“You’ve read it?”
“Oh, yeah. Years ago, but it sticks with you.”
She brushed back her hair. “What do you mean ‘at least they had a conscience’?”
Charlie finished wiping himself off. He sat on the side of his chair. “Ever hear of Alfred Packer? There’s a cafeteria named after him at the University of Colorado.”
“No.” She drew her legs up, but seemed interested.
“Talk about macabre. Packer was a guide in the Rockies, took a group up in the fall and got caught in a snowstorm. That spring, he was the only one who made it back from the mountains.” Charlie paused. “They later discovered he had murdered, then eaten, everyone in his party to stay alive. At least those soccer players in your book knew that what they were doing was morally repugnant when they were forced to resort to cannibalism. Packer didn’t hesitate to commit murder, much less eat the people.”
She shivered. “So what’s a pilot doing reading stuff like that? Ever afraid you’ll make your friends uneasy?”
Charlie grinned. “I’m not a pilot.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Really. And by the way, I’m Charlie.”
“Nanette.”
When he shook her hand, it took all his strength to let go.
Chapter 6
A monkey-wood sign hung over the Officers’ Club main entrance. The sign pointed to pizza at the left and rathskeller to the right; muffled yelling and whistles came from the right. Bruce, Catman, and Robin turned toward the Rathskeller.
As they approached the door, Bruce heard methodic banging and thuds coming from inside. He cautiously opened the door.…
… and instantly pulled back as a beer bottled whizzed past his head. A female laughed, then shrieked as two men plopped her on top of a table. Music blared from speakers set throughout the room; not new music, but really old, solid rock classics, the type of songs that had been popular before Bruce was even born: Van Halen, 38 Special, Rush, Boston. It marked a fighter pilot hangout, keeping with the hard-driving songs.
They eased themselves into the room and made sure the door was closed behind them. There was little cigarette smoke in the air. In front of them a group of fighter pilots gulped “afterburners”—flaming concoctions of Wild Turkey and crème de menthe, ignited with a match.
Besides the girl on the table, two scantily clad females gyrated at the front of the room on a small stage. They wore cowboy attire — chaps, a frilly shoulder throw, and cowboy hats — but that’s where the resemblance to cowgirls stopped. Black bikinis made up the rest of the Western outfit.
A long bar ran across the opposite wall, with four bartenders keeping busy filling pitchers of beer and mixing “afterburners.”
Catman shouted into Bruce’s ear over the music, “I feel right at home! We could still be at Luke, if I didn’t know better!”
Bruce nodded tightly as he surveyed the place. Yeah, he thought, back at Luke. The sudden memory of Ashley raced through his head. She was behind the bar, her golden hair flying as she poured the drinks; her job as a bartender pulled in that extra money so they could jet off to Aruba, Mazatlan, or some other exotic place for an extended weekend. Bruce’s hours were always changing, and at first her job had given them a chance to be together during the days when he didn’t have to fly.
It had seemed perfect back then, and it was a real kick to watch the face of a senior officer’s wife when she learned that Mrs. Bruce Steele not only didn’t belong to the Officers’ Wives’ Club but was a bartender as well.
Robin waved them over to a table. Commandeering a waiter, he shouted over the noise, “San Miguel?”
“You got it.” Bruce and Catman elbowed their way through the crowd.
Catman stacked another beer bottle on top of the pyramid growing in the center of the table. Charlie had joined them but didn’t say a word.
Bruce sipped his beer. The alcohol gave him back that nice warm glow. He knew that tomorrow morning his head would ache, his breath would smell, and he’d be passing gas like crazy, but at least he felt good now.
He looked at Charlie and said, “Seems there’s never enough time for the simple things in life, anymore. Things are moving too fast, changing all the time.” He looked wistful. “Even finding a girl who believes in relaxing — you know, stuff like holding hands, going for walks. Simple things, just spending time together.”
Charlie stared into his drink.
Bruce took another pull on his beer. “I remember when Ashley and I were first married — just out of the Academy, roaring through Texas to Del Rio for pilot training. We didn’t have much money then. She didn’t have a job and man, were we stretching the paycheck. Even buying a malt was a big decision. We used pillowcases stuffed with laundry until we could scrape enough money together to buy a pillow.” Bruce glanced at Charlie. His backseater still had his head down.
“Hey, you s’all right?” Bruce gave his backseater a playful push. Damn, Charlie was a nice guy.
Charlie looked up and smiled slightly. “I’m fine,” he whispered.
Bruce nodded. “Great. You know, sometimes I wished there’d be more simple things like that in life to enjoy. After leaving Del Rio, Ashley and I never had the time — maybe that’s why things didn’t work out.” He gripped his bottle tightly and blinked. The events of the day seemed to be catching up with him, welling up his emotions.…
Charlie said quietly, “Does she still mean something to you?”
Bruce shook his head, scared to say anything, afraid that his voice would crack. How can losing your wife not affect you? If it had been anything he had done, something that he could have changed to make her stay … but it had been totally out of his control. And especially with what she had done …
Bruce wiped his eye with the back of his hand. He spoke in a low voice. “She would never go for a walk. She was always into keeping busy, buying the fastest car, eating the most expensive food. I guess I never thought that her working as a bartender would hurt — you know, bringing in the extra money and all. It … it probably doesn’t explain what she did.…” His voice trailed off.
Charlie leaned against the bar. “What about your dad? Does he still mean something to you?”
Bruce finished his beer without answering. Things were starting to get hazy. He’d had plenty to drink, and if he didn’t get a handle on things he’d be crying in his beer all night.
Charlie persisted. “Well, are you going to see him?”
“Someday. Sure, why not. Hell, he’s stationed at Subic. We were only five minutes away when we were flying this morning, Charlie. Maybe I’ll get down there after Survival School.”
A voice interrupted him. “Excuse me.”
Two men in flight suits slid in next to the bar. One came very close to pushing Bruce out of his seat; the other plopped down on a free stool.
Bruce opened his mouth to retort when he saw the patch on the men’s shoulders. “Rotorheads! You guys in Rescue?”
“That’s a rog.”
Bruce leaned over to shake their hands. “How ya’ll doing? I’m Bruce Steele, and this chucklehead is Charlie Fargassa. Assassin and Foggy.” The helicopter pilots returned the handshakes.
“Richard Head.”
“Bob Gould.”
Bruce stood, wavered slightly, then offered Head his stool. “Go ahead. I’ve been sitting all night. You guys want a drink?”
“Sure.”
Bruce motioned with his hands to the bartender. “Hey, include these gentlemen with the round.” The presence of the chopper pilots brightened Bruce’s mood, pulling him out of his funk. “So how long have you been here?”