by Jim Johnson
“He could have run out on you or not honored your agreement.”
Tommy ate some rice. “Nope. All I had to do was tell the warden and that guard would go away to another prison, only as an inmate. He had to keep the deal.”
“So? How’d you do it?”
Tommy pulled out his cross on a necklace. It was ornate and a silver cross and Jesus dangled.
“I’ve wondered about that.”
Tommy twisted and pulled. The necklace came apart. He held up a section. “Standard handcuff key.” He performed the operation in reverse and replaced the necklace. “It was hard waiting for the right time and I had to fake being in a coma for a day longer as I got well. But one evening, the local mortuary came by for a couple of bodies of prisoners who’d died. Working there, I’d already prepared dummy paperwork for a body. They had me handcuffed to the bed that night as their manning was short. I used the key, made my way to the back room of the infirmary and the guard had a body bag waiting. I got in it on a gurney next to the others and the screw annotated the paperwork for the mortician. He made sure they loaded me first to make it more difficult for the gate guards if they wanted to check. The morticians dumped the bodies at their mortuary and went home for the night.”
“That’s it? Didn’t they notice the difference between two bodies and three bodies when they returned in the morning.”
“I took care of that.”
“And?”
“You want to hear? This ain’t a Sunday school story.”
“Yes.”
“I borrowed a hearse. They kept the keys right there in the ‘incoming’ room. I drove to Tampa, hid the hearse, and found the son of a bitch who turned me in. Then I put him in the hearse and drove back. The funeral parlor guys probably didn’t check very closely as the prison doctor had allegedly already generated a death certificate, including mine. Since I worked in the infirmary, I simply got an empty death certificate and filled it in on a typewriter; then I faked his signature. I had it hidden in a fake file in a filing cabinet. So all the funeral home guys had to do was shake and bake. I made sure not to mark up the body I switched with me too much.”
“Oh.” Her voice was small.
“Your turn, Ms. Nightingale.”
She told him as he finished eating and they washed the dishes.
“Not bad for an amateur,” he opined. “The explosion was a nice touch, distracting supposedly alert and professional border guards. Had you jumped the line and took off on the rice rocket, you’d likely have made it, but cops and border security would have been after you.”
“That was my reasoning.”
“And the collateral damage to bystanders?”
“I minimized it as much as possible. It was a calculated decision and I don’t think anyone was hurt. I really did want to blow up the van and its annoying loud music. And the jacket and helmet and scarves might have been enough to disguise me for any of those grainy security cameras.”
“You done good, Pocahontas. Thank you for saving my ass.”
“Anything for you, Tommy.” She had a strange gleam in her eye.
“I’ll be up to speed in a week and Charley is due about then.”
“He’ll just show up?”
“That’s it. When he runs out of money, he will save enough for gas and come home. If he wins money, he’ll stay until he loses it all.”
“You hermits have weird habits.”
“Not me, sweetie. I’m a reader.”
“You’re pretty domestic for a tough guy,” she said.
“No comment.”
As was their custom, he went outside and took the first shower, so that he could read in bed for a while.
As he was soaping down, María Elena came out and left the door open for the light. She pulled up a plastic chair and sat down.
Tommy continued and began to rinse the soap off. “I guess this means we’re not going to shower together again?”
She simply looked at him.
“You can bet I remember that part. Hell, I thought I was out of my mind—or died and went to heaven. I wish I could remember it more and better.”
“More than once,” she told him.
“Just my luck.” He turned modestly.
“Don’t worry,” she mimicked him. “I’ve already seen your glorious naked body.”
“You ain’t here to look at my body,” he said. “What’s up?”
“To the contrary, I am. I want you to tell me about all those scars.” She pointed.
“Have I no privacy?”
“Tell me.”
He fingered his side. “In Tampa. This one was just a graze, didn’t hit anything vital. Good thing since it came from a 1911.”
“What’s that?”
“A forty-five.”
“What happened to the shooter?”
“He’s deceased.”
“I guess I’m not surprised. And that one? The shoulder?”
“AK-47, I think. Never saw the guy. Shooting from the jungle. We were in a firefight. And as you can see, the exit wound is worse than the entry wound.”
“How about that scarred mess on your left side?”
“Ah, that was a machete if I remember right. The local troops that the Cuban merks were supporting. Ambush.”
“He’s deceased, too?”
“Oh, yes. Tenacious bastard, though. I’ll give him that.” He shook his head at the memory. “Had to sew that one up myself and walk twenty-five miles back to base—well, back to where I stole a truck and drove another twenty-five to base.”
“The slice mark on your back?”
“Shrapnel. When I was a Marine. Semper Fi. Lebanon or someplace over there.”
“How about that big patch on the outside of your left thigh?”
“I dumped my chopper doing eighty.”
“Motorcycle?”
“Yes, Pocahontas. Hog, Harley. With the high handlebars. Not no rice rocket.”
“You are some kind of guy, Tommy Atkins.”
