"No, it's not. Susan Sarandon's almost thirty years older than me. She's been my fantasy date for years. Still is: She's in her fifties and I'd do her in a heartbeat. Whoa, that was pretty crude. Sorry."
"Crude, schmood. I'm thrilled to death to find out that beneath that glowing exterior, you're a real, normal, red-blooded human male."
"Yeah, I'm not sure about normal," Muldoon told her with a laugh.
"Susan Sarandon, huh? That's... very interesting."
"Put her in black leather, and I wouldn't even care if she had a significant other or not. All rules would go right out the window."
Mike Muldoon—the closest thing to an angel in all of SEAL Team Sixteen, hell, in probably all of the SEAL teams on both coasts of the U.S.—liked black leather when worn by mature celebrities. Oh, dear. Joan didn't know whether to laugh hysterically or run out of the restaurant. "Next you're going to tell me you're into domination."
She'd meant it as a joke, but he just smiled. "Yeah, well, put a whip in her hand and I'm not running away."
She couldn't manage to keep her mouth shut or even change the subject to something more safe, more staid. "Susan Sarandon's skinny, isn't she? I thought you didn't like skinny women."
"Actually she's extremely curvaceous. Go rent Bull Durham. I think she was a few years older than you when she made that movie. That was the one that made me completely fall in lust with her." He held out the basket of bread to her.
It was Italian with sesame seeds on the top. Joan took a piece, and he did then, too.
God, he was about as subtle as Laurel Tucker with this talk of older women. She helped herself to some butter and tried to pass it to Muldoon, but he shook his head. "No thanks."
Joan knew exactly what he was doing here and it was not going to work. Even if he was sincere, which he certainly seemed to be, the rest of the world didn't have his open-minded perspective.
So, okay. Maybe she should try her "bad idea for people who work together to date" speech, because apparently the "little brother/let's be best friends" approach wasn't working. Or maybe it would work, if she just kept reinforcing it, the way she'd planned.
She buttered her bread. "What do you think about Brooke Bryant? Hot or not so hot?"
He didn't hesitate. "Very hot. Another woman who's not too thin." Or too young. He didn't have to say it—she could read that loud and clear from the look in his eyes.
"Actually, she yo-yos," Joan told him, ignoring both his eyes and his unspoken message. "I know her pretty well."
He didn't pick up the conversational ball. He just sat there, watching her and eating his piece of Italian bread.
"Don't you want to know what she's really like?" she prompted.
"Oh," he said. "Sure. I'm sorry, I'm ... What's she really like?"
"She's very sweet," Joan said. "A lot more like her father than the newspapers and TV news let you think. She tends to run a little too emotional, but you can't really blame her considering the kind of stress she's under—that constant public scrutiny. It would drive me insane."
"Yeah," he said. "I bet. That must be really hard." He cleared his throat. "Look, Joan—
She cut him off. "I have a favor to ask you. A big favor."
"I'm here to help you," he said. "If there's anything in my power that I can—"
"There is," she said. "I need to find Brooke an escort to that party Admiral Crowley is hosting over at the Del on Saturday."
It was obvious that was not the favor he had been hoping to hear her ask. He carefully wiped the crumbs from his fingers with his napkin, then put it back in his lap. "I could help you find someone to escort her, sure," he finally said.
Enough already. "I was thinking of you."
"Me." He took a sip of water. "Why me?"
"Because I know if you're with her, she won't get into any trouble. Because I trust you. Because."
He took his time in answering her. "I don't know," he said.
"What's not to know? It's not like I'm suggesting an arranged marriage. It's just a date."
"What about you?" he asked. "Who's going to be your date?"
She was prepared for that question. "I don't need one," she told him firmly. "I'm not the President's daughter. Besides, I'll be working. I'll be busy running around. Please say yes. This would be such a huge favor..."
She'd come up with this last night, and had been particularly pleased with the way it would underline to Muldoon just how determined Joan was about keeping their relationship brotherly. Sisterly. Non-loverly. As in please date my friend.
