Jungle Rules (33 page)

The flickering yellow glow cast from her gold butane lighter as she lit a cigarette illuminated her pretty face while she looked toward the bar and the trio of officers drinking beer there. She smiled at the men as their eyes met hers, and casually she slipped off her jacket and draped it over her arm. Then she looped the carrying straps of a large, blue canvas flight bag and her black leather purse back over her shoulder as she cut across the lounge area and dance floor. When she walked close to her small audience, she set down her luggage, opened the top two buttons of her white blouse, and fanned the exposed skin of her throat, upper chest, and bulging cleavage. The smell of the woman’s perfume, enhanced by the glow of her perspiration, filled the rush of air that her presence stirred.

When the voluptuous female eased herself next to Wayne Ebberhardt, he gulped several swallows of Budweiser draft from his drippy mug. Then
he began gathering his change from the round of beers he had bought for himself, Terry O’Connor, and Jon Kirkwood. Shoving two quarters toward the bartender for a tip, he began stuffing the rest of the money in his pocket.

“Where are you going in such a hurry, sailor? I hope that I’m not scaring you away,” the tall redhead said, blowing a mouthful of cigarette smoke at the first lieutenant’s face as he fumbled with the few coins left that he hurriedly gathered from the countertop. Brushing her ample breasts against the young lawyer’s arm as she slid atop the bar stool next to him, she crossed her legs, causing her tight, short-fitting, flight attendant uniform skirt to ride high on her legs. The hem rose well past the tops of her stockings, and exposed the white garter-belt snaps holding her nylons taut.

To get a better view, Jon Kirkwood and Terry O’Connor both took two steps back from the bar. They stood on the side of their fellow Marine lawyer opposite from the woman, and now the two heroes looked wide-eyed at the sexy vision dressed in Flying Tiger Airlines blue, taking in the full view of her long and shapely body and her fully exposed legs. She smiled warmly at the awestruck pair of onlookers, took another pull from the cigarette she held delicately between her fingers, and then looked back at Wayne Ebberhardt.

“Oh, sorry, ma’am, I just stopped for a beer and was on my way out to grab a bite,” the lieutenant said with a distinct nervous quiver in his voice.

The airline stewardess shrugged and smiled at the Marine, and let the smoke flow from her mouth, riding on a gentle breeze that she blew with a seductive pucker toward Lieutenant Ebberhardt’s face.

The two captains stood speechless, looking at the woman’s perfect and beautifully long legs, at her large, upwardly lifted breasts that peeked from beneath her partially opened white blouse, and at her gorgeous milk-white face framed by pageboy-cut, dark red hair, and accented by her sparkling blue eyes. Then Kirkwood and O’Connor drilled their stares at the shrinking lieutenant, who hurriedly gulped the last of his beer from its mug, and slid the dripping glass across the bar and tried to stand.

Jon Kirkwood immediately caught Wayne Ebberhardt on the shoulder, pushed him back atop the stool, and motioned to the bartender to bring another round of beers for the men, and a martini cocktail for the lady.

“Oh, he’s not that hungry, ma’am,” O’Connor said, beaming his up-curled, Irish eyes and dimpled smile at the woman, and then glaring at Ebberhardt with wild amazement for his attempt to leave such an inviting opportunity.

“I’ll be right back,” Ebberhardt said defensively, trying again to stand, but being held in place by Jon Kirkwood’s locked-down grip over his shoulder. “I just wanted to get something quick and easy.”

The red-haired beauty smiled at all three Marines and then looked at Ebberhardt squarely in his eyes.

“I’m not at all that quick, I have to admit,” she said, broadening her smile and letting a wisp of cigarette smoke drift from her lips, “but for you, cutie-pie, I could be very easy.”

Terry O’Connor choked on his beer and bent over, coughing.

Wayne Ebberhardt’s face flushed, but not nearly the shade of deep crimson that Jon Kirkwood’s complexion turned.

“Terrence Boyd O’Connor, ma’am, at your service,” O’Connor quickly spoke, putting out his hand for the lady to shake.

“Gwendolyn Crookshank,” the redhead replied, and took the captain’s hand with both of hers and held it, “but call me Gwen.”

