Ded Reckoning (11 page)

Hunter stares at her.  
I doubt that.  
Then sensing the void says, "Well, we're just goin' to have dinner.  Swim and dinner.  Remember.  And we'll be back before any moon rising stuff."

"Okay.  Forget it.  What did Mr. Zachary say?"

"To go as an author.  Writing a story and doing research.  Will be my cover," laughs, "Until it's opened and someone reads the Prologue.  I'm letting the idea float around in my mind for a day or two.  Not sure about it."

"Sounds like a plan.  Seems good."  She pauses, looks up and catches his eye.  "Not as good as the Del."  Grins.  He does as well.  Then she says, "Are you bringing a weapon?"

He gazes at her for a moment.  "Yes, of course.  Why?"

"Well, I was thinking it will be interesting.  You didn't have one yesterday in your jockey shorts so I was wondering how..."

"I think you said it earlier.  Be nice."

"Should I bring mine?"

"You have a weapon?"

"Of course.  And after yesterday, I'll be totin'."  She takes another bite of bacon, her third strip.  Then says, "You know the two rules of
unarmed
combat?"

"Yep."

"Well, in case you forgot, they are," she pauses, dangles a strip of bacon from her fingertips.  "First, always bring a gun."  She points the bacon at him.  A lurid smile creeps across her face, then she adds, "And always bring an Italian girl."

"It's a Jewish girl."

She smiles, "Yeah, I know, but do you know one?"  Tilts her head to one side.  "Didn't think so.  Besides, I'm better."  She tilts her head down, brows raised with eyes at the top, and forms her lips in an oval and slides the bacon strip in her mouth, and out again.  Then in again, this time biting and swallowing the strip.  Wipes her lips with her index finger and thumb, adds, "At a lot of things."  Pauses, then with the grin finishes, "And, big guy, you're stuck with me."

"Yes, I am.  Just remember.  Stuck with, not on or in."  Shakes his head, "You make  it darned hard to be nice."

"Hard is nice."

Hunter shakes his head, jaws locked.

She slides out of the booth and heads for the kitchen sink taking her plate and empty coffee cup with her.  Says, "Let's get a move on.  Clean up your dishes.  I've got a call to make."  Pauses, snaps, "I know, on the house phone, but I'll do it at home."

 

 

As the Shanahans leave Mass, Danny spies the Muldoons departing also.  He catches the elder Muldoon's eye.  The man shakes his head indicating no word.  The Shanahan's mother sees this and whispers to her son, "It'll be soon I'll be wantin' to know.  They'll not be lettin' me wonder for too much of a time like they did with your father.  I'll see to that."

Danny leans over close to his mother's ear, "I know, Mum.  I know.  We'll be waiting a few more days then I'll be gettin' me own answers."

"And me as well," pipes Sean.

Danny says to both of them, "We'll see.  For now we'll wait.  It is the son that'll be watchin' us.  I'm sure of that."

All three trod toward the house.  It'll require a good foot under them, and the Shanahan woman likes her brisk walks.  She's still a hearty soul, perhaps more so than her sons know and certainly more than the elder Muldoon, whom she despises, suspects.

 

 

Rocco has returned from his fishing trip.  To make everything look plausible should he be seen by anyone that matters, he has a good catch of Alletterato and Palamita under tow.  Already cleaned and filleted by the crew.  Both fish are prevalent in these waters and most catchable during the summer months.  He has one large Palamita; near 4kg, about 8 lbs.  And he has a few Alletteratos or Bonitos of about the same size, and one slightly over 6kg, about 15lbs.  He and Signore Catalano typically fish for swordfish when they both go out.  On those occasions they rent a boat and skipper to ensure a catch or two.  The area is well known for this great sport fish.  Nonetheless he gives all but one of the Alletteratos to an old woman walking on the road.  She's overwhelmed and appreciative and probably impossible to locate.

Neither Pisces nor Gina are up and about.  So as to not embarrass his boss, Rocco leaves a brisk note in the kitchen for each.  For Gina, that a Bonita is on ice.  For Signore Catalano, it simply says.  "Done.  On my way to Pisa."

 

 

They take Hunter's Vette.  Nine years old is not yet vintage, but getting close.  It's white with red leather upholstery.  Nary a scratch and glimmers from the wax job.  They cross on the Coronado Ferry and head directly for the Hotel Del Coronado.  Dee's friend has arranged a room so they are dressed casually for dinner.  The swim suits, beach towels and flip-flops are in small bags.  The Vette is not built for extended travel and lengthy stays for one, much less two.