“Sure thing, Florence Nightingale.” He turned off the water. “Gimme that towel, will you?”
She went inside and after he dried off and pulled on his shorts, he went inside and she edged sideways past him. “Next.” She wouldn’t look at him.
“I’ll wash the sheets tomorrow,” he told her, “and then you can have the bed back.”
“Whatever.”
She was acting strangely. But he’d never really understood women, so he dismissed it.
He covered himself with a sheet and began reading a Kipling poem. For some reason, he had an urge to read Kipling. It was now a comfortable feeling. He recalled María Elena curled up against his back. And he had a gossamer memory of her wrapping herself around him when the coldness of body chills had overwhelmed him.
María Elena came in freshly showered, toweling her long, black hair. She shook it out. Then was when Tommy saw what she was wearing. No unisex pajamas tonight. She wore the hip huggers and the low cut sleeveless top she had on the first night they’d spent together in a motel.
He whistled his appreciation. “No fair, Pocahontas.”
She hung up her towel and came over to him. “Nothing’s fair, Tommy.” She bent over him and tousled his curly hair. She kissed him on the forehead.
Her animal cinnamon scent sank down on him; now it had a raw edge. And it accompanied a wave of body heat.
He looked into her eyes and saw them change to the deepest brown.
Her top dropped down and gave him a full view of her breasts. Her nipples were already hard. He felt himself responding.
Her lips brushed his and then pressed down for a demanding kiss. His eyes opened wide.
He tried to push her away. “No.”
“This is what I want, Tommy.”
“I don’t want to want what I can’t have.”
“Sure you can. Here I am. Let’s.” Her hunger was overwhelming them both.
Suddenly, he felt all his pent-up passion for her break through his
iron will. He pulled her down against his body and kissed her deeply. He cupped her butt cheeks and breasts and she squirmed frantically on top of him, the heat of her loins burning into him. She moved rhythmically atop him and breathed hoarsely and moaned against him. Her hair cascaded all over him. Their tongues danced.
She pulled the sheet off him and then, with more urgency, his shorts.
She lowered herself on top of him. He ran his hands all over her back, under her hiphuggers and under her top, searching, demanding. Her skin was dry and smooth to the touch and he ached for more. She ground into him. Their kiss was full of passion and need. Then she broke off the kiss and sat up on his hips, straddling him. She pulled her top off and freed herself. His hands roamed her breasts and body. She looked down on him for a moment. Then he tore off her panties and tossed them aside.
After a moment, she said, “Oh, my God!” She arched her back and her body began demanding.
Later, they nestled together regaining their breathing. His hands roamed, gaining tactile memory of every inch of her body. He tested her bad shoulder with good results.
“Wow,” she said into his neck.
His hands moved more demandingly.
“Do you still think my hips are too wide?”
“Hell, no. And I never did.” His hands continued to work.
“Again?” she asked.
“Again,” he said.
Much later, he said, “God, you taste good.”
“I didn’t know it could be like this,” she said.
“Me, neither,” he said, and realized how special it really was.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: HER
In the morning they showered together and ended up in bed again before they’d dried off.
Finally, they stood side by side at the stove: Tommy was cooking four eggs straight up in the bacon grease from the pound of bacon he’d fried. She was stirring a pot of oatmeal. Their silence was comfortable. María Elena wondered, “What next, Lord?” Life had been full of surprises lately.
Soon they were sitting across from each other. Tommy had a slice of bread he was mopping up egg yolk with. María Elena had finished her oatmeal and was eyeing his food hungrily.
“We got to talk, Pocahontas,” Tommy said.
“About our love life or our situation?” Her voice was coy.
He grunted and grinned. “Actually, both, now you mention it.”
She took a slice of his bacon. It was soft, not crunchy at all.
“I like it chewy,” he read her mind.
“Me, too,” she lied.
“Charley’s likely to return soon,” he continued.
She took another slice of bacon. She hadn’t been this hungry in a long time. Especially, she was hungry for protein. “You can go, Tommy. There’s no reason for you to be involved any longer.”
“Do you seriously think I’d desert your cute ass right now?”
“Thank you, Tommy.”
“Maybe we get organized and set up; we go after this Don Diego. The other option is to take out that JTF 13 thing. They’re in this up to their necks.” He was obviously referring to the cell phone tracking and the border crossing quick reaction.
“Neither one will be easy.”
“Love conquers all,” he said, and then sat back realizing what he’d said.
She reached across the table to the plate with the bacon on a paper towel and took another piece.
The silence stretched out and became awkward.
She took another piece of bacon and ate it.
Finally, he said, “Are you gonna be hung up with emotional baggage about us? Or am I just a one night stand, a man when you need one?”
“That’s not fair,” she said.
“I ain’t feeling charitable right now. Remember, I’m the one who didn’t want to get involved. I didn’t want to be attached to you. Sex like that is a commitment to me. I don’t want to be hurt. Like I said, I don’t want to want what I can’t have.”