And best of all, if Muldoon was Brooke's escort, there was no way Joan would be tempted to do something completely foolish, like dance with him at the party.
She suspected that dancing with him would be very dangerous. "Please?"
"All right," he said. "I mean, yeah, sure. Twist my arm. Brooke Bryant. Wow."
Victory. Joan opened her menu. "You—darling dearest— are my new hero."
"Great," he said. "I'm... glad I can help."
Haley had gone down for her nap early.
Mary Lou had had her out in the backyard all morning long, so as not to wake Sam while he slept. They'd stayed there right up until the time he left for work at about eleven— because he didn't bother to come say good morning or even tell them he was up.
He just came out right before leaving for the base, to say good-bye, to smother Haley's cheeks with kisses, to make her laugh and chortle and shriek as he swung her around and tickled her.
Try changing her diaper after she poops, Mary Lou wanted to say, but she held her tongue.
"Gotta run" was all he'd said to her as he dumped Haley back into her arms, as he headed for his truck, leaving before she could even ask him what he might want for dinner.
Haley didn't want him to go—Mr. Fun, popping in to make her giggle and laugh—and she started to cry.
They'd gone inside then, and had lunch early. And while Mary Lou was washing up, Haley had started nodding off, despite the fact that she had a teething biscuit on her tray.
And then it was noon, Haley was sleeping, and Mary Lou had taken the baby monitor and gone out to bring in Donny's mail. It sure beat sitting in that living room that she'd always dreamed about having, wondering why she wasn't all that much happier than she'd been back when she was eight or nine and living in some bug-infested shithole with her drunk of a mother.
Donny had mostly junk mail—catalogues and invitations to apply for credit cards—in his box.
Mary Lou stood on his front steps and rang his bell, moving back slightly so that he'd be able to see from his windows that she wasn't one of the invading alien horde.
The curtain moved and she made herself smile. "Hi, Donny. It's just me with the mail."
But the door didn't open.
Mary Lou rang the bell again. Twice this time. "Donny, open up! It's Mary Lou. I'm worried about you, hon. I have a little extra time today, if you need anything from the grocery store. Or the pharmacy." Like a refill on your prescription of antipsychotic drugs.
When he took his meds, Donny was... well, the truth was he was never normal. But at least he was a much more manageable form of crazy.
She suspected, however, that he'd stopped taking his medicine some time ago.
She hadn't realized that yesterday when she'd gone and yelled at him, calling him nasty names. Oh, man, she was a total asshole, taking her bad shit out on this poor tortured soul.
"Donny, please, I'm really sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean what I said. Can't you let me in so we can talk about it?"
Nothing. No movement. No faint sound of chanting, even.
He had probably retreated to his walk-in closet. He'd made it into a kind of a mock bomb shelter—a small windowless room right in the center of the house, where he kept canned goods, a sleeping bag, his favorite comic books, a flashlight, and about a five-year supply of size D batteries.
Oh, yeah, and his laptop. He ran a cable extension from his bedroom so he coul
d get online. Probably to visit the* crazy people's chat room.
Since his closet was otherwise occupied, he kept his clothes in anal-retentive stacks around his bedroom. He had about fifty different sweaters. Apparently, that was the recommended Christmas gift for crazy relatives.
"What do you think Donny wants for Christmas this year, dear?"
"Who knows what he wants? He's crazy. Get him a sweater. Even crazy people get cold."
Of course, if they took the time to visit him, they'd know to get him books. He loved reading about military history, in particular about Navy SEALs. That was probably why he'd let Mary Lou into his house that first time. Because she was married to a Navy SEAL. Mary Lou wasn't sure if it was truth or some kind of made-up fiction, but Donny was convinced that someone in his family had once been a SEAL.
Donny also loved music. Oldies. Like the Beatles.
