Crown's Law

by Wolf Wootan

  Bo found her voice and said, “I am so sorry, Becky! I didn’t mean to offend you!”

  She could not believe how mature Becky’s statement had been. No teenage slang or curse words. Just a profound respect and love for Sam Crown. She didn’t know how to extricate herself from this major faux pas.

  “Becky, I . . .”

  Becky saved her from stammering out more apologetic drivel by interrupting.

  “Your apology is accepted. Please accept my apology, too. You are Sam’s guest and my elder. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way, or the way I spoke downstairs. I just wanted to set the record straight. Please don’t tell Sam that I was so rude. Take a look at the pictures on the wall and you’ll get a better feeling for who Sam really is.”

  “Thanks. I won’t mention this discussion to anyone, if you won’t. And I deserved that dressing down you gave me. I was out of line.”

  “And you were curious about Sam. He’s probably been flirting with you and you’re trying to find out what to expect,” laughed Becky, breaking the tension.

  This girl is phenomenally bright and perceptive! I hope I can change this bad first impression I just made. I really would like to get to know her better.

  Bo observed that one entire wall of the bedroom was covered with framed photographs—mostly family ones she assumed. She pointed to one—Becky with an older couple at Disneyland.

  “This picture, Becky? Are they Sam’s parents?” she asked.

  “Yeah. They’re like my grandparents now. The photo next to it is Sam when he was in Vietnam in 1973. Just before he got shot up real bad and got the Medal of Honor,” replied Becky proudly.

  Bo examined the photo: two men dressed in camos, one kneeling, the other standing. Both were unshaven, and the one standing held an automatic rifle in the crook of his left arm; ammo bandoliers crossed his chest; and he wore a pistol on his right hip like an Old West gunfighter—in a holster attached to a cartridge belt. He wore a black cowboy hat with a feather in the band, and a cigarette drooped from the left side of his mouth. A large knife was sheathed on his left hip. Even with dark sunglasses covering his eyes, Bo was certain that it was a young version of Sam Crown. He certainly did not look like a clean-cut U.S. Marine—but then, she had heard that Vietnam was not a clean-cut kind of a war—as if any war was. She would not want to mess with the guy in that picture! He looked very deadly!

  Two pictures over to the right was a framed document: it was the piece of paper that awarded Sam the Medal of Honor.

  Shit! This shameless flirt was once that fierce-looking guy! He’s a very rare species! A Medal of Honor recipient who’s still alive! Maybe I’ve misjudged him.

  She made a mental note to run a background check on him. She wanted to know more about Sam Crown.

  She spotted another photo that interested her. It appeared to be a younger version of Sam’s father standing next to President Ronald Reagan. It was signed by Reagan and dated 1984.

  “Hey, Becky. Is this Sam’s father with President Reagan?”

  Becky was moving things in the closet to make some room for Bo to use.

  “Yeah. Grandpa was a big honcho of some sort in the CIA. Like, a spy, or something. Nobody talks about it much. Not about Sam’s medal either. Grandpa is supposed to be retired now, but there is a lot of weird equipment around here—scrambled phone for sure. I know he talks on it a lot.”

  Bo spotted another interesting one with Becky, Sam, and a gray-haired, mustachioed man.

  “What’s this one?”

  Becky walked over to the picture wall and stood next to Bo, shoulders nearly touching. “That’s me and Sam with Dr. Phillip Royce. Dr. Royce is one of the world’s leading physicists. That shot was taken in Washington D.C. where I was presenting a paper,” replied Becky with a shrug. “Sam wouldn’t let me go back there alone. He was my bodyguard.”

  “A paper?”

  “Yeah. You know. At a meeting of the National Academy of Sciences. I was drumming up support for my theory of post-Einsteinian physics.”

  Bo glanced at her and observed, “You’re not a typical teenager, are you?”

  “I’m still trying to learn how to be one—like, what is one? My senior prom is tomorrow and I’m scared shitless! They’ve sent me to charm school, but I still have a lot to learn about feelings and interpersonal actions. How to act. How to feel. Why can’t life be rational and predictable, like mathematics?”