The Del is an old and famous hotel.  Built in 1888.  At the time it was the largest wooden structure in California, possibly the States.  Is famous for the movie stars and Presidents that have stayed there.  And the movies made there, such as
Some Like It Hot
.  The Presidents have included a few old-timers and more recent ones such as FDR, Ike and JFK.  When you approach this wonderful old landmark from the boulevard, it can't be missed.  A no brainer.  Always carrying a fresh coat of white paint and red roofs.  The spires can be seen from virtually anywhere on the island,  particularly the main one as it stands as a beacon to lovers, romantics, weekend tourists and one-day wannabe's. The Dragon Tree out front is the final web for the spider Del.

Hunter valet parks with perhaps unnecessary words for the young man at work in his clean, crisp uniform.  "No spins.  No burning any rubber.  And put the top up please."  He gets a grin and a "yes, sir" in response.  Then a tiny squeal of tires as Hunter and Dee walk up into the grand old hotel.  Hunter looks back over his shoulder.  Dee nudges him in the ribs with her elbow.  "You encouraged him.  Shouldn't have said a word."

"I know."

"The room's in my name.  Let me sign in so it looks more natural since there is no charge.  Just a lonely woman treating herself to...never mind.    I'll change in the bathroom, you can use the bedroom.  I'll do it in a closet if you don't trust me."  She giggles.  Does what she has to at the desk, turns her head toward Hunter and says, "Then we'll head for the beach.  Do you think we can have a small bite on the patio a little later?  Not enough to spoil dinner.  I love eating out there.  It's so...so, I'm doing it again, aren't I?"

"Yes."

"Is that, yes, for a bite?"

"Both."

"Good.  Who gets to take it?"  Laughs and grabs the keys from the young man behind the registration counter while saying, "Thank you."

The man smiles, fumbles with a file.  Then smiles, "Yes, ma'am.  On the house.  Or on the hotel, or something."  He watches Dee's hips as she strides toward the elevators.  "Whew!"

After more than a few steps, Hunter looks back.  The clerk smiles, lowers his eyes, then his head.  The young man takes a deep breath through his nose, murmurs, "If it looks like, smells like, it is ..." and takes another sniff of the trailing edge of the aroma drifting back from Dee.   While doing so he notices a man watching the couple from behind a copy of the
San Diego Tribune
. The clerk watches both.  When the couple disappears into the elevator, the man folds the paper and lets it drop to the chair beside him.  Checks his watch.

 

 

The day goes well.  Dee and Hunter swim, body surf and have some playful shoving and wrestling in the surf.  They have a light lunch and it is on the patio.  The only discomfort for Hunter is all the eyes focused on Dee in her tiny, canary yellow bikini with its sheer covering blouse that she has put on for the meal.  The yellow sets off her skin tone which is heightened by her tan.  Her dark hair frames her flawless complexion and dark eyes.  Pink lips, nails and toes.  And a better job of shaving.

The staring by the gentlemen guests is a little more focused than on the actual buffet table.  The bikini may be bright yellow, but the woman is not a canary, still with her sheer white cover-up tunic, her bravura breasts are like magnets to small pins in the gentleman's eyes.  Their eyes move slightly, then back again a tad quicker, then in a flash, rivet on her.  Spires in their own right.  As Hunter and she eat and chat, Dee, aware of her surroundings says, "Hey, pal, don't worry about it.  I'm getting used to it again.  Been awhile and frankly, I kind of like it."

"Well, a glance is okay, but ogling is rude.  Ticking me off.  Oh, and by the way, where is your weapon?"

"Which ones?"  She nearly chokes laughing at her own remark.  Then says, "In my purse at my feet.  And yours?"  She pauses a split-second, adds, "And don't you dare ask which one."

"In the back of my waistband.  Under my shirt."

"Gee, that must be comfortable.  If you had it in the front, possibly the ladies would stare at you."

Hunter looks around the veranda.  Then up at the sky checking the angle of the sun and says, "Let's eat and get some more time on the beach.  And water.  I want to take a swim down the Strand and back before we come in for the evening."

She nods.  Takes a drink of iced tea and leans back in her chair.  That makes more than a few gentlemen guests more uncomfortable as her sheer white, three-quartered sleeve tunic's draw strings slide unfastened, exposing her full to overflowing yellow-topped bikini bra to two rows of tables facing her.  There are a few slight coughs.  A shake of the head by Hunter.  And hushed, whispered admonishments in the background from the gentlemen's ladies.

