Edge of Tomorrow

by Wolf Wootan

  “Good morning, gorgeous,” he smiled.

  “Afternoon, actually. You could ask me out for brunch if you like, and we could have that second date,” she smiled back.

  “Would you kindly accompany me to lunch, milady?” he said with mock solemnity.

  “Indeed I would, sire. But first, how about a nooner and another shower?” she inquired.

  “My God, milady! You are insatiable!”

  “I told you I was going to make the most of my weekend!”

  She jumped back on the bed with him.

  • • •

  They opted for Lou’s Crab House again, because neither of them was up to facing The Blue Grotto yet, and Lou’s served a brunch on Saturday and Sunday. They had crab omelets with fresh fruit, and several glasses of champagne.

  When the table had been cleared, and they were sipping their champagne, Syd said, “Hatch, last night after our calisthenics in the shower, you said that you craved a cigarette. Was that just a stereotype joke—cigarette after sex—or did you really want one? Except for that cigar in Istanbul, I’ve never seen you smoke.”

  “After sex, and after eating, I really crave them. All the time, really. I could use one now badly. I’m trying to quit, but it’s tough. I’ve smoked since the seventies. Cigarettes were part of the spy’s tools of the trade. If you didn’t smoke, you had to learn. A cigarette package was good for concealing cameras, recorders, explosives—you name it. Cigarettes could contain microchips, messages, and lock picks, to name a few. There was an entire art of signaling with cigarettes and smoking: lighting a cigarette was a signal; how you put one out, left hand or right, or stepping on it with the left or right foot; blowing smoke upwards or sideways. Cigarette brands could be signals. The use of cigarette lighters versus matches had meaning. Also cigarette lighters could contain cameras and recorders. Most Europeans smoked, so cigarettes were a very powerful tool,” he said.

  “My God! I remember all the smoking going on in old spy movies! Little did I know people were having conversations with them!” she exclaimed.

  “Spy movies aren’t much like the real world. The actors are just smoking to look sinister and suave, not signaling.”

  “Well, if you want a cigarette, it won’t bother me. They allow smoking here on the patio,” she offered.

  “I’m sorely tempted,” he replied. “You ever smoke?”

  “No. I somehow avoided the peer pressure.”

  “I think I will have a cigarette. I’m going to get a pack. Be right back.”

  He got up and wended his way toward the cigarette machine near the Men’s Room. Syd, mellowed by the champagne, immersed herself in the wonderful euphoria she was experiencing. She had not been this happy in a very long time. She dreaded Monday and what it could bring—she had to make a decision about the University of Miami, and Hatch might go off somewhere again—but she was determined to put that out of her mind and wring the most pleasure she could out of the weekend. Hatch returned and sat down and opened his pack of cigarettes.

  “Well, the ‘spy who shagged me’ has returned,” she laughed. “And good shagging it was. Are you going to give me a lesson in spy smoke signals?”

  “Maybe I can show you the signal that means ‘I want to shag you again,’” he laughed as he lit a filtered cigarette with his Zippo and inhaled deeply. “Ah, that is good!”

  “You want to shag me again? I thought you were worn out,” she giggled.

  “I don’t mean right this minute. I just need a little time to get recharged.”

  Syd smiled wickedly as he smoked and they sipped champagne. She had worn a very short skirt and a tight, scoop-necked blouse at his insistence. He had said he wanted to see as much of her as possible without getting her arrested. He was staring at her cleavage as he smoked, remembering what she looked like naked. As Syd watched him smoke, she relived the pleasure she had felt during the sex they had shared, and the comfortable feeling she had just being around him. She could not remember ever having better sex.

  “Hatch, would it be unladylike and gauche to say that the sex we had last night—this morning, actually—was the best I’ve ever experienced?” she blurted, wanting to share her feelings with him.

  He took another drag off of his cigarette and smiled at her, not saying a word.

  “I shouldn’t have said that! It sounds like I’m fishing for a compliment, but I’m not! I just wanted you to know I felt! I know you must have beautiful, sexy women stashed all over the world!” she babbled, embarrassed.

