Sundowner Page 2
Around Rocky, a few of the pilots began to sense what was happening, responding not merely to her physical presence but to the unmistakable tone of command in her voice. Hotel babes didn’t talk like that—indeed, hardly any civilians, men or women—and the kind of people who did were those that junior officers desperately didn’t want to cross.
“I really couldn’t give much of a damn about the rest of you,” she said, “but I won’t have this Hal’s life ruined because his supposed friends were too flaming stupid to know what happens when they get looped. Take him to his room and make sure he stays.” The threat was implied but distinct: there’d be real trouble otherwise, all from her and far more than they could handle.
Now, at last, they took the hint, gathering Rocky into the heart of the group—with those on the periphery drifting off so that its numbers visibly shrank as Nicole watched—and moving back towards the pool area. Rocky was in stalking mode, back a trifle hunched, the movements of his powerful form no longer relaxed. He was upset, equal parts anger and shame.
A hand on her elbow made her jump, automatically twisting into a defensive punch that she only barely managed to abort.
“Jesus!” cried an older man in uniform, his own hands having snapped up in an equally reflexive parry. He was slower, though, and less practiced. They both knew she would have decked him.
“ ‘Jesus’ yourself, Julio,” she responded, a small shudder of residual startlement in her voice.
“I saw you in trouble, Cap’n,” the security guard said, “thought you might need a backup.”
“Appreciate it. How rowdy do these boys get?”
“Ain’t just guys, c’mon, ma’am, give our sex a break. Some’a those flygals can put on a pretty rude display themselves.”
“That we can,” she conceded. It wasn’t so much a man thing or a woman thing, but a pilot thing. An astronaut thing. And at the peak of the pyramid, a starship driver thing.
She couldn’t help looking up, ignoring the Moon—where she still had quarters, her home when duty took her all the way up the gravity well—for the few stars visible through the background clutter glare of downtown San Diego.
“You okay, Cap’n?” Julio asked gently, bouncing her out of her reverie. “You were standing there awhile.”
“Just thinking, Julio,”—About what I’ve missed, she finished to herself—“sorry.”
They strolled along the promenade to the yacht club gate, open wide enough for people to pass single file, with Julio’s partner blocking the way. Julio—senior man on the shift, with an easy authority that came from twenty years with the city PD—gave him a quick update, then took his partner’s cellular phone for a call to the local precinct. Not exactly calling in the cavalry, not officially anyway; just a conversation between old friends and former colleagues, meant to prompt a cautionary visit to the hotel in hopes that would be enough to cool down the night’s festivities.
Nicole waved farewell and made her way up the walk to the club. She wasn’t properly dressed—faded baggies over a one-piece swimsuit, with a long-sleeved pullover against the evening waterfront chill and boating sneaks that had long ago seen their best days—but after a day on the ocean clothes were the least of her concerns. Shower first, she decided, perhaps a soak in the Club’s pool, to restore her to a fit state to be seen in public.
When she came upstairs, a half hour later, she’d changed as completely as was possible for her, into a sleeveless cotton sundress that left her tanned arms bare but covered her legs to midcalf. The skirt was full and loose to allow her a full range of movement. She hated the current tighter-than-skin fashions that left nothing about the body to the imagination and hobbled a woman, forcing her to walk in mincing little steps. She had her pullover slung across her shoulders, sleeves tied across her front, and had switched her sneaks for sandals. Nothing much she could do for her hair, it was short enough to have a mind of its own, even under an onslaught of mousse and hairspray.
She was intent on the dining room for a bite—it was in the tub that she suddenly came to the belated realization that she was starving—when a burst of conversation drew her the other way, toward one of the smaller private rooms just off the lounge. Another thing she’d forgotten. Poker night.
She ordered a burger and a beer while a place was made for her at the table. There was a new face opposite, the man rising politely to shake her extended hand.
“Bill Hobby,” he said.
“Nicole,” her reply, and then, to the others, “Sorry I’m late. To be honest, I think I lost track of the day as well as the time.”
“Not hard to do,” noted Reg Wallinski—who liked to say he tolerated the never-ending aggravation of a six-figure law practice because it allowed him the freedom to maintain a top-class race boat—“with a charmer like yours, Nikki.” She hated the nickname, which was why he used it, always the cutthroat when it came to finding and exploiting an edge.
“There’s a pool, you know.” Larry Rodriguez, as elegant in appearance as Reg affected blue-collar, with manners to match. He was Navy, commanding officer of a nuclear cruiser that was part of one of the two carrier battle groups home-ported here. “As to when you’ll sail out and never come back.”
“That’s a vote of confidence.” This was from Hobby, who was watching her.
Nicole sipped her beer and gave back as good a look as she got. Hobby was her height—average for a man where she was tall for a woman—with a physique that bespoke an athletic life. Square, solid features, the kind of bone structure that appeared put together by a craftsman rather than an artist. Within the broad parameters of handsome but nothing special. Alex Cobri, he had been one of a kind, a designer original in every respect. His was the kind of face and figure women dream of—at least Nicole dreamed of, probably more often (even these days) than was good for her—whereas Hobby was the kind they married. A distinctly African cast to his face, his dark skin fairly weathered, with a thicket of lines around the eyes that reminded Nicole of the ones she saw reflected in her own mirror. Stock in trade, and the cost, of a life in the air. She also had a sense that he enjoyed to laugh. His hair was close-cropped, a carpet of tightly curled salt and pepper. Academy ring marked him as Navy, like Larry, who was picking up on what Hobby and Reg were saying.
