CHAPTER FOUR
I FOUND MY wife burning pancakes in our kitchen. Vapor trails curled her sexy, compact build and then drifted into the bright and sultry morning.
“Have fun last night?” Her tone was as smoky as the unmentionable strip bar Garboski and I had narrowly escaped.
Stepping to the sink, I pulled a glass of water and turned to watch her cook.
“Dead action. Should have stayed in.” Bragging up half-dressed strippers would only add grief.
Her hips jived with each flip of overcooked batter. Tightly stretched denim rocked against the stark white porcelain, offering a backbeat to the raindrop melody.
A bead of sweat busted loose behind my olive drab military collar, trickling the length of my backbone. Could be the longnecks from the club. More likely the sexual promise I'd shoved onto Garboski before murder interrupted us.
I sucked a quick breath.
The clock above the archway gave me an hour before I’d have to hit the flight line.
Moving in, I enveloped Nansi’s softness. “You look great,” I whispered.
A hum of pleasure broke free as she arched into me. With one hand on my hip, she lifted a smoking flapjack and slapped its uncooked side onto the steaming cast iron griddle.
A fleck of the mixture launched from the fog and arced the corner of the stove, splattering the toe of my freshly polished boot.
“You got in late.”
I nuzzled the warmth of her neck. “Garboski had a thing.”
“They turn off his phone?” She rolled a shoulder against my nibbles.
“Didn’t want to disturb the kids.” Her silken tresses grazed my skin.
“Considerate.” She shrugged off my kisses. “Too bad. Maybe you missed an opportunity.”
A blaze of hope charged my loins. “We could remake that opportunity. Leave the flapjacks burn and start our own fire.”
Her body tensed. The purring stopped.
I squeezed tighter.
Her shoulders tilted forward and she squirmed sharply.
An elbow-sized detonation point erupted beneath my rib cage. Stabbing pain cut a swath under my armpit, pushing the air from my lungs. I made a squeaky inhale as I stumbled backwards.
Nansi captured my right wrist, hoisted it overhead and ducked with a twist.
My arm curved into its own joints. Pinpoints of lightning blasted up my forearm. Arching away from this torture bowed my spine into an awkward gymnastics move. Our coral-based concrete ceiling, smoothly painted in desert sand, rushed across my field of view. The absurdity of a waterless color scheme for our tropical home flickered with recognition. An fiery tremor exploded in my shoulder.
I squawked.
The dining room portal raced by, upside down. All but the lower fifth of my physical mass hovered midair, in the merciless hands of Nansi the puppeteer. My tippy toes broke free from planet earth. Inertia hurtled me through the curvature of the arc, rapidly approaching its durable terminus, the mottled ivory linoleum disguising an unyielding cement slab.
A glimpse of upturned faces flashed by on the journey. Slack-jawed five-year-old Quentin James queued up next to his delighted three-year-old sister, Penelope Jane.
I closed my eyes for impact. Shoulders strengthened by endless reaches into the fuselage of a C-130 absorbed the full force of the body slam.
I bounced only once.
The results of our exploit were acceptable to me. I’d taken my beating. Nansi had resolved several emotional ambiguities regarding my recent indiscretions. We were primed to rise above pettiness, sweep the dramatic dust into our past, and plan our romantic evening of reconciliation.
These thoughts formed a nebulous cloud, hardly compressed into a drizzle, when Nansi finished the round with a blow to my groin. My penis crunched between her unexpectedly solid knuckles and my pubic bone.
White-hot explosives detonated inside my urethra, galloped up my midsection, and slammed my brain stem.
An inky curtain folded in on my vision.
The room dissolved to a pinpoint with Nansi’s terrified stare floating into the twilight.
A frightened child’s disappearing voice cried, “Mommy!”
Then blackest black tucked me under its vacuous blanket.
* * *
Midnight seeped into my pores. An invisible ledge in Gyokusendo Cave held me suspended over infinite space. Uninhibited contentment saturated my existence. Utter peace.
Someone slapped my face.
The sting ignited on an overhead lamp.
I cracked my eyelids.
