Weapons of choice

The woman's mouth dropped open like a ventriloquist doll. She snapped it shut before anything could fly in.

"Well, I never!"

"Damn," said Natoli, "Did she just say what I thought she said?"

"Yeah," said Julia. "It's like we're living in two-D black and white."

The far-off drone of a hovercraft coming ashore about a kilometer up the beach drifted into the courtyard. Rosanna peered off into the bright morning light. About twenty task force personnel, mainly officers from the Leyte Gulf, had overnighted at the hotel. A few of them had partnered up with locals. Rosanna made a show of checking out a chopper pilot who'd bagged herself a rather dashing destroyer captain from Spruance's task force.

Dan Black returned and laid down a tray of fruit salad, which was very heavy on pineapples, and a plate of bacon and eggs.

"Sorry, ladies," said Black, "But I haven't seen real cackleberries for a while."

"Don't sweat it, sweetie," said Julia. "You need to keep up your strength-"

The comment dropped into one of those unfortunate, unforeseen holes that sometimes develop in conversations and background noise.

Duffy, completely unfazed, simply deadpanned, "-for the war effort."

Blushing lightly, Dan settled himself as the background buzz cycled up to a normal level again.

Music started up from somewhere behind them. The Stones. "Sympathy for the Devil." The bongos that opened the track were a perfect fit with the tropical setting. Julia and Rosanna hardly noticed. They lived in a world where no item of pop culture was allowed to die. Every song, every movie, every cartoon or TV show ever made was important to somebody, which meant that it had to be instantly available, 24/7, virtually anywhere in the world.

Dan Black had not.

Both women noticed the perplexed expression across the table before they noticed the music.

"Is he really singing about the Devil?" asked Dan. "I think he just sung something about the Devil being a German tank driver. Did you hear that? Where's it coming from?"

"A ghetto blaster," said Julia. "Why? You don't like it? That's very disappointing, Dan. You're aren't supposed to come over all Archie Bunker for another twenty years yet."

"It just sounds strange, is all."

"It's the Stones, baby," said Julia. "It's great to fuck to."

Dan nearly choked on a mouthful of egg.

Julia was about to tease him some more when she felt a tap on her shoulder. A long, thin streak of misery in the form of the hotel's assistant manager, Mr. Windshuttle, loomed ever her. He wore a tired expression, which perfectly matched the wilted flower in his jacket lapel. Ignoring the two women, he spoke directly to Black.

"I'm afraid we've had complaints, sir. About the ladies' language and deportment."

Before Black could speak, Julia opened fire.

"Hey, cabana boy, if those old fossils who just shuffled out of here on their way to extinction have a problem, you can send them back in to talk to us."

"I do not imagine that will be happening, Miss Duffy. They are valued guests of the hotel."

Somebody turned up the volume on the Stones. It was like they'd pushed a hot wire up Windshuttle's butt. He winced noticeably.

Black took a swig from his coffee, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and addressed the manager over the music. "I don't think we want another riot, do we, Mr. Windshuttle? And believe me, sir, these ladies are more than capable of it. They're quite mad. I believe Ms. Duffy here is probably packing heat. You can tell by just looking at her that she'd be the sort. Now, if you just back off a little bit, I'll see what I can do about bringing her down from the fine head of psychotic rage I can see building behind her eyes."

Mr. Windshuttle's mouth pursed to form a reasonable facsimile of a cat's anus, and he spun away, storming off in high dudgeon.

The three of them burst out laughing before he was out of earshot.

Dan returned to the Clinton for the rest of day, leaving the women to lounge around the hotel. He thought it would put Julia in a relaxed frame of mind for the dinner with Spruance, but he was wrong. When he returned to the hotel he found her pacing their room like a caged wolf. She was beginning to chafe at the restrictions on her movements.

"This story is going to break, Dan," she said, "and if I want to have any chance at getting my job on the Times, I need to be there on day one."

Dan slipped an arm into the jacket of his dress whites.

"I think you're getting all worked up over nothing, baby. You're the man on the spot, so to speak. They're going to want as much as you can write for them."

"They're going to want to know why I didn't get on the blower to call them right away. That's what they do here. They get on the blower. Right away."

Dan finished buttoning his jacket and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead.

"Nobody is getting on the blower at the moment, baby. So what is it you say? 'Chill out'? You're going to dinner with Admiral Spruance, and there's a story for you right there."