  “Syd, Syd!” he replied softly. “Relax! I’m flattered. The sex—and the pleasure of your company—was outstanding!”

  He paused, took another drag, then continued, “There is this nympho Austrian countess in Vienna, though, who I see when I’m in Europe …”

  “Hatch! I said I was sorry! I shouldn’t have said …”

  “… but she never screwed me three times in seven hours,” he interrupted Syd, smiling broader now.

  Syd looked at him and realized that he was teasing her now.

  “Oh, you! Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Of course. We agreed to be honest with each other.”

  “Then, you think I out-screwed a nympho? That’s not like me!”

  “In spades!” he laughed. “And you’re much better looking than the countess. She’s a little thin and bony. I think aristocrats call that ‘the angular look.’”

  “Is there some poor gal here in Florida expecting you this weekend?”

  “No one ever expects me, Syd,” he said, maybe too gruffly, because her smile faded. “So nobody is waiting for me.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it, wishing he had not said what he had said.

  “I’m here with you, aren’t I?” he added. “It’s where I want to be.”

  “Me, too! Enough of this crap! Give me one of your cigarettes,” Syd answered, smiling again. “I want to try one.”

  “Not a good idea, Syd, but here you go. Don’t choke yourself.”

  She took a cigarette from him and put the filter in her mouth. Hatch lit it for her with his Zippo. She drew in some smoke, but did not inhale. She blew the smoke straight up.

  “What does that mean in spy talk?” she laughed.

  “It has to be prearranged. It could mean anything. What do you want it to mean?” he asked.

  She took another drag, inhaling a small amount. She suppressed a cough as the nicotine rushed through her blood stream, making her slightly light-headed.

  “Wow! What a rush!”

  She laid it down in the ashtray while the effects lessened.

  “I warned you. Putting a cigarette in the ashtray can be a signal, too, by the way. You’ve given me two signals, but I’m not deciphering them,” he said.

  “Well, let’s see what they could be,” she mused. “How about tonight? Would it be possible to go to a piano bar so I could hear you play and sing?”

  He thought for a moment, then replied, “There’s no place around here that I like, but there is one in Miami that I go to when I’m in the mood. You’ll have to sing with me though.”

  “I haven’t sung in quite awhile—not in public anyway—but I could give it a whirl. Do we take the chopper?”

  “Of course. Too far to drive. What do we do this afternoon?”

  “Need you ask this nympho?” she laughed. “If we’re going to close a piano bar tonight, we’ll need a nap—right after you shag me again!”

  “If you’re up to it,” she added.

  He signaled the waiter for the check.

  • • •

  At 5 o’clock, after their nap, Syd was in the bathroom in her pantyhose and underwear, working carefully on her makeup. She wanted to look her absolute best for Hatch. It was their first dinner date. Besides, she wanted to erase any thoughts of the skinny Austrian countess from his memory.

  “What should I wear? What kind of place is this?” she yelled to Hatch, who was in the living room in his underwear.

  “I
t’s pretty fancy on Saturday night, although some people still go casual. It is Miami, after all. I called Eddie and he’s bringing me over a dark suit with the fixings, so you can dress up if it pleases you,” he answered.

  “That’s what I had hoped. I want to look nice for you tonight.”

  “You’re always gorgeous! Clothes on or off,” he laughed.

  “Thank you, sir! This is our first dinner date, and I want it to be special.”

  “You’re always special, Syd.”

  “You’re laying it on a little thick now.”

  Syd heard her doorbell ring. It was Eddie delivering Hatch’s clothes. Hatch began dressing in the bedroom. Syd walked into her walk-in closet and selected a long, black dress with spaghetti straps. It had a slit up the left side which reached just above the knee, but was tight across her butt. When she finally came out of the bathroom, Hatch looked at her and sucked in his breath, letting out a slow whistle. Her only accents to the form-fitting long gown were pearl earrings, and a gold chain around her neck which also held a single pearl nestling in the beginning of her cleavage. Her makeup and hair were superb!