Nansi’s shocked peepers stared back. “Connor!” She smacked me again.
My world swung sidewise. The cool hardness of low-budget tile caressed my cheek. I soaked in it.
“Connor!” The cry of despair terminated the revitalizing connection.
Sluggish misery pulsed through the veins of my pecker. She’d solved the complication of the affair with a punch.
“You wake up or I’ll kill you!”
Soba noodles wrestled alcohol inside my gut. Bile tickled my throat with a wire brush. I rotated into the floor’s calming ridity.
Nansi cranked me back for inspection. Her facial expression wavered between mystified agony and seething panic. “Tell me you’re okay!”
The insistence prompted a gastric boil. Stomach muscles convulsed, flexing me into a forty-five degree contortion. My head ratcheted sideways, ejecting a burst of putrid yellow liquid which splashed against the brilliant white soles of Penelope’s Unicorn sneakers.
Our little angel stomped her feet, singing, “Icky, icky, icky.” Those lovely shoes discharged pint-sized salvos of vomit.
Nansi lifted her out of sight.
Dread swamped me. My cheekbone renewed contact with the fortifying chill of government tile.
A dazzling Okinawa chirped its sunrise refrain outside the open window. Exotic odors rode a breeze into my soul—hibiscus on sea spray, fish frying in sesame oil, auto exhaust and richly pungent loam blended with human waste.
The smells wafted over my immobile form, releasing anxiety, paving a way for sleep.
My memory strolled the berm of a benjo ditch removing the island’s sewage. Its stench crowded out blistered feelings and marital discord. Mysterious kanji messages scratched on bamboo signs and spray painted over rocky dykes filled me with Asian tranquility. My boiling intestines quieted. Blue and deep ocean lapped at my ankles. A smile borrowed my lips.
Iron Klaw jolted my reverie with a harsh and graveled announcement that he would be “Victorious!”
A sharp pang in my thigh corroborated the cartoon villain’s declaration. My landing had twisted me beneath the lip of the cabinet. “Where’s GI Joe when I’m in distress,” I mumbled. Relaxing into the state of affairs reduced its pinch. It was enough.
“Hey, Daddy, why you laying there?” Quentin asked from his unusual position of authority. “Don’t you have to go to work?”
The electric throb tormenting my phallus, somewhat dulled by time, reached to my tonsils. I altered my bodily arrangement, attempting to draw a knee higher. “Daddy had an ah, ah, ah… accident, son.”
He squatted, peering at me with cobalt irises designed by Innocence and Curiosity.
“Quentin.” Nansi moved him aside. “Let your dad alone.”
“He’s fallen and he can’t get up,” Quentin said, before he bolted to the television.
The irrepressible laugh clenched my abdomen into lockdown.
“You going to puke again?” Nansi asked above my ear.
I granted her a minute shake of defeat. “Nothing… left.”
She leaned close and rubbed her humid cheek against mine.
Her warmth brought comfort. Fear jumped on board.
“I need you,” I begged. “Stay with me.”
Frigidity replaced her touch. I trembled.
Her undemocratic muzzle calcified. Anger wrinkled the corners of her eyes and she clenched her jaw. Just as suddenly, her rancor shriveled
to remorse. “I’ve got to clean this mess.”
“We can move past it,” I said.
She stood, opened a cupboard and let it bang. “You can’t have both.”
“Both?” I shifted my weight to sit. Quickened blades of tempered steel sliced upward from my testicles to cut my brain in half. Wounded groin retracted into battered ribs. I gasped.
Nansi tossed the rag over my crippled frame.
Foul droplets pinged my forehead as a plop struck the basin.
She grabbed a towel and scrubbed the floor dry. Satisfied with her undertaking, she crouched over me and glared.
“You can’t have me and keep your whores.”
CHAPTER FIVE
NANSI LAUNCHED OFF the couch before I registered Garboski’s intention to knock.
A glowing red sky painted our heated discussion of her plans to take our children stateside. My lunchtime rendezvous with Sharon collapsed. My airplane launched for the Philippines with another crew. Defensiveness was high.
