28

The Admiral made no effort to hide his irritation. “You’re supposed to put your foot down on the brake, not the gas pedal, when the light turns orange,” he said dryly. “Jesus, where did you learn to drive?”

Huxstep took a quick look at his watch and concentrated on the road.

Toothacher wrinkled up his incredibly Roman nose in displeasure. “For a couple of quarters there are places where you can vacuum a car,” he remarked. “You wouldn’t be out of pocket. You could pass it off as an extra toll and get reimbursed. Wanamaker would never know the difference.”

Huxstep turned onto the unmarked road that ran parallel to the airport’s perimeter. “Another thing,” the Admiral said. “The story you gave Wanamaker about the Weeder bashing Mildred with a wrench seemed pretty farfetched. Couldn’t you have thought up something slightly more”-he racked his brain for the right word -”plausible?”

That was too much for Huxstep. “I would like to respectfully point out that the Admiral has been in the car forty-five fucking minutes and he has so far managed to complain about everything under the sun including my driving and my vacuuming and the story I made up to explain to the dumbest fucking agent in the entire United States of America intelligence establishment why one of his lady employees won’t be showing the half of her face you could see under that veil at the office no more.”

“One thing I’ve noticed,” the Admiral said sweetly, “is that your sentence structure doesn’t improve with time.”

Huxstep snorted, tucked the stray hairs that appeared back up into his nostrils with delicate clockwise thrusts of his thick pinky.

The Admiral closed his eyes in pain.

Huxstep turned off the road at the gate in the chain link fence guarded by a squad of Marines in full battle dress. An officer checked his laminated pass and saluted. The enlisted men dragged open the gate and waved the car through. The shuttle to Guantánamo stood at the bitter end of a runway, its engines revving. Huxstep pulled up near the portable steps. A seaman deuce wrestled the Admiral’s two Vuitton suitcases up the steps and into the plane. Huxstep came around and opened the door for the Admiral.

Stepping out onto the tarmac, Toothacher feigned surprise. “Well, that’s a new arrow in your quiver,” he yelled over the whine of the jet engines. “I’m not accustomed to you holding open doors.”

Huxstep yelled back, “Fuck the Admiral.”

“Teh, tch,” cooed Toothacher. He caught Huxstep’s eye and batted both of his lids at him in a conspiratorial double wink.

Huxstep melted. “It won’t be the same around here without the Admiral,” he shouted awkwardly.

“Me too,” Toothacher agreed. “The idea of happy hours at Guantánamo without you to run interference doesn’t thrill me.”

Huxstep angled his head away so the Admiral wouldn’t see the mist in his eyes. “You can’t say I didn’t go and prove it,” he yelled.

“Prove what?”

“That I”-Huxstep took a deep breath to work up his nerve and screamed-”love the Admiral more than numbers.”

Toothacher nodded emphatically. “You did,” he shouted. “You do-I know it.”

Huxstep buried the Admiral’s hand between both of his and squeezed it, then turned quickly and fled back to the safety of his car. Toothacher organized the various limbs of his lanky body so that they would function more or less harmoniously and ambled up the portable steps toward the stunning-looking petty officer with the handlebar mustache smiling invitingly from the plane’s door.