“Not like that, Bill. This isn’t about Nicole getting into trouble. Good as she is, the way that boat’s rigged... ”
“Gimme a break, Larry,” she protested.
“We just figure the day’ll come when she’ll want to see what lies beyond the sunset.”
“Sailing an avocation then,” Hobby asked, “not your occupation?”
“Just a hobby.” She smiled. “Is this a game, gentlemen, or what?”
She couldn’t relax in her chair, and indeed didn’t much try to. The confrontation out on the promenade was still very much a part of her; she’d been so blitzed by her day on the ocean she hadn’t really been able to control her response. Her body had reacted of its own accord, following training that went back to her first flight on Wanderer—and the seemingly never-ending hours of practice duels with the spacecraft’s Law Officer, Federal Marshal Ben Ciari—and instincts she’d possessed her whole life. She’d sized up the situation and dealt with it, in a Zen state that made her totally one with the moment, her conscious self along for the ride.
Much the same was happening now. It was as though she were flying a combat patrol, events occurring with such speed and complexity that taking the time to actually think about them was sheer, simple suicide. All the work—processing of input, formulation of response—was taking place a couple of levels below full awareness, so that there was no discernible lag between conception and execution.
She’d been playing with everyone here—save Hobby, of course—for nearly as long as she’d been a member. Good times and bad, some games sport, others deadly serious, evenings when they drew cards like bandits and others when they seemed not to care how much they lost. All the moods she’d seen, she’d shared.
Each man she assessed in turn, knowing with that glance their state of mind, the level of interest they brought to the table, which were credible players and which were goofing. And when the cards came, she knew exactly what to do with them.
By the time the deck had made its first circuit around the table, she’d won a small hand, folded three, lost three—once after pushing the bets to the limit. Two of those she’d quit had been won by Hobby, the unknown quantity and, she was starting to suspect, the closest in skill to herself.
She excused herself to the ladies’ room when Reg called a break, filled the sink with cold water and dunked her face. No shakes when she lifted back up to reach for a towel. Scary how calm she was. More so perhaps because of the raw intensity of her anger. She was eager for what was to come, part of her regretting that none of the crowd on the promenade had struck the spark that would have ignited a fight. She was as good a pilot as they, with kudos in her personnel jacket they couldn’t hope to match. Hell, the fact that the Halyan’t’a had made it to Earth at all—much less that the First Contact had gone successfully—was due in large measure to her. Yet they all had starship berths, and she was still stuck on the ground.
Someone was going to bleed for that.
Second round, three wins, four folds—twice before they’d gotten anywhere near serious bets.
“You active service, Bill?” she asked Hobby as he dealt a six of clubs to complement the pair of sixes she had hidden. Starting off with three of a kind, not bad.
“Not so’s you’d notice,” Larry answered with a laugh, “not the last couple of months.”
“It’s my design, for Heaven’s sake,” Hobby protested, in the same good humor, “of course, I’m going to have a hand in the sea trials.”
Seven of clubs, she raised once, then asked, “You don’t mean that magnificent piece of work parked next door, do you?”
“One and the same,” Larry said proudly, raising her right back on the basis of a royal pair he had showing. She knew he was bluffing, but all she did was match him.
“I nearly fell over when I saw it on radar.”
“She can do better,” Hobby said. “This close inshore, I decided to hold her back.”
“How’s her stability in the open ocean, in any kind of serious sea? Any problems with the propulsion system?”
“Better by far than you’d think to look at her. The Hal aren’t much for open-water cruising... ”
That isn’t the half of it, Nicole thought, they don’t sail at all.
And Nicole had a sudden flash of memory that put her atop the Memorial Mount on s’N’dare, the Hal homeworld, overlooking T’nquail, the Great Western Ocean. Her eyes were open but what she saw before her wasn’t the poker table; instead, a vast expanse of shoreline stretched away to the north, under a sky accented in warmer hues than Earth’s comfortably familiar blue. Sweeter air, as thick with salt as what she’d smell from the porch of her parents’ Nantucket home. In the near distance, disturbingly close to shore, where pale shallows abruptly gave way to the darker cobalt that signified deep water, a huge, streamlined shape broached the surface, body arcing almost completely into view—like a Terrestrial orca or a dolphin—before disappearing without a splash. Behind the body trailed a network of great tentacles and when they struck, the water exploded into froth as though struck by an artillery shell. A lot of teeth in that head, Nicole remembered, and an appetite to match, a combination the Hal had long ago learned to respect. Top of the food chain, as dominant a predator in its own environment as the Hal were on land.
Nicole wondered how much of her own world’s history would have had to be rewritten if only the great cetaceans had been as aggressively territorial.
