“He doesn’t have a gun,” Elgars said, pointing at Papa O’Neal. “And he lives here.”
“O ye of little faith,” O’Neal answered, reaching up and behind him. What he pulled out looked like a hand cannon.
“Desert Eagle?” Mueller asked, holding out his hand.
“One up the spout,” Papa O’Neal answered, handing it over by flipping it around and offering it butt first. “Desert Eagle chambered for .50 Action Express.”
“Cool,” the master sergeant said. He dropped the magazine and jacked out the round up the spout. The brass and steel cartridge was as big around as his thumb. “Jesus! That’s a big goddamned round!”
“You can lose a .45 cartridge in the shell casing,” Papa O’Neal said with a laugh. “I did that one time reloading. And the bullet’s the new Winchester Black Rhino .50. It’ll put a Posleen down with one shot almost anywhere you hit it. And there are seven. I got tired of carting around a rifle all the damned time.”
Elgars took the weapon and handled it carefully then lined up a shot with a perfect two-handed grip. “I love it, but the grip’s too large for my hands.”
“There is that,” Papa O’Neal said. He slathered some more barbecue sauce on the meat then reloaded and reholstered the gun. “And the recoil is a stone bitch. But it’s got authority, by God!” He finished the beer, rinsed out the bottle in the outdoor tap and set it upside down in a rack that was clearly intended for the purpose. Then he burped and looked up at the sun.
“If we take off now, we can get up to the caves and be back by lunchtime. That gives us all afternoon to drink beer, lie about our exploits over the years and act as if we’re not tired old farts.”
“Works for me,” said Mosovich with a grin.
“Then let’s go load up,” O’Neal said. “You don’t walk these hills armed with a pistol. Even one this big.”
Wendy smiled as Shari and Cally entered the kitchen.
“I see you took my advice,” she said. “Nice job. Very understated.”
“Ah…” Cally said.
“We had to do a little revising,” Shari admitted.
“Granpa said I had raccoon eyes,” Cally said bitterly.
“You did have raccoon eyes,” Shari said. “And later Wendy can show you how to do raccoon eyes the right way; I’ve seen Wendy do the ‘Britney Spears look’ and it’s a very good similarity.”
Wendy stuck her tongue out, but otherwise forbore to comment.
“Until then,” Shari continued, “go with the minimum. You don’t really need it, you know. Most makeup work is designed to make women look like you do naturally. And, be aware, one of the reasons not to ladle it on like warpaint is that that’s what the young ladies who are selling their affection do. And if you are walking around with that sort of makeup in dowtown Franklin, don’t be upset if one of those soldiers gets the wrong impression.”
“I’m just tired of being ‘one of the boys,’ ” Cally said. “I mean, up until I started to get breasts and the boys started following me around with their tongues hanging out, Granpa treated me like I was a guy. Now he wants to stick me in a tower until my hair is long enough to climb down!”
Shari smiled and shook her head. “He’s a father. Well, a grandfather, but arguably it’s the same thing. What he really wants is what’s best for you, in his eyes. He might be right, he might be wrong, but that’s what he’s trying for. That’s what every parent tries to do,” she finished with a sigh.
“The other thing is that he’s a guy,” Wendy said. “He used to be one of those boys with their tongues hanging out and he knows what they’re thinking and he knows what they want. And all that ninety-nine percent of them want is to get laid. They’ll say anything, do anything, to get that. Some of them are even willing to use force. He knows what they’re thinking, he knows what they’re saying to each other in the barracks and he knows what they are willing to do to get it. So he’s very paranoid about it.”
“I’m paranoid about it, too,” Cally said. “You only have to get stalked a couple of times to get really paranoid. But…”
“But me no buts,” Wendy said. “I spent four, heck, six years with the reputation of school slut because I was the only girl not putting out. I spent I don’t know how many summer dates perspiring in a long sweater and tied tight sweat pants. And don’t even get me started on fumbling with electronic locks. I got to where I knew not to get in the backseat because they might have engaged the damned child locks and I wouldn’t be able to open the door. I walked home at least six times in four years. When it comes to guys and hormones there is no such thing as too paranoid.”
“There’s worse,” Shari said darkly. “If you choose wrong in one of those back seats, you can get to the point where you really believe that you’re in the wrong. That the hitting is because it’s all your fault. That the abuse is okay because you’re not good enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough.” She stopped and looked at Cally shaking her head. “Don’t get me wrong, men are great and they have a place…”
“Plumbing, electrical,” Wendy said with a snort. “Carrying heavy loads… killing spiders…”
“… But choosing right is the most important choice you’ll ever make,” Shari continued, looking at Wendy severely. “But at that point, my advice is all dried up; I’ve never been able to choose worth a damn.”
“Well, I did okay,” Wendy said with a smile. “So far. And if you want some advice on that, it’s just this; if he tells you he wants you to put out, run like hell. Shoot your way out if you have to. If he’s not willing to wait for you to say you want to, he’s not worth your time.”
“How do you know he really likes you if he’s not asking?” Cally asked. “I mean… what if he doesn’t like you?”
Wendy smiled in recollection. “Well, in my case I knew he liked me because he carried me out of a firefight instead of putting a bullet in my head as we’d agreed. So I was pretty certain he liked me. But I’d sort of come to that conclusion before that anyway. You’ll know. If you don’t, he doesn’t like you enough.”
“This is too complicated,” Cally said. “What about I shoot him? If he comes back, he really likes me. And I can guarantee he won’t try anything until I say it’s okay.”
“Well…” Shari said.
“I was joking,” Cally said with a laugh. “At most a broken arm.” Cally looked pensive for a moment then shrugged. “So, to decide whether a guy is worth going to bed with, I wait. And if he doesn’t ask…”
“Or beg or whine or bully,” Wendy said. “They’re all much more likely…”
“… Then it’s okay?”
“If you want to,” Shari noted. “And… wait a while, okay? Thirteen is way too young to make a good decision, however grown up you feel.”
“I wasn’t planning on testing it out tomorrow,” Cally said. “Okay, so we’ve got the basic rule down.”
“Yeah, and it’s really the basics,” Wendy said with a sigh. “It’s the deciding if you want to that’s tough.”
“If he doesn’t ask, but you’re still getting a creepy feeling, or he’s always making fun of you or talking you down, especially in front of people, don’t, even if you want to.” Shari shook her head with a dark expression. “Don’t, don’t, don’t.”