them. The men looked at each other sheepishly.
“Someone on the upper floor has turned on a light,” Heinemann said. “We are jumpy, my friend.”
“It must be Connie,” Hooker said. “Our rooms are directly above the bar.”
The light on the shrubbery outside dimmed as the shade was pulled down in the upstairs window.
After a moment, Heinemann said, “Speaking of Connie, is there anything happening with you two yet?”
“We’re just pals.”
“I see.”
“When you say ‘I see’ in that tone of voice, I don’t think you see.”
“We’ll see.”
“Cut it out.”
Heinemann massaged his cheek with the smooth bowl of the briar. “The weather does not smell good for tomorrow. There is rain nearby.”
“How will that affect us?”
The German shrugged. “Very little. It will only make an extremely difficult task impossible.”
“You don’t think there’s much chance of finding the plane.”
Heinemann sucked on the cold pipe and shook his head. “Do you?”
“No,” Hooker admitted. “I’m even starting to feel guilty about taking the lady’s money.”
“We both know that was not your primary reason for coming,” Heinemann said.
“We do?”
“You had some idea you might learn the fate of your friend Kaplan.”
“That’s a big part of it,” Hooker said. “This may be the only chance I’ll have to find out what happened to him. You didn’t know Buzz, did you?”
“Not well. We met once or twice but never really became acquainted. Was he not some sort of radical?”
“We never talked politics.”
“Do you
ever
talk politics, Hooker?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“You would seem to be an ideal candidate for extremism.”
“Why? Because I got pushed around a little? Hell, everybody has problems. I’ll handle mine and let the rest of the world go with any
ism
they want to.”
“Maybe you would feel differently had you seen what I saw in Germany.”
“Maybe,” Hooker said, “but I doubt it.”
“The uninvolved man,” Heinemann said.
“That’s me.”
• • •
Upstairs in her room, Connie Braithwaite took a look at herself in the inadequate mirror over the bureau. She was wearing a blue silk nightgown that clung nicely to her body. A damn shame there wasn’t somebody there to see it, she thought. Somebody like John Hooker? a mocking voice asked. Hell no, she told the voice. What could she possibly see in that renegade smuggler, or whatever he was? Him with his shaggy haircut and perpetual five-o’clock shadow.
She snapped off the room’s single lamp and got into bed. All right, so maybe she was thinking about Hooker. He
was
damn good-looking, if you liked the type. Probably knew his way around a bedroom, too, from the satisfied look of the Mexican girl who came sashaying through the bead curtain in his apartment.
The sheets on the hotel bed were not as finely woven as Connie was used to. They had a stiff, crackly feel. But they were clean. They smelled of strong laundry soap. Connie closed her eyes. She pulled up the silk nightgown and touched herself. She thought about fucking. There hadn’t been any since Nolan’s disappearance, and precious little before that. Nolan Braithwaite had been an ardent lover when they were first married, but face it, he was fifty then, and he probably tried too hard. Whatever the reason, the fucking slacked off in a hurry.
She pushed the disloyal thoughts of her husband away but left her hand where it was. Connie had never been what the boys called a sexpot despite the way she looked. Nevertheless, she had a healthy appetite, and it had been a long time between fucks. Much too long.
A dreaminess crept over her as she massaged herself gently between the legs. Her lips formed a smile.
What was that?
A soft scratching sound came from out of the darkness of her room. Connie’s eyes snapped open. Had there been a strip of pale light down the wall just then, as though someone had eased the door closed?
She held her
“Someone on the upper floor has turned on a light,” Heinemann said. “We are jumpy, my friend.”
“It must be Connie,” Hooker said. “Our rooms are directly above the bar.”
The light on the shrubbery outside dimmed as the shade was pulled down in the upstairs window.
After a moment, Heinemann said, “Speaking of Connie, is there anything happening with you two yet?”
“We’re just pals.”
“I see.”
“When you say ‘I see’ in that tone of voice, I don’t think you see.”
“We’ll see.”
“Cut it out.”
Heinemann massaged his cheek with the smooth bowl of the briar. “The weather does not smell good for tomorrow. There is rain nearby.”
“How will that affect us?”
The German shrugged. “Very little. It will only make an extremely difficult task impossible.”
“You don’t think there’s much chance of finding the plane.”
Heinemann sucked on the cold pipe and shook his head. “Do you?”
“No,” Hooker admitted. “I’m even starting to feel guilty about taking the lady’s money.”
“We both know that was not your primary reason for coming,” Heinemann said.
“We do?”
“You had some idea you might learn the fate of your friend Kaplan.”
“That’s a big part of it,” Hooker said. “This may be the only chance I’ll have to find out what happened to him. You didn’t know Buzz, did you?”
“Not well. We met once or twice but never really became acquainted. Was he not some sort of radical?”
“We never talked politics.”
“Do you
ever
talk politics, Hooker?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“You would seem to be an ideal candidate for extremism.”
“Why? Because I got pushed around a little? Hell, everybody has problems. I’ll handle mine and let the rest of the world go with any
ism
they want to.”
“Maybe you would feel differently had you seen what I saw in Germany.”
“Maybe,” Hooker said, “but I doubt it.”
“The uninvolved man,” Heinemann said.
“That’s me.”
• • •
Upstairs in her room, Connie Braithwaite took a look at herself in the inadequate mirror over the bureau. She was wearing a blue silk nightgown that clung nicely to her body. A damn shame there wasn’t somebody there to see it, she thought. Somebody like John Hooker? a mocking voice asked. Hell no, she told the voice. What could she possibly see in that renegade smuggler, or whatever he was? Him with his shaggy haircut and perpetual five-o’clock shadow.
She snapped off the room’s single lamp and got into bed. All right, so maybe she was thinking about Hooker. He
was
damn good-looking, if you liked the type. Probably knew his way around a bedroom, too, from the satisfied look of the Mexican girl who came sashaying through the bead curtain in his apartment.
The sheets on the hotel bed were not as finely woven as Connie was used to. They had a stiff, crackly feel. But they were clean. They smelled of strong laundry soap. Connie closed her eyes. She pulled up the silk nightgown and touched herself. She thought about fucking. There hadn’t been any since Nolan’s disappearance, and precious little before that. Nolan Braithwaite had been an ardent lover when they were first married, but face it, he was fifty then, and he probably tried too hard. Whatever the reason, the fucking slacked off in a hurry.
She pushed the disloyal thoughts of her husband away but left her hand where it was. Connie had never been what the boys called a sexpot despite the way she looked. Nevertheless, she had a healthy appetite, and it had been a long time between fucks. Much too long.
A dreaminess crept over her as she massaged herself gently between the legs. Her lips formed a smile.
What was that?
A soft scratching sound came from out of the darkness of her room. Connie’s eyes snapped open. Had there been a strip of pale light down the wall just then, as though someone had eased the door closed?
She held her
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