“ ...but the principles they’ve evolved of aerodynamic design,” Hobby continued, as Nicole’s awareness returned belatedly to what he was saying, and to the game, “can be applied just as effectively to naval architecture. Basically, it’s doing the same with a boat that NASA’s been doing up at Edwards with that advanced shuttle project. Taking the best of both worlds and trying for a whole greater than the sum of the parts.”
True enough, as Nicole knew better than most since she’d been Project Manager on the shuttle virtually from its inception.
Eight of diamonds, busting her potential flush but still building a straight. She bet as though that was what she had, figuring Reg held two pair and Larry was aiming for a flush of his own. Hobby was the unknown quantity, with nothing coherent showing among his face cards, yet the mix gave him a considerable potential depending on what was hidden.
Two folds came this round, as the betting turned a trifle rich for some of the others present. Her last up card was a nine, four to a straight. A dangerous moment. If she didn’t fill out the straight, she still had trip sixes, three of a kind. Enough to beat Reg, if all he had was two pair, which she was certain was the case even though he was betting as if he held a full house. The faintest of tightness about the lips, the way he held his hands close to his cards, gave him away; barring a miracle, what he had was as good as he was going to get. Larry, however, had his flush and wasn’t about to be chased by anybody’s bluff. Hobby was pure ice, as cold as he was unfathomable.
Over the past few hours, Nicole had been gathering a sense of the man, gotten to know the way he thought. Just as he had been doing with her. The trick was, who had come up with the more accurate assessment and who could put it to best use?
Reg had the dominant cards showing, so he led off the bets. By checking. Hobby checked as well, leaving Larry the honor of the first bet. Nicole hadn’t looked at her card yet, she kept her eyes on Hobby—the others, as far as she was concerned, were irrelevant—and moved some chips to the center of the table. Reg shook his head disgustedly and threw down his cards, finally bowing to the inevitable. Larry’s features tensed ever so slightly as Hobby saw Nicole’s bet and raised it; he merely saw the bet. Nicole took a cursory glance at her final card and raised Hobby right back, to the limit. Now, the man grinned as his friend breathed a stunned and painful “Jesus!”
And matched her bet. Larry did the same. She was called.
She flipped over the last card, a six. And then her hidden pair of sixes, dealt at the start of the game. With the six already showing, she had four of a kind.
“Jesus!” Larry said again, more audibly now with feeling to match.
“Very good,” Hobby conceded ruefully as she pulled the pile of chips towards her.
“I have my moments,” she said, matching his predatory smile with one of her own, while thinking, And the best, chum, is yet to come.
By the time the cards came around to her for a deal, the table was down to herself, Hobby, Larry, and Reg, and everyone sensed this would be the last hand. There were no gifts for her in the deal this time, just an abstract scattering of cards that had potential. The others were deferring to her, keying their own play off hers. She obliged by pushing much the way she had earlier when building the straight, creating the deliberate impression that she had far more than met the eye. And because the last few times she’d followed that pattern, such had been precisely the case, the others quickly became seriously gun-shy. Larry was the first to go, when Hobby drew the third card to a flush, and Reg a card later, when Hobby got the fourth. It was essentially the reverse of the other game. Hobby with a strong hand showing, Nicole with seemingly nothing. He thought, long and hard, before he bet; she responded without a moment’s hesitation. The contrast couldn’t have been more striking. A crowd had gathered but Nicole ignored both the people and t
he commentary swirling about her, focused entirely on the man opposite. It had been a long time since she’d felt so relaxed, so totally one with the moment. She had no doubts, because she knew she was going to win.
Hobby sensed that confidence and it sparked in him a tiny smidgen of doubt. He looked at the cards, looked at the pot, looked at the pile of chips remaining in front of Nicole and finally at his own. At best, this game would hurt; at worst, it could get bloody. And he couldn’t help the question, was it worth the effort?
Nicole sensed that inner exchange and permitted herself the tiniest of smiles, barely a quirk at the corner of her mouth. Whatever happened with the cards, in the way that mattered she had already won the game.
Hobby caught the smile, and when he stepped back inside himself and looked over the last minute or so, he also realized what had just happened.
He flipped his cards. She’d won.
“That was a bluff, wasn’t it?” Reg demanded incredulously. “You didn’t have shit.”
But she’d already mixed her cards in with the whole of the deck; the winner didn’t have to show her hand if the opposition folded. Better by far to leave everyone guessing. Give her an edge next time.
“I told you she was a cutthroat,” Larry said with a laugh, clapping Hobby on the shoulder.
“To see is to believe, compadre. Nicole”—he held a hand across the table—“that was most impressive. I can’t remember when I’ve had as enjoyable—albeit expensive—an evening.”
She took his hand with a gracious nod of the head, then called out to the club steward who’d been looking after them all evening.
“Put all the damage on my account, Luis, okay?” She meant the evening’s expenses of food and drink. In the same gesture, she indicated the chips she’d won. “And would you make sure these get credited?”
“With pleasure, Ms. Shea.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hobby protested. “I thought this was dutch.”
“Most nights, it is,” she conceded, “but big winners always pick up the tab. This is a friendly game, we’re not out for blood.”