Her combat boots were desert camouflage. Her bikini was black. And her skin was white. Pure white. White white. Bela Lugosi white. And it appeared she wanted it to stay that way, because her sunblock of choice was Coppertone 45.
Jack used his room key to unlock the gate to the pool area, but the woman didn’t bother to look his way. At least he thought she didn’t-though she faced him, he couldn’t see her eyes behind the same pair of shades she’d been wearing at the Pipeline Beach Five-and-Dime.
He glanced at the combat boots under the chaise longue as he approached her. The boots were pretty scuffed up- probably more than a fashion statement. The black DEATH FROM ABOVE T-shirt was balled up on one side of the boots. A couple of magazines lay half-covered by the shirt-Guns amp; Ammo and Cosmopolitan and Soldier of Fortune and something called Outre.
Jack pulled up a chaise of his own and sat down. “So,” he said, “what’s the deal with this Komoko character?”
A bemused little grin. “What is this, twenty questions?”
“Sure, we can do that.”
“Okay.” She stayed with the grin. “Anytime you’re ready, champ.”
“For starters, what’s your name?”
“Kate Benteen. But come on, champ. Next you’ll be asking for my astrological sign. Or my internet address. I know you can do better than that. Let’s try for some originality, okay?”
She turned his way, sitting up and leaning forward, like she couldn’t wait to hear his next question. She was a long way from being an Amazon a la Wyetta Earp, but she had long legs and Jack couldn’t help wondering-
“C’mon, champ. I know you’ve been in prison and all, but you were only locked up for five or six hours.”
“Sorry.” Jesus, he felt like a teenager, like he was about to blush.
Either she didn’t notice or she pretended not to notice. “So, give me another question, champ. And make it a good one. You know, devastate me with your wit. Like James Bond does it in the movies.”
“Okay.” He cleared his throat. “What’s with the boots? Fashion statement? A retro Nancy Sinatra kind of thing? Or are you one of those all-American terrorists?”
She shot a little gob of sunblock on those long legs of hers and the bottle made a little farting sound. For a second Jack thought maybe that was going to be her answer, but then she started rubbing and talking. “Yeah, well I guess these boots are made for walkin’. They got me through the Saudi, that’s for sure.”
‘The Saudi?”
“Operation Desert Storm. That glorious little one-hundred-hour war. You probably sat on your butt watching it on CNN. I sat on my butt right in the middle of it, only it lasted a hell of a lot longer than four days for me.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
She smiled, the main event this time, and it was some smile, her lips drawing back but not quite showing teeth. “Oh, I don’t think we have time to get into that one right now, champ. But if you really want an answer, make your way down to the Pipeline Beach Public Library and look up BENTEEN, KATE, in the Reader’s Guide to Periodical Literature. That’s Major Kate Benteen, United States Army. You’ll find a couple of personality profiles in People and Reader’s Digest. Hell, once upon a time I even made it into Vanity Fair."
Jack gave her a little nod, the one that came complete with a wrinkled brow to show how impressed he was. “So, are you on leave or something? Is Pipeline Beach your idea of a vacation spot. Major?”
“No and no. I’m retired. Well, that’s not quite right. I was dishonorably discharged. The top brass didn’t much like it when their little darlin’ shipped stateside and turned up in Playboy.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” She shrugged. ‘The ‘Girls of Desert Storm’ issue.”
“I must have missed that one.”
“You’re the only guy in America who did. The crazy part was that I didn’t even pose for the feature. I was the interview that month. But I have to admit I kind of got wrapped up in the whole fifteen-minute celebrity thing. I mean. I’d had a little taste of it before-I won a silver medal at the ’88 Olympics in Seoul-”
“Wait a minute. You were in the Olympics? Doing what?”
“Platform diving.” She didn’t miss a beat. “That was a while ago. I don’t miss it-chlorine is real hard on a girl’s hair. And I don’t really miss the military, either-it wasn’t like those good ol’ boys were ever going to invite me to be guest speaker at Tailhook.”
“So, what’s on the resume since then?”
“I rode out my fifteen minutes of fame. Even did a movie for Roger Corman. But Hollywood isn’t my style, and-”
Jack cut her down with a burst of sharp laughter. “Behind those shades, I bet your eyes are brown.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I never met anyone who was so full of shit in my whole life.” He leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. “C’mon now. I’ll admit that you really had me going, and maybe I deserved it. But let’s drop the tall tales and get to it, okay? About this Komoko-”
“Uh-uh. I think you’ve used up all your questions, champ. Now it’s my turn.”
“Jesus. Listen, Kate. . your name is Kate, right?”
“You can call me Major Benteen.”
“Jesus.”
She leaned back, stretching out, turning her face toward the sun. “So, what kind of a lunch box did you have when you were a little kid?”
