Hawke

45

Gomez was sitting cross-legged behind the PX bar in total darkness. He was on the floor, a half-empty bottle of Stoli in one hand, his little pal RC in the other.

Any snoopy MPs who happen to walk by and peek in the windows, they wouldn’t see nothing.

Mesmerized by the little red numbers on RC, reading 3000 now but not for long, he barely even noticed the sickly sweet smell of old spilled beer and booze or how grunged out the sticky floor was. He’d take a breath, though, and man, it was ripe. Like a skunk had taken a whiz back here.

He took another biting swig of warm Stoli.

Hell, he’d gotten shitfaced in a whole lot worse places than this! Besides his little sidekick RC, the only light came from a round fluorescent green clock on the wall. He could see it perfectly from right where he was sitting. Keeping track of time, man, that was critical at this juncture.

In between sips of Stoli, he was very busy, going over the Big Plan. In his mind, of course. Nothing written down. To make sure he had the BP down pat, he was reciting the steps aloud to himself over and over.

First thing, you press both buttons on RC at the stroke of twelve midnight. Keep an eye on the clock. That’s why he’d strategically placed himself behind the bar so that he was hidden, but could still see the dock.

Okay, fifteen seconds after the Big Bug Checkout Countdown begins, his pecker starts ringing. Heh-heh. No, no, he gets a call on his cell phone fifteen seconds after he pushes the buttons. He felt around down in his crotch area. Yep. Cell phone was right where he’d stuffed it. Not a lot of room down there where the big dog hangs, baby, whoo-ah!

Yes. Okay. Phone rings, he answers it. What does he say? Um, shit. What did Julio tell him to say? Roach Motel! Yes! He got it! He knocks back another biting shot of room-temperature Vitamin V as a reward. He practices:

“Roach Motel?”

And then the guy on the phone says … what … “Any vacancies?”

And he answers … lemme see … “No, no vacancies, not for thirty hours!”

Yeah, baby. He had the mother down cold!

Then what?

Oh yeah. He takes his little buddy RC and heads over to Sparky’s tower station right on the no-man’s-land fenceline. Gets Sparky to let him through. Then, if Sparky ain’t on duty he—holy shit! The green fluorescent ring around the clock had caught his eye. He couldn’t goddamn believe it!

The clock said it was twelve-fifteen!

He’d missed his goddamn deadline by fifteen minutes! Jesus. Sitting here thinking and drinking and what’s he do? Just misses the most important deadline of his whole stinking life, that’s all. Oh, man. Now what?

A million little green smackeroos sprout wings and fly somewhere over the rainbow, that’s what.

Tears are streaming down his face as he gets slowly to his feet. Puts RC and the Stoli on the bar and wipes his eyes. All his life he’d thought he was so smart. And now he has to face the truth. He is just a dumbass gusano from Little Havana and he always had been.

He walked around the bar and pulled up a stool.

He’d kept his eye on that friggin’ clock up there, he really had, and now he’d gone and—wait a minute. Hold the goddamn phone!

Now the clock says eleven forty-five! What the—oh, man. He was losing it. Almost. Sitting behind the bar, he’d been looking at the clock in the mirror! It said twelve-fifteen in the mirror. That was only the reflection. It was eleven forty-five in real life! He was okay! He was cool! He had fifteen whole minutes left! He was going to—ouch, there was a light shining in his eyes. He whipped around.

Somebody was shining a couple of flashlights through the windows at the front of the PX, rattling the front doors. Had they seen him?

MPs, had to be. Great timing, guys, really great, thanks a million, no pun intended.

He grabbed the Stoli and RC, ran back behind the bar, and dropped to his knees. He had to boogie on out of here but quick. He crab-walked the length of the bar and quickly reached the back door he’d jimmied open on the way in.

Two seconds later he was sprinting through the swirling curtains of rain toward his car. There was a Humvee pulled up right behind it, blue lights flashing. Goddamn. He looked back over his shoulder at the PX. Saw two lights flickering around inside. By the time those dumbass cops found the back door broken open, he’d be adiуs amigo.

He opened his car door and tossed the Stoli and the RC on the front seat. Then he jumped behind the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition.

Aw shit, not now. Piece of crap Yugo, come on! Start, goddammit! Rain must have blown up under the distributor cap, that was it. Of all the times to—wait. Better idea.

He grabbed his bottle and RC, jumped out of his car, and ran back to the MP’s Hummer. Keys were in! Yes! There was a God!

He slammed the Humvee in gear, reversed, and saw the two flashlights bobbing through the rain, headed his way. Going to try and cut him off. No way, girls. He bounced back over the curb, put it in first, and stood on it, swerving up onto the grass, then back down the service driveway to the main drag, hauling complete ass. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes to midnight. He hung a Louie and headed for Sparky’s watch tower, looking in the rearview.

Careening around the corner on two wheels, he was mystified to see another Humvee with its blue flashers going, blocking the street. Jesus H. Christ! He hit the brakes, skidded short of the two MPs standing there, and slammed it into reverse, knocking over some guy’s arty-farty mailbox. Shit happens, neighbors.

Well, now, goddamn it all to hell. Here came the two Keystone Kops from the PX, ru

The two MPs in front stayed put. Hands on their sidearms, tough guys, watching too many episodes of JAG lately.

He craned his neck around and saw the two dickwads behind him coming toward his car. One guy stayed at the rear on the passenger side, the other one walked slowly up to his window. He rolled it down, nice and polite like, shoving the Stoli bottle under the seat with his right hand. He’d like to hide RC, but here was the guy shining some bright light right in his damn window.

Five minutes. He felt the Vitamin V pumping hot in his veins. Hell, any fool could stay cool for five more goddamn minutes.

“How we doin’ tonight, sailor?” the MP said.

“Just fine,” he said, giving the guy a big smile. He couldn’t even see the guy’s face, the light was so bright.

“What exactly you doing in the PX on a rainy Sunday night, sailor?”

“Just having a little drinky-poo, sir,” he giggled. That’s what Rita called cocktails when she was at somebody’s house for di

“Had quite a few, I’d say. Seein’ as how you picked somebody else’s vehicle to drive home in.”

“No, sir, I have not been drinking quite a few. Only had one, sir. My vehicle wouldn’t start is all.”

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Yes, sir!” He’d been trying to slide RC out of the guy’s sight.

“What the hell is that thing?”

“That’d be your portable CD player, sir,” he said. Damn quick, too.

“Okay, very carefully, get your service ID out and hand it to me.”

“Yes, sir. It’s in the pantleg pocket of my fatigues. Right where I always keep it. ’Cause of the Velcro, you know. Okay?”

“Just show me the goddam

He reached down and ripped open the Velcro seal on his pocket. Pulled out his ID packet. An open pack of Rita’s cigarettes came flying out, too, cigarettes spilling all over the floor. What the hell? Oh. She liked to wear his fatigues sometimes, when she went riding. So, that’s where she’d been hiding them! She was going to get an ass-whupping for that all right!