“Wayne Ebberhardt, ma’am,” the lieutenant then followed, and took her hands from O’Connor. “The speechless gentleman next to Captain O’Connor is a fellow attorney and defense team colleague of ours, Captain Jonathan C. Kirkwood.”

“Lawyers three. Defense team colleagues. Indeed. Well, it seems I have fallen in with some bad company, haven’t I,” the flight attendant said, letting her mellow voice flow with her cigarette smoke.

“We’re the world’s worst,” O’Connor bubbled. “We’re the bad boys of First MAW Law. Just ask our mojo if you don’t believe us.”

“Captain O’Connor,” the woman said, smiling warmly at the cheery officer, “I have a feeling that you’re a very bad boy indeed.”

Jon Kirkwood said nothing. The smell of the attractive stewardess’s perfume had gotten him to thinking more about his wife, Katherine Layne Kirkwood, whose latest letter he carried in his back pocket and had just finished reading when Terry O’Connor had dragged him to the Officers’ Club to meet with Wayne Ebberhardt for a beer and a relaxed talk about Tuesday’s opening arguments in the Anderson trial: more of a formality now that the presiding judge had thrown out the charge of first-degree murder, ruling that the prosecution failed to show any evidence of premeditation. Their client had openly confessed to killing Buster Rein, backed by a hundred eyewitnesses, so a conviction of second-degree murder seemed automatic. The only arguments now involved length of sentence based on the mitigating circumstances.

The fragrance of Chanel Number Five took Kirkwood’s mind to thoughts of Okinawa, where Katie patiently waited for Jon to get a chance to catch an R & R hop on a ninety-six-hour pass. They had hoped that a trial or legal conference also might get him there, but Dicky Doo had vowed to never let it happen.

In the Anderson case, Dickinson had expressly forbade Kirkwood from assisting O’Connor and Ebberhardt, should the trial move from Da Nang. When it looked like it might convene at Camp Courtney, Okinawa, Dicky Doo began making overtures of taking charge. Based on some advice from the Brothers B, the major had even prepared to formally ask in writing that Lieutenant Colonel Prunella grant him direct cognizance of Anderson’s defense. His letter had stated a plethora of phony rationale.

Lucky for him that Staff Sergeant Pride read the mojo’s letter first, and then tactfully cut him off from certain embarrassment, just in the nick of time, showing Dickinson the backup file copy of a week-old message from the staff judge advocate in charge of Fleet Marine Force Pacific legal affairs directing that the court-martial remain in Da Nang, as a matter of convenience and economy for the many witnesses and the command. Someone had pulled the original message from the daily read-board, circulated each morning among all the law center’s officers, before Dicky Doo had a chance to see it. Apparently ripped it off as the board passed from Lieutenant Colonel Prunella’s desk to the major’s. With this revelation, which eliminated hope of anyone on his shit list going to Okinawa, Dickinson laid Anderson’s defense back in O’Connor’s and Ebberhardt’s laps and gave Kirkwood the green light to help them.

Even though he knew he had no hope of getting on the team if it went to Okinawa, Kirkwood still felt hurt by the major’s meanness by depriving him simply out of spite. With each week that passed while his wife waited only a three-hour plane ride away, and no hope of getting a ninety-six-hour pass, R and R, or any kind of official business trip to Okinawa, Jon Kirkwood’s resentment toward the mojo major grew bitter.

“Cat got your tongue, cowboy?” the redhead said, putting her fingertip with its dark-red-painted nail under Kirkwood’s chin.

The captain responded by holding up his left hand and showing the woman the gold ring on his finger.

She smiled, and then kissed him on his cheek.

“Wayne,” she said, looking at the lieutenant, “your little friend here: I don’t think he’s a bad boy at all.”

“They’re both really pretty good boys, Gwen,” Ebberhardt answered.

“But you, Wayne,” the woman said, “you are bad. Aren’t you?”

“Oh he’s bad, all right,” O’Connor said, and slapped Ebberhardt on the back. “He’s shy, but a very bad boy.”

“Indeed?” the stewardess said and smiled, dashing out her cigarette and sipping the martini.

“Ma’am, don’t believe anything he says,” Ebberhardt retorted, and stood from the bar.