“Huh?”
“You know-those little metal boxes your mommy filled with bologna sandwiches and potato chips and Hostess Twinkles. Most of them featured really bad paintings of characters from TV shows.”
“Oh, yeah.” Jack tried to remember. “Mine had the guys from Wild Wild West.”
“Ah. . James West-the cowboy James Bond.”
“And Artemus Gordon, his loyal sidekick.”
Her lips formed a circle that was both appreciative and acquisitive. ‘That earns you some points, champ. You didn’t happen to save it, did you?”
“What?”
“The lunch box. Do you still have it?”
“No. . hell no, of course not.”
“Too bad. I’ve been meaning to get a new purse.”
Jack blew it off. “C’mon now, this is fun and all, but let’s cut to the chase-”
“Hold your horses, champ. Only nineteen questions to go, remember?”
“Oh, man.”
“Second question-bachelor number one, what’s your idea of an ideal first date?”
Jack curbed the temptation to swear. This was nutty. But if this woman knew something about Komoko, and he was pretty sure that she did-
“I’m waiting.”
Jesus, Jack thought. This is bar none the weirdest fucking job I’ve ever had.
“C’mon, champ.”
“Okay. Ideal first date.” Jack leaned in, furrowing his brow like he was really thinking about it even though she wasn’t looking at him at all. “First, we get a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken-”
“Original recipe, extra crispy, or rotisserie gold?”
“Oh, man. Give me those original seven herbs and spices and forget the rest of it, okay? And don’t interrupt me-”
“That wasn’t an interruption. That was a clarification.”
Jack cracked his knuckles. He could only put up with so much of this dancing around shit. He didn’t like it in conversation any more than he did in the ring, where some guys would juke around holding their dicks for a couple rounds before getting down to business. Baddalach didn’t have the patience for that. With him it was nothing but bad intentions from the first bell forward.
So he figured he’d try seriously sarcastic, which was probably the way the major liked it best if you judged by her questions.
Baddalach said, “That’s a lovely outfit you’re wearing today, Mrs. Cleaver. And those pearls of yours sure do have a way of catching the afternoon light, but how about you shut the fuck up and let me answer your questions?”
“Sure, Eddie.” Not missing a beat, this little hardcase. She squirted a line of sunblock across her belly, rubbed it in real low and real slow. “But don’t you think you’re being a little hard on the Beaver?”
Baddalach sighed. Some battles just weren’t worth fighting, not when there was no way of winning them.
She said, “Now, back to my original question-”
“Like I was saying: one bucket of original recipe, maybe a six-pack of something real cold to wash it down. Drive out of Vegas-that’s where I live-head for the Valley of Fire. Climb up on some sandstone and watch the sunset. If she doesn’t complain about the heat or the wind ruining her hair or sand in the chicken, she’s in like Flint.”
“You mean in like Flynn.”
“I mean James Coburn. That goofy spy movie. In Like Flint.”
“I know what you think you mean. In Like Flint. 20th Century-Fox, 1967. Sequel to Our Man Flint. But what you really mean is in like Errol Flynn. He of the rape trial and not-so-unwilling nubettes-Hollywood, 1942.”
“I don’t mean fucking Errol Flynn at all. That guy was a Nazi spy.”
“Wrong-o, champ.” One sharp little exhalation registering exasperation. One withering, haughty glance. “In any case, your allusion doesn’t fit your date’s gender. How could a woman be in like Flint?”
“All my allusions are non-gender specific, Major Benteen.”
“Good one.” She smiled. “You’ll get this witty repartee stuff down in no time, Mr. Bond.”
“Why thank you. Miss Moneypenny.”
“What about the second date?”
“A movie. She picks it. If the people in it don’t talk too much and if lots of things blow up, I’ll buy the popcorn and Junior Mints and even hold her hand. But if she picks a movie about a middle-aged English butler pining for the fields, it’s over. If she picks a movie about weeping old maids visiting foreign countries and pining for the fields in the company of foreign men, it’s over. Ditto for movies with Meryl Streep pining for the fields with a foreign accent. Or Oliver Stone movies. Or anything with subtitles.”
“What if it’s got subtitles, but it’s also got Toshiro Mifune carving up half the Tokogawa Shogunate?”
Baddalach laughed. “That ever happened, we’d go straight from the Cineplex to the mall, pick out curtains and place settings for two, is what we’d do.”
She actually laughed at that one. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he figured that they’d be a little different than they’d been just a minute before. Maybe a little gleam in them. Maybe-
She didn’t give him a chance to complete the thought. “Now let’s play picture-if-you-will. I’m visiting Jack Baddalach’s bachelor pad. I inspect the coffee table. What magazines do I see?”
“A TV Guide. Boxing Illustrated. Maybe a couple Weekly World News."