He was also a whiz when it came to playing the stock market. Mary Lou didn't understand any of that stuff, but crazy Donny sure as hell did. He'd told her once that he'd made a million dollars the week before, and she'd thought he was just being his crazy, old, deluded self. But then one day she'd opened his mail for him and caught a look at his account statement from the bank. He had more than a half million dollars just sitting around in his checking account.
She'd warned him to keep his bank records in a safe place. Don't leave them lying around for any aliens—or people like the cleaning ladies who came in once a month—to see.
Mary Lou wasn't sure what kind of gift to buy someone who played the stock market other than a hat that said "I am richer than God."
But as far as deeply personal gifts for Donny went, a roll of heavy-duty aluminum foil would have been far more appreciated than any dumb sweater. Especially since, despite all of his clothes, Donny had two favorite shirts and two favorite pairs of pants. He wore each outfit every other day, day after day after relentless day.
Once a week, his grandparents would come to visit, and his grandmother would somehow manage to get him into something different—which lasted until about three minutes after they pulled out of the driveway.
Both she and Donny's grandfather were about a million years old. Mary Lou worried about what would become of Donny after they were gone.
She rapped on his door again. "Donny! Please open the door. It's me, Mary Lou. I just want to make sure you're okay."
Silence.
When he was like this, ringing the bell repeatedly would only make it worse.
"Dammit," she said, and turned around—to find Ihbraham Rahman, the yard guy, standing three feet away from her, at the bottom of the steps. She juggled Donny's mail with the baby monitor and dropped most of the mail. "Oh! You scared me to death!"
"I'm sorry." He helped her pick up the envelopes and catalogues. "I was working at the Bentons', and heard you over here and..."
Mary Lou could see his truck parked in front of the yellow house three houses down from the Robinsons'. So that was their name. Benton. She'd never met them face-to-face.
There were a lot of people in this neighborhood that she'd never met.
"Is everything all right with your friend?" he asked as he handed her back the mail. There was genuine concern in his eyes.
"I don't think so," she told him. "He won't answer his door. He's kind of crazy—" She lowered her voice and barely even breathed the word, just in case Donny was listening. "—even when things are going well, so..."
"Are you sure he's home?" Ihbraham asked, turning to look at the house. He was tall. Not as tall as Sam, but still, she had to tip her head back just to talk to him.
"Yes," Mary Lou said. "Considering that he never leaves. Ever. Besides, I saw him peeking out at me."
"Is there no one you can call?" He dressed kind of the way Jesus might dress if He were alive today. Loose pants made out of some kind of lightweight, flowing material, with a comfortably worn-out T-shirt. And of course those leather sandals.
"Well, he's got grandparents who don't live too far away. I suppose I could try to find their number. I'm not exactly sure of their last name, though."
"You could call the police," he suggested.
Mary Lou laughed. "Yeah, I don't think so. The last thing I want to do is get Donny locked up. He's not hurting anyone, here."
"Except maybe himself," Ihbraham pointed out.
Mary Lou sat down, right there on Donny's front steps. "Who gets to decide that? You know—whether or not he might be hurting himself... ? Because he might see it differently from the police or the doctors in the funny farm or even me and you. He's got food and water in there—enough so that he doesn't have to come out for years if he doesn't want to. Who are we to say that he doesn't have the right to spend the rest of his life in there with the shades pulled down if that's really what he wants?"
"May I?" Ihbraham asked, as if she owned the step.
"You don't have to ask just to sit down. It's a free country."
He sat. "Free more for some than others. I've learned never to assume."
Mary Lou looked at him, at his so very foreign-looking face. Dark skin. Thick dark slashes of eyebrows. Dark beard. Full lips that were nearly always smiling.
And those eyes, so warmly, richly brown and filled to overflowing with concern and kindness and a calm acceptance and wisdom.
When most people looked at him, unless they looked closely, they wouldn't see his eyes or his smile. And if those people were anything like her, they'd cross to the other side of the street when they saw him coming. They'd assume, from the color of his skin and from the way he looked, that he was dangerous.
