one intense guy.” He stared at Hunter’s hand grasping his forearm.
“See those two men working their way to the bar? They’re Rubicon operators and they’re here to kill me. Keep yourself between them and me.”
“Hey, I’m here for a good time, not to play combat-flashback with you.” The helo pilot put his hands in the air as if surrendering.
“If you were with Camille Black today you had to have heard her talking about problems with Rubicon. I’m not crazy and I have critical intel for her about Rubicon. There’s going to be money in this for you. You know she’s generous with those who go out of their way to help her.”
“How serious of a problem is it?”
“You saw the look on her face today, didn’t you?” Hunter gambled. He could almost see how the two vertical lines formed between her eyebrows when something was bothering her. That look used to scare him because it usually foreshadowed trouble between them, but now he would have welcomed it just to see her again.
“I’ve never quite seen her this way,” Beach Dog said as a waitress handed him another beer.
“I’m telling you, big bucks.”
Beach Dog sighed. “Follow me.” He approached three men talking to two girls who had barely reached puberty. He put his arm around the waist of a petite Filipina and looked at the men standing around the tall table with her.
“Hey, what are you doing, Dog? Hand’s off. I just bought her,” a man twice the girth of Beach Dog said as he pushed Beach Dog’s arm away. He pointed to a passport from the Philippines lying on the table.
“Rob, remember how we ducked the Aussies at the bar in Patpong? I’ll have her back to you in two shakes.”
“She better still have that new car smell.” Rob shrugged his shoulders and reached for his drink.
“Take the other one,” Beach Dog said to Hunter as he led the bargirl to the back of the bar. “You need one of these to get into the brothel in the back. It’s got plenty of exits.”
Hunter took the one of the Filipino girls by the hand. He expected to follow Beach Dog, but instead, the girl immediately started leading him to the whorehouse. Beach Dog and another girl were right behind him.
A small Asian man sat on a stool in front of a glass door with newspapers stuck to the panes to obscure the view. He nodded to the girl and let the group pass.
It took a few seconds for Hunter’s eyes to adjust to the darkness, but his ears were immediately oriented to the sounds of sex: heavy breathing, moaning, grunting and assorted fucking sounds which sounded like a giant orgy coming from all around him, but there was no laughter, no signs of lingering. When he could see, he understood. It was a place where you wanted to do your business and then get the hell out. He was walking through the most sorry-ass brothel he’d ever seen, and as a Marine he’d seen some pretty bad ones. Sheets hung from wires crisscrossing the ceiling, creating small cubicles. They stopped short of the concrete floor, well above the thin mattresses. Clothespins attempted to hold the corners shut, but not much was hidden and from what he saw, he wished it were. The Iraq War had gone on long enough for proper whorehouses to be established, so the only way he could explain the place was that the proprietors had designed it for quick disassembly in case of a police raid. Either that, or they were cheap fuckers.
The girl tugged at his hand to lead him into a cubicle. He planted his feet and shook his head.
She formed a circle with her index finger and thumb and thrust two fingers from her other hand in and out of it. “Ten dollar.” Then she puckered her lips and blew. “Five dollar.”
Hunter shook his head. “No thanks.” He looked behind him to Beach Dog. “Where the hell’s the door?”
“Straight ahead, past tent city.”
The girl grabbed Hunter’s arm and tried to pull him back. “Why you no like?”
He shook her off and kept going.
Ten minutes later they were in Beach Dog’s extended cab Ford F-150 truck approaching the Black Management compound.
“I think I’m better off if I get under a blanket in the backseat for the security point,” Hunter said as he ducked low in the seat.
“Dude, chill. I’m telling you, it’s just like going onto a base back home. Right stickers, right look and nobody says boo.”
Beach Dog rolled to a stop at the security shack and held out his thumb and little finger, flashing the guard the Hawaiian shaka sign. “Hey, Kimo, been catchin’ any waves lately? I hear we had some big sets come in yesterday.”
“You too funny.” A heavy Hawaiian man let out a deep belly laugh.
“Too much beach and not enough water in this place.” Beach Dog held up his plastic security identification badge.
“Your friend, he have ID?”
The guard pointed at Hunter who looked at Beach Dog and shrugged his shoulders. He needed a backup plan fast, but at the moment he was stumped. He would not take out an innocent security guard. Come on, Beach Dog.
“I can give him one visitor pass, but I need an ID,” Kimo said.
Beach Dog grimaced. “He can’t leave a trail. No one can know he was here with me.”
“He some kind of spy or something?”
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone what this is about.” Beach Dog leaned out the window and lowered his voice. “Steamy, hunky man-love.”
“For real?” Kimo cocked his head and inspected Hunter as if he had just arrived on the planet.
Hunter let his wrist fall limp in his most effeminate wave while he told himself Beach Dog couldn’t possibly be serious.
“Go, go, go. But next time, his place.” The guard raised the barrier.
“Now you keep that long board waxed. I feel a big swell coming on.” Beach Dog winked at Kimo.
“You too much. Go!” Kimo closed his eyes and shook his head.