“You like to keep up with the Elvis sightings?”
“No, I’m more of an unexplained phenomenon kind of guy. You know-Titanic Survivors Found! Sasquatch Wins Winter Olympics! Mermaid Marries Captain of Russian Sub! That kind of thing.”
“So. . Weekly World News. No Wall Street Journal. No Barrons. No Money Magazine. Anybody ever tell you that you’re not a kid anymore, champ? Don’t you care about your future?”
“Sure, I’m gonna make some plans. Someday. But for now. .”
“What about CDs?”
“I just told you. I’m not much on investments-”
“Not certificates of deposit. Compact discs.”
“You mean, like music?”
“Yeah. . like music. What’s on the Jack Baddalach hit parade?”
Baddalach’s scarred eyebrows arched. “Well, first off, I don’t have a CD player. I do have a hi-fi, but it needs a new needle. I got it at a garage sale last year. Guy died who used to play vibes at the Sands back in the fifties and his daughter was selling off a bunch of his stuff. Anyway, I picked up the hi-fi and a pretty healthy stack of records, too. You know- romantic stuff. Just in case I ever run across a girl who picks movies where things blow up.”
“What kind of romantic stuff?”
“Stuff with vibes in it, mostly. Easy listening, Henry Mancini.”
She laughed.
“Lots of Dean Martin, too. Dean Martin French Style, Dino Latino, Dean “Tex” Martin Rides Again. Herb Alpert-I love “The Lonely Bull.” A couple Julie London albums for rainy days, but I don’t listen to those too much because they make me morose. I guess my favorite is this one by Robert Mitchum-Calypso is Like So. Old Bob can really sing. Anyway, that album always makes me feel like I’ve just been shanghaied to some exotic port of call where Jane Russell is waiting around the next corner, desperate for my help.”
“My my my. . visions of tiki lights and flaming hibachis are dancing in my head. You must have made the dead vibe player’s daughter’s day.”
“Fact is, I did. She was so happy she even tossed in a complimentary martini shaker. In fact, the word ecstatic was bandied about.”
That earned another laugh. Jack smiled. A couple more of those, and he’d be IN. . LIKE. . FLINT. She’d invite him up to her room, maybe grab a bite afterwards. She’d tell him everything, he’d catch up to Vince Komoko and-
“Hey, you’re not listening,” she said.
“Oh, sorry.”
“I asked what kind of car you own.”
Jack pointed across the lot. “Range Rover.”
“No. I didn’t ask what kind of car you rented. I want to know what kind of car you own."
Jack felt the blush creeping up on him again.
She waited him out.
“A Toyota,” he said finally.
She capped the sunblock.
“’76 Celica,” Jack explained. “The Mustang of the seventies.”
She stood up and looked at him like she was waiting for something important.
“Really,” Jack said.
“You’re being honest with me?”
“Yeah. Of course. Why would I lie?”
“Now there’s a question for you.”
“Hey, I’m not lying.”
“Uh-huh.” She tossed him the sunblock. “You’d better use some of this. You’re getting a little red.”
Now Jack knew that he was blushing. “Hey. Wait a second-”
“Look,” she said. “You expect me to believe that you’re the kind of guy who likes Kentucky Fried Chicken and cheap dates with sunsets and Japanese economy cars. The kind of guy who doesn’t even own a CD player. The kind of guy who’s never saved a dollar but doesn’t much think about it because he’s not the kind of guy who’s ever going to need more than the change in his pocket. The kind of guy who’s really just a big kid who likes to read about space aliens and watch movies where lots of things blow up, but the kind of guy who’s just a little bit insecure about being a big kid, gets his back up when someone asks him if he might have his old fourth grade lunch box kicking around because he sure doesn’t want anyone to figure out that he wouldn’t bust the covers of Money Magazine even if they were giving away free shares of AT amp;T with every issue.”
“Jesus. The doctor is in.”
“You mean I’m wrong?”
“No, I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is-”
“No. You’ve said enough for now. Unless you want to answer one final question, champ.”
“What’s that?”
She made him wait for it, sliding off the sunglasses, giving him his first look at a pair of eyes that were cat-green, cat-curious. And then those lips of hers twisted into kind of a halfway grin and she said, “Riddle me this. Batman-if you’re telling the truth, if you’re such a don’t-give-a-dam-about-a-greenback-dollar kind of guy, then why are you so interested in Vince Komoko’s money?”
Jack’s mouth came open but nothing came out.
‘Take your time, champ.” She winked at him. “When you come up with an answer for that one, maybe we’ll talk some more.”
She tossed her sunglasses his way.
He caught them.
Then she turned and jackknifed into the pool.
Jack stared at the water in disbelief.
The splash she’d made wouldn’t have filled a shot glass.