Part 32 (1/2)
Trin tapped the pack. ”Bastos,” he said. ”Algerian. The French paratroopers used to smoke them.” He spoke impeccable English in a deep voice.
And he talked like a storybook. ”Now we will have a real Vietnamese meal and I'll explain why foreign garbage has an affinity for Vietnamese graves. I will tell you the history of my country. You will learn about sorrow.”
They talked all night.
He jerked alert and checked his watch. She'd been gone for almost an hour. He was starting to worry when there was a knock on the door.
The face of Mama Pryce's daughter was distorted in the fish-eye security peephole. He opened the door and she came in and...Hmmm. She'd had her hair fixed-no longer a wash-and-wear mop, now it was swept around in a subtle way that showcased the spa.r.s.e lines of her neck and chin and cheeks. Her eyes were bigger, grayer. And she wore earrings. Long silver jobs with dangling jade half moons.
”Give me an hour,” she said. ”Now beat it. I'll meet you in the bar by the restaurant.”
44.
HE WAS NURSING THE DREGS OF A BEER WHEN NINA came through the bar room door like a panther cras.h.i.+ng a poodle show.
High heels realigned her posture and catapulted her from the girl next door. And the hair and the simple, elegant black dress. Especially the dress that, through some sorcery of design, spring-loaded the tilt of her hips and made them very emphatic. The crisp black skull-and-crossbones tattoo popped on her bare left shoulder as cautionary in its own right as a Harley logo stamped on a muscular forearm.
The silver-and-jade earrings played to a touch of carotene eyeshadow. Lipstick made rose petals of her lips. And the perfume-Lola LaPorte's perfume had smelled like danger and loneliness. Nina's was an alchemy of mother's milk and happy s.e.x and Broker, with his Achilles' groin, smelled the danger of the kitchen. Of fixing screen doors. A dumb, happy danger.
”Well?” she asked casually.
”Impressive,” said Broker, blindsided.
”You didn't really think I was a lifer dike, did you?”
”I said I was impressed.”
She fingered the cheap rumpled material of his summer jacket. ”You look like a mechanic.”
”A squeaky clean mechanic,” said Broker. He stood up and gallantly walked her into the restaurant feeling like a rough-trade date whom a model had rented for the night.
Why not? They had a rendez-vous in Loki, Wisconsin, where uncomfortable truths might wait. Tomorrow could be bullet time. And she looked great.
Nina ordered a vodka martini and specified three olives. Broker, trying hard to relax with the Beretta jamming his kidneys and scanning the restaurant doorway, decided to go nonalcoholic and ordered a Sharp's.
The drinks arrived and she fished an olive out with a toothpick and held it between her teeth for a moment before chewing it. Broker sipped his weak beer. Their eyes met and they both asked questions at the same time. Hers: ”Why didn't you remarry?” His: ”Why in the h.e.l.l did you join the army?” His came out a little bit first.
She speared the second olive and shrugged and asked another question. ”Why did you?”
”I didn't join. I had a high lottery number.”
”But you went Airborne and Ranger and OCS.”
”What's your point?”
Nina went after the third olive. ”We're old-fas.h.i.+oned cannon fodder, you and I. Squares. I'll bet when you hear the national anthem you put your hand over your heart.”
The waiter returned and Nina ordered a New York strip, medium rare, a baked potato, no sour cream, and a salad with vinaigrette dressing. Broker went for the lake trout. He was watching her almost exclusively now and hardly cased the doorway.
”What you're really asking is did I go into the army because of my father.”
”Okay. Did you?”
”Partly. The other reason is a corny vow that a certain group of young women can never admit that they've taken. But one of us is going to really command soldiers someday. It's the last hurdle.”
”You did.”
”I only did what I was trained to do. Make decisions in a crisis.”
”Modest.”
She lowered her eyes. ”We have to be. Sojer men don't like them pushy broads.” She smiled wryly. ”You don't like pushy broads.”
He stared hard at her.
”Okay,” she shrugged. ”I'd like to be the first, but I don't have any illusions. Basically I'm just the little Dutch girl's thumb. I'll probably end up jumping in to plug a gap somewhere. That's the life I opted for.”
He continued to stare at her. ”What I don't like is the way you jump to conclusions about Ray being all good and LaPorte being all bad.”
Their food arrived and when she cut into her steak, for the first time, he noticed her fingers. And he remembered Lola and her lacquered nails. Nina kept her fingernails trimmed almost fanatically close to the cuticle. He reached over, took her right hand, and turned it over. Then her left. Scallops of scar tissue patterned the pads of her palms.
She shrugged. ”That night in the desert. Coming down from the fight, I wouldn't leave until all the wounded were out. I sat with some of the dying. Figured it came with the territory. Everyone was watching my face. I guess I clawed hunks out of my hands. Didn't even know it. My nails were too long.” She picked up her knife and resumed cutting her steak. ”Won't happen next time.”
Broker thoughtfully chewed a mouthful of trout and almonds in silence. Then he asked, ”What about the other part of joining the army, about your father?”
Nina looked up with a practical expression. ”That's where the people who know Dad and LaPorte were. Some of them are generals now. Most of them refused to talk to me. But some did and they all said the same thing.” She pointed her fork across the table. ”Dad had a reason for being there at the end in Vietnam. He was deeply committed to evacuating people who'd worked for our side. But they all said that LaPorte stayed one tour too long. Not smart for a guy who'd been fast tracking for a first star, hanging on to a lost cause that way. They even used the same words to describe it. Like he was literally trying to find something.” She paused. ”I didn't get here by myself, Broker. A couple of those foxy old warriors pointed me in a direction.”
”Maybe we'll find out tomorrow,” he said.
”I think we will find out tomorrow,” she said.
They finished their meal in silence. Beyond the windows, Lake Superior dimmed down to an empty ebony ballroom and a soft-shoe of moonlight. They paid the check and walked into the lobby.
”C'mon, Broker,” she said. ”Spin me down the beach.”
45.
THE SUPERIOR SURF COULD NEVER REALLY MURMUR. It was for rolling rocks. Broker smiled at the insight and wondered if he'd just described himself.
Leaving the restaurant, because of the eyeshadow, he noticed that her iris had flecks of green and that her eyelashes were golden; because of the lipstick, he noticed the curve of her upper lip. As they walked the gravel path along the sh.o.r.e he was very aware of the temperature of her leg when it swept against his. And the rustle of her dress, the click of her heels, and the swing of her hips.
She turned and cuddled against his chest and smoothed a hand down his lapel. The languid motion stopped abruptly. ”What's this?”
He tapped the folded files in his inside jacket pocket. ”The banking records. Just a precaution.”