Nansi punched the screen door, cracked Garboski’s forehead which sent him crashing with one long step and a fist into his shoulder.
The kids gaped.
Nansi latched onto G's earlobe and pulled herself tight into his space. “Eugene?” punctuated her staccato gibberish.
His shock pleaded through the plate glass viewing screen.
My upper body angled to assist but my boots filled with cements.
A security cruiser zipped up the street and bumped onto our lawn.
I choked on the gulp of air.
The Security Policeman popped out. In three of his strides, my feet got the message.
“Ma’am? There’s a problem?” British accent.
Nansi straightened.
Garboski extended his arm to keep the ear.
She stood taller.
“Let the gentleman go, ma’am.” Queen’s English uttered the command.
“Shit Nanse—”
She glared.
“Ma’am?” His name tag proclaimed “Sledge.”
He might need one to offset his gentle tone.
She surprised me by letting loose.
G fell to the grass.
“You have him confused with higher breeding.” She didn’t wait for a response. Her shoulder shoved me into a spin as she passed.
“What—"
“Let huh go.” Sledge dropped the r like a good Brit.
“Huh,” I mimicked, my torso rotating as she banged through two doors, stomped past gawking children and disappeared into our bedroom. Door number three slammed us out.
“I can get huh back, Officer,” I lied at the end of my orbit.
Garboski coughed.
My glare shut him up.
He brushed his pants clean. “Holy shit.”
“Keep it down,” I whispered. “She hears you talking that way in front of—”
“You two want a minute?”
Our heads swiveled.
“Great timing.” I mustered a smile.
“In the neighborhood.” His expression remained as flat as his voice. He wiped the flap over his badge and a notepad materialized.
My hackles moved to attention.
The low sun minimized shadows. He had blonde hair with a square jaw, but his eyes sloped upward with Asian mystery.
Garboski squinted. “You sound British.”
I backhanded his chest.
“Tell me what happened at Rover’s last night,” Sledge commanded.
“Rover’s?” I blurted before G could blow our cover.
Sledge lowered his brow line. Heavily worked muscles pulsed against the double roll of shirt sleeve. “You’re saying you weren’t out last night?”
“Not saying. Just asking about Rover’s.”
G piped in. “That dog track off 58?”
“Folks would likely recall a big guy with his handsome friend.” Sledge tapped the notepad.
“He’s not that handsome.” I grinned.
G tittered.
“Why the questions, Officer?” I glanced at the bedroom window. “I thought you came to save Garboski.”
Sledge’s gaze traced mine and we locked eyes. “This is serious business, Sergeant Pierce. You and your partner, Airman… Grab-A-Brisket could be witness—”
“Garboski!” G’s expression flared. “And I’m a damned E4 Sergeant.”
Sledge grimaced. “Could you spell that? Sergeant.”
G relaxed his posture. “Oh, uh, g, a, r, b, o, s, k, i.” His cheeks grew brighter with each letter. “It’s Polish.”
“Like the sausage?” Sledge asked.
G sucked oxygen.
My elbow punctured his ire. “What is it you need from us, Officer Sledge?”
He glared from beneath the thin edge of his beret. “Rover’s. You know it?”
“Heard of it.”
“Young hooker was killed yesterday late.” His gaze darted to Garboski.
Mine followed.
G shook his head at the ground. “That’s sick.”
I imagined him puking all over Sledge’s gleaming combat boots.
“Oy,” Sledge said. “Sick. U. S. Air Force at the scene makes it my sickness.” He glowered. “It’d be a disease in need of inoculation. Catch my drift?”
My mouth opened.
“Daddy!” Quentin rammed into my calves. “Are you the Police?”
“I is, lad.” Sledge grinned and turned the cockney full on. “‘Ere’s dee evee-dence a’righ’ ‘ere.” He kneeled and poked his cloth badge. “Touch it.”
Holding my pant leg, Quentin stretched and touched the emblem, jumping back like it burnt him.
Penelope mewed from behind.
My hand cupped her skull and scooted her close. “Maybe we can continue this another time, Officer.”