Hunter catches himself staring.  
They are huge.  All that from one rib.
 

 

 

Sundays begin and end.  Some begin in mass looking for help.  Some end in the sea where there will be no help.  Some end at an airport looking for an Antonio.  Some end eating fish looking for respite and restoration.  Some end in a funeral home not able to look for anything.  Some end in the morgue looking but not seeing a white ceiling.  And one ends for two, sitting on a patio with a refreshing breeze looking at one another for an explanation.

Like LOP's, lines of positioning of a navigational fix, they are waiting to be drawn.  To be plotted.  Not celestial from the stars although many of these are seen tonight by some, but not by others.  And not from radio or radar.  But more exactly from deduced or ded reckoning.

The maps are out and instruments sharpened.

 

CHAPTER 8

 

"Do or Do Not;

There is no Try."

Anon

 

 

The day has gone well.  Hunter and Dee sit on the towels beneath them after an initial dip and body surfing.  Dee smiles, looks into Hunter's eyes and says, "
‘A sunbeam to warm you; a moonbeam to charm you; a sheltering angel, so nothing can harm you.'
  That's an Irish Blessing.  Don't know who wrote it, or if it just evolved as so many do, but it's nice."

"It is, and nor do I.  But, there's more. However, the sunbeam sounds and feels good, but I'm my own sheltering angel."

Dee cants her head to one side, "And the rest?"

He glances skyward for a moment, then into her eyes.  "
‘Laughter to cheer you.  Faithful friends near you; And whenever you pray, Heaven to hear you'
... or somebody."

"You're like an encyclopedia. Let's just talk."

"Just a thought to start a conversation, not an end."

They do begin a conversation.  Most blather.  As a rule typically about each other, answering one another's questions.  Some personal.  Some innocent-enough sounding probes.  In time the chatter wanes and they go back in the water.  Hunter for his open ocean swim.  Out two hundred meters.  Surprisingly, Dee is at his side.  Then north five hundred meters, turn about and back south. Dee is still alongside, stroke for stroke.  Nary a word.  Since they were taken out to sea somewhat, the trip back in is a difficult three hundred meters.  A rip current has developed.   No more a struggle for Dee than he even with the increasing height of the surf.

On the return to the beach, in the tumbling white-water after the last line of spilling surf Hunter says, "Dee, you're a heckuva woman.  I meant to take the swim alone.  Needed the exercise ... or exorcism.  Didn't mean to drag you along.  Heckuva gal."

In the knee-high ebb and flow of the foam, Dee tackles Hunter, driving him into the surging waters and lies on top of him.  He manages to raise his head above the receding surf, sputters, "Damn, Dee, I meant that as a compliment."

"Well, guess it was.  I over-reacted.  Try this as a better response."  She kisses him full on the mouth while another wave tumbles and extends itself toward the beach.  The foam, salt, and sand of the undertow doesn't interfere with her passion, only complements the taste.  She pulls away, says while laughing, "You taste like sea water ... and feel like steel cables wired to an anvil."  Dee, water streaming off her body, glistering in the setting sun fosters a picture of a nymph rising from the deep as she extends her arm to Hunter, offering her hand to assist.  He accepts and she pulls him to his feet.  Nose to nose.  They stare at one another for a moment, then amble quietly out of the water.  Beached, tired, yet refreshed.  One giggling.  One stunned.  At the towels they pick up their belongings and stroll all the way to the room without saying another word.  

 

 

Eugene Bradovich enters the downtown office of the FBI San Diego SAC and asks the receptionist, a young, attractive gal, to see "the man", James Ryder.  
Strange she's here on a
Sunday, especially for a woman of her looks.  She oughta' be on the beach or on a surf board.  Guess when it hits the fan, everyone picks up some of the debris
.  She nods and disappears into Ryder's office. After a few moments, she comes out, holds the door open for Bradovich and politely says, "He'll see you."  She smiles and eyes him from top to butt as Bradovich ambles past, and into the neat, clean but usual austere government office here in the hinterlands.  The high and mighty in Washington spend our tax dollars on lavish trappings, all others seem to have pale pea green and white walls,  with battleship grey steel desks, chairs and file cabinets.  Ryder's does have an imitation black leather couch and wooden coffee table, surrounded by three equally ugly wooden straight-backed chairs.