  “Sam told me you were . . . quite brilliant.”

  “Oh, yeah! I’m a freakin’ phenom! I’ve also read dozens of books on psychology, psychiatry, teen behavior—all that shit! I know stuff, but turning the knowledge into behavior—you know, feelings and proper action—is tough for me! Sam says I’ll get better with age and practice. How were you when you were a teenager?” asked Becky as she went back to the closet and moved some hangers. “You can use this space and these hangers to hang your clothes.”

  Bo absorbed Becky’s dissertation, then thought back to her teenage years—and her senior prom. Bo had been somewhat of a tomboy growing up, but in spite of being extremely competitive with boys, she had finally given up her virginity to one that night. It hadn’t been as pleasurable as she had expected.

  Is that what’s bothering her? thought Bo. The possibility of losing her virginity? Poor kid! I doubt that I’m the person to give her advice. My sexual history isn’t very stellar!

  As Bo began unpacking, she answered, “Well, I certainly wasn’t burdened with brilliancy! My teenage years were pretty ordinary, I guess. I was pretty much a tomboy—played a lot of sports. Competed with boys, but still managed to get dates with them. I went to dances, movies, skiing, water rafting, horseback riding—that sort of thing. I was raised in the mountains of Colorado. But I don’t know if I can help you. What are you afraid of . . . exactly?”

  Becky sat on the bed and frowned. “I don’t know. Most of the other kids think I’m a prep—a freak. And, of course, I am! I understand that people like me are very rare. I can quote the statistics, if you’re interested. People feel uncomfortable around a person like me, especially boys. They like dumb, blonde cheerleaders, not blonde Einsteins!”

  “What about the boy taking you to the prom? Do you make him uncomfortable?”

  “Billy Spears? He’s 17, a senior. Good-looking enough. I met him in charm school. His rich parents made him go. We’ve been buddies a couple of years. He’s used to me. I help him with his homework, but I think I frustrate him. I can tell by the way he looks at me that he wants more from me than help with homework,” replied Becky as Bo finished her unpacking. She laid a Navy Blue two-piece swimsuit on the bed, along with a short, white cover-up.

  “Is that it? You’re afraid he’ll go after your virginity?”

  Becky let out a pitiful laugh. “No! My stepfather took care of that years ago! I know I won’t let Billy go all the way—I’m not ready for that yet—but if I let him kiss me and feel me up, he’ll want more. How do you handle that?”

  Bo was caught completely off guard! How should she answer that question? And Becky’s matter-of-fact boldness—and the fact that she had been sexually abused—shocked her.

  Do I tell her that I gave it up myself after the senior prom? Not wise! What would I have told my own daughter? I don’t know. I’ll have to weasel word it.

  “Well, Becky, each girl has to make her own decisions about such a private thing.”

  “Typical adult response,” groaned Becky. “Even my shrink uses nondefinitive responses. Well, I’d better go change this suit or Sam’ll kill me! Meet you downstairs. We’ll be on the deck.”

  Bo took off her jacket and removed her shoulder rig. She stored the gun in a nightstand next to the bed. She undressed and donned her bathing suit. She hung up her clothing, then she looked at her reflection in the full mirror on the closet door. She adjusted her bikini bottom and ran her hands over her breasts, making sure the bra top was fitted properly. She put on her coverup and descended the stairs. She joined Sam an
d Becky on the large redwood deck and breathed in the wonderful sea air.

  Coming here may have been a mistake, but this view and the air make it worth it! thought Bo. And that Becky is a jewel!

  “Just marvelous!” she exclaimed.

  Sam had donned his red trunks and had rubber flip flops on his feet. Bo noticed that he sported no flab—just a well-tanned, muscular body that would turn most women to mush. There were some scars. ’Nam? Bo liked what she saw. Becky had changed out of her thong into a more modest light blue bikini. Her supple, well-tanned, teenaged body was curved in all the right places. Bo felt jealous!

  She must drive the boys wild! thought Bo. Too bad she is so emotionally damaged! I’d like to get my hands on her damned stepfather!

