Helen Burke Hollins, Rafe's ex-wife, was spending this quiet afternoon at home.
Ford had to speak loudly over the music. "Hello? HELLO?"
The woman stirred lazily, reached for the drink on the table even before opening her eyes, saying "Come on in, babe—you're way early."
Ford opened the screened door and stepped into the muted sunlight, replying "Rafe's funeral didn't last as long as I thought."
Focusing her eyes, she said, "What?" Then: "Hey!" as she snared the bikini top and pressed it against her breasts, saying "Who the hell invited you in, buddy?"
Ford said, "You did," trying to smile as if embarrassed, averting his eyes. "I didn't realize you were . . . not dressed. I'm really sorry, Helen. I had no idea."
She had the top on now, squirming to get herself placed just so, standing to face Ford. "Who the hell are you, anyway? How do you know my name?"
Ford was still smiling at her—the kindly stranger who had done a dumb thing. He started as if to answer, then said, "Man, Rafe was sure right. You sure are pretty," as if a little in awe. Which was a lie. Helen Hollins had mousy bleached-blond hair, a chubby little-girl face with thin pouty lips beneath the pink lip gloss, a bulb nose, and a thick layer of brown belly fat that rolled over the elastic of her bikini bottoms. From the way Rafe had talked, Ford had expected better. But the lie softened her; he could almost see the hostility drain from her face. She said, "You knew Rafe?"
"Yeah. We were friends back in high school, then we did some work together down in Masagua. I thought I'd stop and see if you needed anything. I thought you might be at the funeral."
"Not goddamn likely." She was back on the lounge chair again, sitting, taking a gulp from the tall glass and shaking a nearly empty pack of cigarettes. "You must not of talked to Rafe lately if you thought I'd be there. We didn't part on what you'd call the best of terms. The bastard. "
Ford said, "Oh. I'm sorry. Rafe always spoke so highly of you. ..."
"That's a laugh."
"Well ... I didn't know. I hadn't seen him in more than two years, then I flew back into town just in time for another friend of ours to tell me about the funeral. It was quite a shock."
Exhaling smoke through her nose, using her thumb to flick at the filter of the cigarette, she said, "What did you say your name was?"
"Rafe used to call me Doc."
"And you worked with him down there in Central America? You know what he did?"
Ford said, "Same thing he did for Sealife Development, right?" Playing it coy, as if he knew the whole story.
That made her snort. "He sure as hell didn't make the kinda money he was making spraying mosquitoes for a bunch of spies."
"Different pay for different payloads, Helen."
"And that's what you do? You fly?"
"No. There's money to be made other ways down there."
She liked that, the inference that he had money; staring at him, her eyes moving from his thighs to his face in appraisal, she began to smile. "Rafe was the type to always pull out the high school yearbook, brag about the good old days. I remember your picture. The handsome one. Rafe used to mention your name. Told me all about the wild things you two did." She let that hang in the air for a moment before adding "He said the girls purely loved you two. Said you had something to offer."
Ford said, "Well, Rafe was always one to exaggerate."
In the long silence that followed, her eyes took on a sloe, sleepy look, never leaving Ford's eyes, and for the first time, Ford could feel more than see what Rafe had meant that morning on the phone.
That's what she does to guys....
A bead of sweat fell from her nose to her chin, then down onto her left breast, and she wiped it away with a slow massaging motion of her right hand. Ford felt a stirring in his abdomen, and he watched her meaty thighs squeeze, then spread slightly as she said, "Hey, I'm not being much of a hostess. Let me get you a drink or something. Gin and tonic? A beer?"
"Tonic and ice would be fine."
She was standing, not bothering to adjust the suit now even though a blood-pink half circle of areola peeked over the thin bikini bra. "You don't look like any Boy Scout to me. Maybe just a splash of gin? Or maybe something you don't put in a glass. "
"No thanks. I've got a long drive ahead of me."
She had a high, girlish laugh. "Long, huh?" and was off across the deck, wide hips swinging on the pendulum of narrow back, thigh fat echoing the impact of bare feet on cement, sliding the glass doors open without closing them behind her.
Ford released his breath, then laughed softly at himself. Loosen your belt, boy, and get some air to your brain.
In his life, Ford had met four, maybe five women who had affected him in exactly the same way; women with that same quality of animal sexuality, a sexuality so strong that it bypassed the conscious fabric of awareness and struck some deep visceral chord. It had little to do with beauty. None of the ones Ford had known had been model material. They had been tall and gawky, lean and sharp, or ripe and doughy like this one, Helen Hollins.
Rafe had said, "She smells like she wants it."
From inside the house, the music changed from heavy metal to mainstream rock as the woman switched stations and lowered the volume, then called out, "Hey, you—Doc. Give me a hand in here."
Ford stepped through the Florida room into the refrigerated chill of air conditioning, his eyes trying to adjust to the darkness. Plush carpet, heavy drapes, the chemical smell of synthetic fiber mixed with the odor of soiled clothes thrown on the couch and coffee table. Suburban decor beneath a layer of dirt. Then she was standing before him with that same sleepy look in her eyes, a bottle of tonic water in her hand, but giving him all her attention. "Can't get the damn thing open."
Ford took the bottle, opened it with an easy twist of the wrist, trying to keep his eyes off her but not succeeding, and she said, "I know—am I cold or just glad to see you?" as she turned, brushing her hand across the front of his pants, and that quick she was in his arms, her mouth on his, stripping off the bikini top as if Ford just couldn't do things fast enough, her nipples sharp, hard projectiles against his shirt. She was whispering "God, laying out there in that sun, with all that oil on me, God, how I need it," but Ford was already pushing her away, holding her by the shoulders, his own sexual wanting replaced by a growing revulsion.
He said, "Rafe said something about a little boy. You sure you have time for this?" hoping that would jolt her out of the mood.
It didn't. "He's gone, babe. Just you and me in this great big house," and she was back in his arms, touching him, touching herself, mouth open . . . but then a banging sound came from outside, the sound of a car door shutting. "Oh, shit, it's Robert!" and she was hurrying to get back into her bikini top. "Hey . . . you—"
Ford interpreted the blank expression. "Doc."
"Yeah, Doc. Why don't you walk on out by the pool, have a seat. I was expecting this friend of mine, only—" She was walking toward the front door, glancing at the small gold watch on her wrist. "—only the shithead's early."
Ford took the bottle of tonic and strolled back to the pool. He could hear the muted conversation coming from inside, then the woman led a man out onto the deck: a tall man, early thirties, with a tennis player's body to match the tennis shorts and sports shirt. Neatly styled brown hair, glasses, bookish face, and a cold look of disinterest until Helen said, "Robert, Doc and Rafe used to work together down there in Central America."
"Oh? Doing what?"
From the screened pool door he was about to open, Ford could see a blue Porsche in the drive. The judge who had railroaded Rafe had driven a Porsche; Judge Robert Alden, if his computer printouts were correct, a sizable stockholder in Sealife Development. Ford decided to take a chance. He said, "We were in the antique business," and got just the forced nonreac-tion he was hoping for.