She remembered all those nervous phone calls she'd made to her sister when he'd first started caring for the Robinsons' yard, and she was ashamed.
"I'm sorry," she told him, although she was certain it didn't make up for all the shit he'd no doubt been through since 9/11.
"It's okay," he said. "I have T-shirts that I sometimes wear when I go out. They say 'I am an American, too.' It's helped a little."
"Life really sucks," Mary Lou said.
"No," he said. He shook his head. "No. It can be hard sometimes, though."
And then they sat there for a moment in silence.
"I could really use a drink," she admitted.
"I know," Ihbraham told her quietly.
And she knew that that was true. He did know.
"Bottom line," Muldoon said as he watched Joan across the restaurant table. "We feel that it's just not safe for the President to come here right now. At least not the way you want him to come here—with a demonstration that's open to the public. Crowd control will be impossible."
She tapped her fingers on her coffee cup. "So you're telling me Commander Paoletti would rather Team Sixteen not receive this citation from the President?"
"Yeah," he said. "If the choices are to do it at this dog and pony show here on the base or not at all, the CO would choose not at all because he values the President's—and the public's— safety over his own career. We'd be more than happy to go to Washington, though. I haven't cleared this with the commander, but I'm willing to bet he'd be okay with us giving some kind of a demonstration right there at the White House. On the President's—and most important the Secret Service's— own turf."
Joan looked out the restaurant window at the sparkling bay and the glistening skyline of San Diego. As much as Muldoon preferred the vastness of the open ocean, this was a pretty nice view. She gazed at it for quite some time, while he watched her.
They'd shared a dessert, two forks but only one plate, as if they were lovers. Or best friends. She'd made it clear both last night and today that they weren't going to be anything more than friends.
She'd begged him to go on a date with Brooke Bryant, which was freaking weird. Not just the concept of escorting Brooke to this party at the Del, but the idea that Joan had had to beg him to do it.
What was wrong with him, that he didn't jump at the chance?
Well, it was one thing to f
antasize about someone like Brooke when she was three thousand miles away from him. It was another thing to walk into a party with her on his arm.
Especially when he wanted to walk in with someone else entirely on his arm.
Joan was supposed to have realized by now that she wasn't too old for him. She was, after all, much younger than Brooke Bryant.
But no. It was obvious that the problem wasn't that she was too old for him. It was that she thought he was too young for her.
So he was going to escort Brooke to some pain in the butt party where he'd have to wear his dress whites and keep up polite conversation and small talk all night long.
Which was something that he hated doing and completely sucked at.
God help him.
He'd lost the age battle to Joan right at the start of their lunch. And here he was—judging from the expression on her face—about to lose another.
He had to give her credit—she'd actually paid attention and heard him out. She'd listened carefully to what he'd had to say about the risks of going forward with the President's visit to Coronado.
"Well, I'll certainly bring your concerns to the President's attention," she finally said as she turned back from the view. "But I'm pretty sure I already know what his response is going to be. 'If I can't feel safe within the gates of a military base on U.S. soil, where can I feel safe?' "
"It's not the base that's the problem," Muldoon told her. "It's opening up the demonstration to the public. There are known terrorist cells in—
"San Diego," she finished for him. "Yes, and in every other major city in the United States, as well. But it's time to start campaigning for reelection, and I know for a fact that Bryant isn't going to sit in the basement of the White House, quaking with fear."
"He's the President," Muldoon countered. "He owes it to this country to stay safe."
"Actually, his policy has been 'Don't let the terrorists win,' " Joan shot back at him. " 'Go on about your daily lives. Be vigilant and alert, but fly, go on vacation, go to concerts and football games. Live on the ninety-eighth floor. Don't live in fear.' "
Muldoon nodded. "There's an FBI counterterrorist team in town because there's some kind of threat to the area's commercial airports."
Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night Page 13