  Sam pointed to several pairs of rubber flip-flops by the door and said, “There should be a pair there that fits you if the deck is too hot for your tender tootsies. Help yourself.”

  On the deck, there were several redwood lounges with blue canvas lounge pads on them. Several folded beach towels were stacked on one of the round redwood tables. She spotted a large barbecue on the south side of the deck, and a wet bar with a small counter. Several blue-and-white umbrellas provided shade, not only for the bar, but also for the tables on the large deck. At the bar, four bar stools were available for guests. Bo eased onto one of them and watched Sam operate a blender on the counter behind the bar.

  “Quite a layout, Sam.”

  “There’s a pool on the north side if you don’t like salt and sand,” he answered, his back to her. “I’m making strawberry daiquiris. As soon as I pour one for Becky, I’ll add the rum for ours. Unless you’d prefer something else. The bar here is quite complete!”

  “A daiquiri sounds great!” she answered as she removed her cover-up and hung it over the back of the bar stool next to hers.

  Sam turned and saw her in her bathing suit for the first time. He examined her lithe, runway model’s body, the curve of her hips, her half-covered breasts. He couldn’t see her long legs from where he was standing.

  He gasped, “Oooh, my!” He took a deep breath, then continued, “I’m sorry, Bo! I know I promised to behave, but your luscious beauty overwhelmed me!”

  “Well, Sam, I’ll accept the compliment—instead of making an issue of it,” smiled Bo, actually enjoying the effect she had on Sam.

  “Thanks! Hey, Beck! Here’s your drink. What should I do for dinner? Fish? Steak? Lobster?” queried Sam.

  Before Bo could say anything, Becky chimed in, “How about burgers and corn? Your hamburgers are the greatest! Oops! I’m sorry, Bo! You’re the guest. You choose.”

  “Hamburgers sound fine to me,” laughed Bo. “They seem perfect, in fact! What could be better at the beach than the smell of burgers on the barby!”

  “Why don’t you call Billy and invite him over, Beck?” asked Sam. “Give you a chance to talk about tomorrow.”

  Becky jumped up off her lounge and said, “Really? You’ve got company and all.”

  “Sure. Go ahead. You’ve been alone here all week. Time for some company. Give him a call.”

  Sam poured some expensive Jamaican rum into the blender and turned it on again to mix up their daiquiris as Becky ran inside to call Billy, who lived five houses away.

  “That was nice of you. From what she told me upstairs, she’s really nervous about tomorrow.”

  “I know. I don’t know how to help her. She needs a mother for this kind of crap,” he replied as he poured two large, round, stemmed glasses full of slushy strawberry daiquiris. He put two straws in each glass and pushed one across the counter to Bo.

  Bo offered, “Maybe I could help her with her hair tomorrow . . . or something?”

  “That would be great! I know she’ll appreciate that. I know I will.”

  Then he lifted his glass and said, “Cheers!”

  They both took a sip and she purred with a smile, “Mmm! Good! My compliments to the bartender. But no umbrella?”

  He turned and grabbed one out of a glass filled with paper umbrellas, opened it, and plunked it in her glass. “How’s that?”

  “Perfect! I was kidding, you know.”

  “I aim to please.” He pushed a bowl of Macadamia nuts toward her and said, “I’m glad you chose to come here, Bo. I was serious about us collaborating on solving the mystery of Winston’s death, but I want Becky in on our discussion. With her schedule this weekend, that confab can’t take place until Sunday afternoon at the earliest; so, relax and enjoy yourself.”

  “Becky? What does Becky have to do with this case?” she queried.

  “She helps me from time to time. Her logical skills are unsurpassed,” he smiled. “As you would expect. You’ll see.”

  “Do you mind if I have a cigarette? I’m having a nicotine fit. I’ve only had the one at Sparky’s since I got off the plane!”

  “No problem. Here’s an ashtray. Made out of a real abalone shell.”

  She retrieved a flat box of Benson & Hedges from the pocket of her cover-up along with a gold lighter, then extracted a long, filtered cigarette from the box. Sam reached for her lighter, lingering a moment as their fingers touched, then he lit her cigarette.