“So you’re going to leave anyway,” the pretty woman sighed, sucking an olive from her cocktail off its toothpick skewer. “I’m a little hungry, too. Mind if I tag along?”

“Anything special in mind?” Ebberhardt said, picking up his cap and then shouldering her purse and flight bag.

“Oh, I rented the cutest little duplex cabana at China Beach, for the weekend. Do you like seafood? We can have dinner there,” the redhead said to the lieutenant, and then smiled at Kirkwood and O’Connor as Wayne Ebberhardt helped her on with her blue uniform jacket.

“Ta-ta, boys,” she cooed as they walked away.

“Holy Mother Mary and Joseph!” O’Connor said, looking at Jon Kirkwood as Wayne Ebberhardt and the beautiful red-haired flight attendant left. “He’s headed to China Beach with that fox.”

“Hope he gets back before Tuesday,” Kirkwood said, turning toward the bar and drinking his beer.

 
“GWENDOLYN CROOKSHANK!” WAYNE Ebberhardt laughed as he climbed aboard the shuttle van to China Beach recreational area with the redheaded woman. “Crookshank? What kind of name is that, honey?”

“Oh, something that just popped in my head. Heaven knows where I heard it,” she said, laughing, and then looked at the lieutenant with her eyes twinkling. “Now, if you know what’s good for you, bub, you’ll shut up and kiss your wife like the man I married!”

While she spoke, she grabbed the lieutenant by both of his shoulders and then kissed him hard as the van pulled from the curb and sped down the road, heading to other stops for passengers riding to China Beach for the weekend.

“I’ve got until 6:00 AM Tuesday,” Gwen Ebberhardt then told her husband. “You have that trial that starts then, too, so we can have Saturday and Sunday on the beach. My crew is at the hotel by the American consulate, and you can stay there with me Monday night, after you do your office boy thing all day. Oh, by the way, I saw that strange captain again. You know, the tall one with the wild blond hair and bad breath?”

“Michael Carter,” the lieutenant said, lighting two cigarettes and handing one to his wife.

“Yes, that’s the one,” she answered, drawing in a breath full of smoke. “He helped me pack a few of your things, you know, some of your underwear and socks, your bathing suit, toiletries, and other stuff for the weekend. I’ve got it here in my crew bag.”

“He’s a nice guy, just eccentric,” Ebberhardt commented.

“He also told me that you were in the club with your little friends, so I thought I would have a go at you,” Gwen said and laughed. “Thanks so much for acting sweet and not letting on. I had such fun!”

“I don’t think I had to do much acting,” Ebberhardt said, smiling at his wife. “You had me honestly stuttering and blushing.”

“Oh, poo, Wayne,” Gwen laughed as the small bus pulled to the curb and the side door slid open for more passengers, “you’re always so bad. Putting on that little lost choir boy act. I know you better than that, my bad little boy. Don’t forget, I know just how bad you like to be. You bad, bad little boy.”

As she spoke, she rolled on top of her husband’s lap, bringing her face close to his, and passionately kissed her captive Marine just as two air force captains dressed in drab green flight suits and blue garrison caps climbed aboard the China Beach shuttle. They gawked while stumbling to their seats, and then one of the men offered Wayne Ebberhardt a thumbs-up when the lieutenant finally raised his head for air.

 
“HI, GUYS!” MICHAEL Carter called to Jon Kirkwood and Terry O’Connor as he strolled inside the Da Nang Officers’ Club. “I guess I missed them, darn it.”

“Missed who, stick man?” O’Connor said, looking at their colleague, who now perched himself on a bar stool next to them. “You talking about Wayne Ebberhardt and that red bombshell who came in here and picked him up? In the end, I think he picked her up.”

“Yeah,” Kirkwood said, peeling the label off his beer bottle. “The way Wayne just got up and decided to leave, and she hooked right on him. He did the picking. She was trolling, but he landed the fish.”

“What are you talking about?” Carter said, getting the bartender’s attention and ordering a sloe gin fizz.

“Ebberhardt, fuck nuts,” O’Connor said, taking a pull off his beer. “He left here with this gorgeous, red-haired stewardess from the freedom bird not five minutes ago. She was hot to trot, wanting a bad boy to go play with her, and she snatched up Wayne like a Seventh Avenue pro.”