Sledge stood. “Expecting it. Sirs.” He nodded, spun about-face and marched to his cruiser.
“Wow Daddy,” Quentin said.
“Yessir, son. Wow.”
CHAPTER SIX
GARBOSKI AND I walked to the Chief’s office with my head swiveling to survey our bird. I’d nicknamed her Mushmouth, my by-a-a-baby a-a-a-doll. After Fat Albert’s most refined personality.
“Enjoy the break, Pierce,” G said. “The boys took care of her in the Philippines.”
A cool ocean breeze chilled the hairs on my neck. “You’ve never lost one to the big drink. I can't have her quitting the tarmac until I’ve checked every rivet.”
“You’re the most optimistic pessimist I know, Pierce. God don’t hate you enough to fuck with your bird on a Sunday.”
“Bet me.” My memory rifled the pages of her forms.
Garboski wrapped an arm around my crisp Staff Sergeant stripes. “Maybe Chief wants a witness when he rips these off.”
I peeled his fingers away. “You suck, G.”
We crossed the cavernous hangar with chins tucked. A couple of guys nodded. Another grabbed his hind quarter and chuckled.
Garboski flipped him off.
I kept my sheepish grin. “Cockiness don’t play when getting handed your ass, G.”
Our boss, SMS Falkney leaned against the wall behind the Chief. Hiding in the foliage as patient as a snake. His relaxed smile taunted us without admitting malice.
Cigar smoke hung from the ceiling.
We stopped at attention, thighs nearly touching Chief Ronald Malcom Hurtz’s massive oak desk. Chief Hurtz resembled Apollo Creed. His condescending grin always left me feeling like Rocky Balboa on the third bounce. “You pair of yahoos ever get tired of jerking off?”
“Course not,” Garboski said before I could make nice.
Chief leveled eyes on me. “Staff Sergeant Pierce.”
“Sir.” A gentle shift in the curve of Chief’s lips inspired correction. “Chief.”
He studied us from the sunken fortress he called a forehead. “You know what F. O. D. is Pierce?”
“Chief?” I tried to squeeze a correct answer from my brain. “Foreign object de�
�”
“That’s the shit that keeps planes from a productive sortie, Pierce.” His eyes widened, spotlighting those bottomless irises.
My Adam’s apple grew twelve sizes. Swallowing took every neck muscle.
“You two gentlemen, you’re F.O.D.”
Garboski busted. “What, Chief?”
The sound made me want to bow my chin, hit the deck with a knee and pray. Falkney’s presence, hovering over our every mistake, made that impossible. I held my back straight, eyes forward.
“Well newly minted Sergeant Eugene Garboski. Since you axe the question.” Chief’s delightful flag for his New York upbringing turned out to be a metaphor. For our doom. “Agent Pasfield—"
“Shit,” I heard myself say.
Chief shut his eyelids for five long seconds.
I squeezed my sphincter tight against the building pressure.
“Office of Special Investigation Division wants to know the story of my two finest crew chiefs.” His flaming glare bobbed left to right. “I told him they do exemplary work on an airframe. Never late. Never in front of my desk. Except,” he said at the dark memory cloud forming above my skull. “For a phone call from Staff Sergeant Pierce’s lovely and distraught wife pleading for answers about his behavior during temporary duty assignments. Certain he was having an affair. Which, by the way, gentlemen, is a chargeable offense under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”
Holding the contents of my gut inside, bent me forward a notch. Beads of sweat drizzled my brow.
“This man’s military has suffered too many shameful incidents against the Okinawan people. You morons pull out ahead of this and take your licks.”
“Yes, Chief,” we managed in unison.
“Get the fuck out of my office.”
The single vulgarity punched me in the chest.
Garboski reached the door first. He rattled the handle struggling to open it.
My body pressed against his before it snapped free. The scent of airplane fuel and packing grease washed over me. I damn near broke into a run trying to make the toilet.
* * *
I was deciding to squat over a urinal when I hit the last swinging door. Relief blasted free without a tinge of embarrassment. Until I heard G’s voice.
Murder On The East China Sea Page 2