Chasing a Blond Moon(90)

“Not gonna happen.”

“Your woman being out of town, I thought maybe youse’d like some company. I’d give it up now.”

“Your largesse is appreciated,” he said.

“We get dese clothes off, I’ll give you somepin’ youse can really appreciate.”

He didn’t doubt it. “Thanks anyway.”

She finished her wine, set the glass down with a flourish, stood up and primly smoothed her skirt. “Guess I’d better get along. No offense,” she added, “but your woman’s gone and you and me’s not so different and I owe youse.”

“The information settles the score,” he said. “We’re even.” Were they really not so different? The comment bit deep, left him antsy.

Honeypat shrugged. “You know where I am, you want some.”

Service nodded. He knew, and he was suspicious of Honeypat dropping in and laying all this information on him.

He walked her to the door. “Limpy comes around,” she said, “one of us is dead.”

She might be right about that.

She stuck out her hand and when he reached to shake, she grabbed his hand and licked his palm. “I’ll keep it nice and wet for youse,” she said. “Fact is, it’s always wet,” she said with a leer. “Flirtin’ aside, thanks for Aldo. He’s a good kid, not like the rest of his kin. I want to see the boy get out.”

He watched her walk up the driveway into the dark. He almost felt sorry for her. If Limpy wanted her, he’d eventually find her. He was glad she had come, but not happy she lived so close. Her sensuality had shaken him. She was trying to do something good for Limpy’s grandson. Aldo’s chances of escaping the family were better than hers. Had he misjudged her all these years? Getting out was always tough.

There was a ville in the mountains of Vietnam. He and Tree were skirting it, en route to a recon job. They saw and heard kids playing, water buffaloes with bells around their necks were jangling away, and a flute of some kind keening across the landscape. They could smell shit from the fields and paddies. The place was small, a half-dozen hovels. To the east there was a range of low green hills. To the west were steep mountains with limestone outcrops.

“How do people get out of that?” Service had asked his friend.

“Most don’t. Most don’t want to. Those that do, have to learn to see over them.” He pointed at the low hills.

“Can’t be that easy.”

“Didn’t say easy, bro. Just what they got to do.”

He hoped Honeypat and Aldo could see over the hills that were in their way. He also remembered that night on the porch steps. They were drinking martinis, watching the sun sink over Little Bay de Noc. He didn’t blame Honeypat. The memory got to him, too.

Back in the kitchen he poured another glass of the gift wine and began to do the chopping and preparations for a quick dinner. He found it amusing that some food rags talked about quick dinners, referring to cooking time, and paying little attention to how long it took to get to that point. After he did the chopping, he dolloped some olive oil in a large skillet, added carrots and a half-pound of pork. He cooked it until the meat lost its pink color, dumped in pineapples and water, three tablespoons of Rasta Joe’s barbecue sauce, a teaspoon of ginger, green pepper, and two cups of Minute Rice.

The cooking took only five minutes. He fed the animals while the rice cooked, then took his plate to the kitchen table, poured more wine, and ate slowly. Honeypat’s wine was very good.

She’d come on Aldo’s behalf. She’d also come because she was lonely and because of fear, giving him information and hoping without asking that he would keep an eye on her. Grace Thundergiver: No way could that be her real name. He grinned. Honeypat had a flair for the dramatic.

Maybe he’d keep an eye on her—from afar.

Nantz called as he was getting ready for bed.

“Long day,” she said. “You?”

“The Cap’n’s in the hospital.”

“Oh no! Another stroke?”

“Doctor says no, but when the Cap’n went out to the ambulance, he was dragging his leg and trying to hide it. I think his doctor’s covering for him.”

He considered not telling her about Honeypat, but that’s not how their relationship was.

“When I got home tonight, Honeypat was here.”

“Did you invite her in?”

“She was already inside. She picked the lock.”

“Wench,” Nantz said. “She in her birthday suit?”

“Nope. She brought me information about Aldo.” He related the events of the day.

“Limpy is a prick,” she said. “Honeypat hit on you?”