  She offered the box to Sam. He shook his head.

  “Bullet to the lung ended my smoking days years ago. At least, when I did smoke, I smoked a real cigarette. What in hell are these things?” he laughed as he studied the box.

  “The flat box fits better in my purse,” she chuckled.

  “Hell of a way to choose a cigarette.”

  When their drinks were finished, Sam said, “How about a quick dip in the Pacific before I start dinner?”

  “What’s the water temp out here?”

  Becky came out of the house with Billy in tow and answered Bo’s question. “It’s 69 degrees. It’s perfect! Bo, meet Billy. We’re going in now, aren’t we, Billy?”

  “You bet! Glad to meet you, Bo! Grab a board, Becky!”

  With that, the two teenagers went to one of the lounges and Billy stripped down to his surfer trunks; then, surf boards under their arms, they ran down the beach to the water. Bo observed that Billy’s body indicated that he stayed in good shape—surfing, football? They made a cute couple running down the beach. Becky was behaving like any ordinary teenager. King and Queen of the Prom? Probably not. That was usually a popularity contest, and from what Bo had heard from Becky, she would not win such a political event. After all, since she did not really attend the school, not many kids there even knew her.

  When Bo crushed out her cigarette, Sam said, “Ready to hit the surf?” He very much wanted to see her gorgeous body wet! Maybe a wave would knock the top of her suit off!

  ***

  Bo had enjoyed her swim with Sam, Becky, and Billy more than she had enjoyed anything in a long time. They had watched the sunset as they bodysurfed the waves. Afterwards, she had showered and dressed in black denim shorts and a cotton blouse that matched her blue-green eyes.

  Sam had changed into white shorts and a colorful, flowery Aloha shirt with ukuleles on it. He had fired up the barbeque and cooked fat hamburger patties—cheese on three, none on Bo’s. Billy went home after dinner, and Becky went to her room to her computer to work on the appendix to her doctoral thesis for particle physics. That left Sam alone with Bo on the deck watching the stars and the nearly full moon.

  “More wine, Bo?” asked Sam. They were drinking a very expensive, extremely smooth burgundy that Sam’s father had discovered in Spain during his CIA working days. His father always kept a case on hand.

  “A splash maybe. It’s so good!” she replied with a small, crooked smile. As she crossed her long, slim legs, Sam’s heart skipped a beat.

  Soft music floated in the air from the built-in speakers on the wall. Sam had put on one of his mother’s CDs which contained golden oldies love songs. At the moment, Sinatra was singing Fly Me to the Moon. Sam poured more wine into their glasses, a lot more than a “splash.”

  Bo said, “Thos
e scars you have on your body. ’Nam?”

  Sam sipped his wine and replied, “Some of them. Two from when I was a cop. I noticed the one on your left hip. Gunshot?”

  “Yeah. Two years ago. Just a nick though. Nothing like yours,” she murmured. “So, you were a cop, too?”

  “For awhile. Orange County Sheriff’s Department. This was part of my beat.”

  “Interesting.”

  They were both silent for awhile, listening to the surf roll in, then recede. Over and over.

  Bo broke the silence. “Such a pleasant, romantic night, and we’re talking about scars. I would think we could do better than that.”

  Sam looked at her—long legs, perky breasts, luscious lips—wanting her badly. “Much better! I have several ideas, but you made the rules. It’s up to you to change them.”

  She locked eyes with him and said, “I’ve only known you a few hours, Sam. You are a complex man, and I really admire what you’ve done for Becky. But . . .”

  “You have a boyfriend, eh?” he interrupted. “The guy you called? Or someone in Washington?”

  She hesitated, wondering if her personal life was any of his business, then replied, “No, not at present. I broke off a relationship six months ago. It was very painful—nasty! Since then, I’ve been a pigeon in search of a statue. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not a statue, but I understand. Maybe you’ll feel differently tomorrow—or the next day. The music is nice. Maybe we could dance.”

  Bo glanced at him and imagined her breasts crushed against his chest, his arms around her.

  “I don’t think so. That might create a problem,” she smiled.