“I’m not sure I like the term ‘emotional baggage,’ Tommy.”
“Well, goddamn it, Pocahontas, this ain’t a subject I’m real articulate at or I got a lot of practice at. I got no fancy words. I only know what I feel and what I’m afraid of.” He paused. “And I know that my life started all over the minute I saw you fighting those men in the Everglades.” He fixed his eyes steadily on her. “So you know, while you are smokin’ hot, I was able to fight that part off. But the more we were together, the more your character unfolded in front of me. If it was just your looks, I wouldn’t have fought against it so long.” He leered at her and then became serious. “See? It’s as if you were the north pole and I was a compass arrow.”
She smiled broadly and grabbed his hand. “Okay. It’s enough to know how you feel, anyway. I’ve been growing fonder of you every day. And I want to be with you for a long time.” She used her other hand and picked up one of the last slices of bacon. She chewed it enthusiastically. “You’ve been there for me and I’ve been there for you.”
“Longtemps. Ensemble.”
“French?”
“It’s been too long, I’ve forgotten my grammar and many words. Means ‘a long time,’ and then, ‘together.’”
“That’s so sweet.” She looked into his eyes. “We’re proving we were made for each other. We just found out later rather than sooner.”
He let her hand go and grabbed the last piece of bacon and broke it in half. He handed her the big half. “I’ve been alone a long time, María Elena. After all this time together, I think without you I’d be more alone than I’ve ever been.”
She ate the last of the bacon and wiped her hand on a paper napkin. “Another real nice thing to say. I want to be with you, Tommy. For a long time.”
“What about when I get a lot older, maybe fifteen, twenty years?”
“I’ll stay with you like I did this last week.” She beamed at him. “Cubans say cheese, wine and a friend must be old to be good.”
“And when I die and you’re still young enough?”
She shrugged. “Beats me. I’ll mourn you and find somebody else. Or nobody. Nobody can replace you. I don’t want to talk about this stuff.”
“You need to think about it before you get in too deep.”
“That’s your job.” She grinned.
“Somebody’s gonna kill me anyway.” He smiled. “Who ate all the bacon?”
Her return smile was coy.
He held up his hand. “Just to be clear, I am not a father figure to you? You ain’t missing your old man? You gotta be certain about this.”
“Stupid question,” she said angrily.
She saw he realized he’d hit a sore spot.
“You were pretty torn up when they killed your father.”
“Of course! He was my father. He was my mother’s husband.”
“Sorry I hit a nerve,” Tommy said, sitting back.
“No, damn it all, I do not have a father fixation.” She steamed inordinately. “I was obedient to him like any Cuban daughter would be to her father. I did not like a lot of what he did to me, but he was a great Cuban patriot.”
“Did to you? Did he abuse you?”
“Not like you’d think.” She stood and paced. “Hell no, his abuse was the Latin machismo patriarch bull shit. Just for political purposes, he fucked up and married me off when I was eighteen.…” She shut up when she saw the look on his face.
“You’re married?” He stood abruptly, pushing the chair back.
She couldn’t meet his eyes and stared at the floor. She nodded her head.
“Son of a bitch. I figgered you were hiding something. But this.…”
“I’m sorry, Tommy.” Her voice was very low.
“Shit, now I know why you didn’t want to talk about us. All that stuff you just told me was just bull shit.”
“No, Tommy, I.…I’m sorry. I still…”
“You said you were married. That lets out that you’re divorced or widowed?”
“Yes, Tomm
y. I can explain…”
“It don’t fucking matter, María Elena, it don’t fucking matter.” He sat down again. “Jesus shit, here I am pouring my fuckin’ heart out for the first motherfucking time in my whole goddamn life and you’re fucking married?”
“I’m sorry, Tommy.” She sat back down.
“You coulda told me.”
“Yes, Tommy.”
“I never knew what love was, I didn’t. Now I thought I was in love and I was so fucking happy—even though you’re pretty young for me. I’d do anything for you. Like kill bunches of fucking people and I did that thing. I knew you were special back in the ’Glades when you were fighting those assholes. I knew you were my kind of woman when you jumped up and made yourself a diversion for that fucking helicopter and then I saw you under my shower. Hell, I even called you Pocahontas because you were a fucking princess out of nowhere. And princesses are always beautiful. Make that smokin’ hot in your case. Then when I went back to that mall to pick you up, my heart fucking melted. When you chased me down and braced me at the airport in Orlando, I fucking knew you were the one I didn’t fucking know I been waiting for all my life. I wanted you bad, but didn’t want to break something fragile. I just didn’t fucking know that fragile thing would be my fucking heart.” He glared at her. “And more important, I’ve respected you every goddamn minute since the first time I saw you.”
“I’m sorry, Tommy.” She admitted that he’d always been a gentleman to her.
“After all these years, I finally found a woman I could love. My heart opened for the first time ever. And that lasted a full fucking ten hours.” He wiped his nose with a forearm. “When we had sex, were you just scratching an itch?”