  “Am I overdressed?” she asked when she saw the look on his face.

  “No! No! I can’t find the words to describe you! I need Cyrano to write some dialog for me. Gorgeous is too tame. There will be a lot of jealous men tonight when they see you on my arm!” he said with awe.

  “And women! You look simply good enough to eat!” she bubbled.

  “Wrong choice of words! You do want to go out tonight, don’t you?” he leered.

  • • •

  It was 7:00 P.M. when Hatch entered Le Bistro with the stunning Syd on his arm. She had a black lace shawl draped around her shoulders. They were greeted by the owner, Maxine DuPres, a small, red-haired woman with pendulous breasts and garish makeup. She hugged Hatch, then stepped back.

  “It has been too long, Bob Kelly! Where have you been? And who is this femme fatale you have on your arm?” she said with a French accent.

  Hatch had explained to Syd during the chopper ride that he used his Bob Kelly alias here. No one here knew that he was Van Lincoln, the billionaire, just Bob Kelly, who occasionally took over the piano bar and entertained everyone. He enjoyed the anonymity. His money did not get in the way of a pleasant evening. People liked him for who he was, not his money. He even carried his Bob Kelly identity cards: driver’s license and credit cards.

  “Maxine, this is Ms. Sydney Steppe. Syd, meet Maxine DuPres, the owner of this fine establishment,” Hatch replied. “And don’t use your fake French accent around her. She’s a language professor!”

  Maxine laughed and shook Syd’s hand.

  “This man is incorrigible,” Maxine said, without the accent. “Very pleased to meet you, Syd. My place is your place. Enjoy!”

  “Thank you, Maxine. I intend to!” laughed Syd.

  Maxine moved away to greet her next guests, her French accent back, as Syd and Hatch were shown to their table, which he had previously reserved by phone. All heads turned and watched the stunning couple as they wended their way to their table.

  “That was fun!” whispered Syd after they were seated.

  “You were just undressed and raped in the minds of many men!” laughed Hatch quietly.

  “A lot of women have damp crotches, too!” giggled Syd. “Their eyes must have burned holes in you!”

  “Let them eat cake! We’re the lucky ones, we have each other!” he said, reaching for her hand.

  • • •

  After an exquisite meal of French cuisine, Hatch led Syd out of the dining room into the famous Le Bistro Cabaret Lounge, and again heads turned. He led her through a sea of cocktail tables to the piano bar, where a thin black man with gray fuzz for hair was playing a blues piece. The black man nodded at Hatch and gave Syd the up and down look as he smiled, white teeth flashing.

  “Well, if it isn’t Bob Kelly, the master of the ivories and King of Show Tunes! Where you been keeping yourself?” said the piano player.

  “Been busy. Syd, meet the King of the Blues, Johnnie Sams. Johnnie, this gorgeous lady is Sydney Steppe.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Johnnie. I like your style,” cooed Syd.

  “Why, thank you, ma’am. You two gonna sit with me or grab a table?” he asked without missing a beat on his piano.

  “Your choice, Syd,” said Hatch.

  “Let’s stake out these good seats at the piano, Hatch … er … Bob,” she replied, catching herself on his alias, her eyes sparkling. She would have to watch herself or she would blow his cover. “When does this place start jumping, Johnnie?”

  “Well, it varies. Sat’dy night, like tonight, around nine, nine-thirty. Or any night at whatever hour Bob Kelly plays. You gonna do a set tonight, Bob? Gimme a break?” asked Sams.

  “Maybe later, Johnnie. I need to get a couple drinks over here first, get in the mood.”

  He waved to a waitress in a short skirt and a low-cut blouse. She came over and smiled at Hatch, glared at Syd.

  “Hi, Mr. Kelly. You’re usual? A Kelly Special?” she asked knowingly, leaning over slightly to give him a clear look down her blouse.

  “That would be fine, Keely. What would you like, Syd?” Hatch asked.

  “What’s a Kelly Special?” she asked.

  “A weak bourbon and water. I always drink them when I play,” he answered. “Keeps my senses sharper.”

