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“No,” she said, firmly. “He’ll be here. And I’m not trying to get you to buy me a drink or anything like that. But I’ve been sitting here alone and—you see those men at the table?”
Castillo nodded.
“They keep looking at me. Like I’m a . . . hooker.”
“Well, you certainly don’t look like a hooker to me.”
“Thank you. Well, will you?”
“Will I what?”
“What Frankie does, all the time, is forget to charge his cell phone,” the brunette said. “So the battery goes dead and he can’t call me. He’s somewhere on I-95 right now, I know—he’s driving up from Washington, D.C., and it’s hard to find a pay phone anywhere anymore, much less on the interstate . . .”
“I would be happy to talk with you until Frankie either gets his batteries charged or shows up, whichever comes first, and would be even happier if you would permit me to buy you a beverage of your choice.”
“I couldn’t let you do that,” the brunette ordered. “But let me treat you!”
She waved at the bartender.
“Give this gentleman another beer,” she said. “My treat.”
“Sir?” the bartender said.
Jesus, he thinks she’s a hooker, too.
Goddammit, I don’t think she is.
“We’ll have another round, but put it on my tab.”
“No, I insist,” the brunette said, firmly.
Charley looked at the bartender, who shrugged.
“Okay. Thank you.”
Fifteen minutes later, as Castillo was finishing his Italian sausage-and-peppers sandwich, a large young man wearing a zippered jacket and a look of gross annoyance marched into the bar and up to them.
Once Betty explained to Frankie what had happened and how nice Mr. Castle here had been to her while she was waiting for him without a telephone call, much—but by no means all—of the look of annoyance left his face.
Betty and Frankie left. Betty said maybe they’d bump into each other sometime, which did not seem to please Frankie very much.
But when Charley asked for the bill, the barman said, “The broad’s boyfriend took care of it.”
Charley tipped the bartender anyway and went to his room, and, after leaving a call for quarter to seven, got in bed and went to sleep wondering what it would be like to really work in the catering end of Rig Service, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Castillo Petroleum, Inc., and maybe meet a nice girl—and Betty was a nice girl—by accident in a bar somewhere and seeing what would develop.
X
[ONE]
Office of the Commanding General United States Central Command MacDill Air Force Base Tampa, Florida 2105 8 June 2005
When General Albert McFadden, USAF, CentCom’s deputy commander, appeared in General Naylor’s office in response to Naylor’s “Right now, please” summons, Lieutenant General George H. Potter, USA, CentCom J-5, was already there.
“I had just bought another bucket of balls,” McFadden announced. “What’s up, Allan?”
General McFadden was wearing a lemon yellow golf shirt and powder blue slacks. General Potter was wearing a translucent Filipino-style shirt-jacket over white shorts. General Naylor was wearing khaki slacks and a gray USMA sweatshirt. Only Command Sergeant Major Wesley Suggins was in uniform.
“Close the door, please, Wes,” General Naylor ordered. “No interruptions.”