  Syd had a memory flash, imagining him in West Germany years ago playing for Kat, drinking Kelly Specials, but never getting drunk.

  “I’ll pass on that. How about a Chardonnay?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll be right back, folks,” said Keely, as she turned and swished toward the bar in her spike heels.

  Syd leaned over and whispered, “She’s all tits and legs, Mr. Kelly! Is she one of your stashees? She sure glared at me.”

  Hatch laughed and put his hand on her knee.

  “She’s put together pretty well, I’ll admit that, but she’s never been where you’ve been!” he leered. “Bob Kelly flirts a lot with the help—it keeps them happy.”

  “Well, I suppose that should make me feel humbled—and special!” she giggled.

  Hatch dragged over an ashtray and lit a cigarette. He offered one to Syd, but she shook her head.

  After their drinks were served, Hatch asked Johnnie, “Hey, bro. I’d like to dance with my lovely date. Could you give me your incomparable impression of Hoagy Carmichael doing his Stardust?”

  “Soon’s I finish this tune,” he replied.

  Hatch took Syd’s hand and led her to the dance floor, where three couples were dancing.

  “I assume you’d like to dance? I should have asked,” he said.

  “Love to! It’s a slow, romantic one so I get to stand close to you—make Keely jealous!”

  “Very close. Stop worrying about Keely, unless you just enjoy inflicting pain on the poor girl,” he smiled.

  They danced slowly as Johnnie sang Stardust, their bodies molded together.

  “You feel the music quite well, Syd. I bet you can dance a mean tango,” he whispered in her ear. In her heels, she was only a couple of inches shorter than he was.

  “I love the tango—so sexy! I’m not sure this is the most appropriate dress for the tango, however. If you had told me there was dancing, I’d have worn a short dress. Then, you could have compared my legs to Keely’s,” she teased.

  “There is no comparison! I don’t need to see them to know that—they are etched in my memory. Remember, I kissed every inch of them, felt them locked around me!”

  Syd blushed when she thought of those events.

  As the dance ended, they went back to their seats and thanked Johnnie for the song. He started playing his next request. Hatch slipped a twenty in the large brandy snifter sitting on the piano.

  “You dance like a pro, Syd,” complimented Hatch.

  “So do you! I had to take dance lessons when I was doing my drama thing in college. I love dancin
g!”

  “Actually, so do I,” replied Hatch. “I know that is strange, but it seems to be a natural extension to my music. I’ve studied dance forms of different cultures all over the world. I had lessons in my college drama stint, too. My ability to dance has helped with some of my cover personas through the years.”

  “You must have had some fun with your ‘Bob Kelly’ persona.”

  “I did, and I still do. That dress has a slit up the side doesn’t it?” he asked.

  “Just to above my left knee. The slit is not long enough to dance a decent tango. You should have seen the dress I wore in Damn Yankees!”

  “When I was in southern Spain a few years ago, I learned a version of the beguine that is extremely sexy. The beguine originated in the islands of St. Lucia and Martinique, but the dance I learned in Spain had been modified a bit by the Spaniards. The women who danced it often wore long dresses, tight across the rear—much like yours. The dance uses a lot of very sensual body language—gives you a chance to send messages with your firm ass,” he laughed.

  “Signals to whom?” she giggled.

  “Mostly to me, but everyone else will fantasize that it’s them.”

  As Hatch explained the basic movements of the dance, Syd looked over at a couple three tables away as the man slapped his female companion. The woman grabbed her face and started crying.

  Syd heard the man say, “Shut up, bitch, or you’ll get worse!”

  “Excuse me, Hat … Bob, did you see that? That man just hit that woman!” said Syd.

  Hatch looked over at the couple and replied, “No, but I heard what he said. The bouncer probably heard him, too, and will take care of it.”

  “I thought you put men who abused women right up there with terrorists!” she hissed quietly.

  “I do!” he replied defensively. “Do you want me to go have a chat with the asshole?”

  “No! I just wanted to make sure we agreed on this.”