CHAPTER 23
Sturman sat in his truck in the parking lot at the aquarium, the engine running, staring at his cell phone. On the screen was Val’s name. All he had to do was hit send.
He remembered a time back in high school, when he tried getting into rodeo with his best friend, and got bucked into the dirt by a bronco. Had the wind knocked out of him. Ached all over. He knew he was lying in the dirt now.
But this time, he didn’t know how to get up. Or even if he wanted to get up.
He sighed and put the phone down on the seat next to him. What the hell would he say to her? Happy Valentine’s Day? He probably owed her an apology for his verbal attack the other night, when she’d called to ask how he was, and tell him what she was up to, then scolded him for being at a bar.
Funny thing was he missed her anyway.
He pulled out of the parking lot and headed for home. He rubbed his temples. His head hurt from all the thinking he’d been doing. He’d pretty much been thinking all day at work. Or maybe his head still hurt from last night. Either way, he had a headache. He neared the turn to the Pelican and thought about heading in, for a little hair of the dog, but decided against it.
Instead, he pulled into a McDonald’s drive-through and ordered a chicken sandwich, then got back on the road. At a stoplight, as he was reaching in the bag for a handful of French fries, he saw a promotional billboard for the armed forces, and suddenly thought of an old friend. One of the few he had left. He picked up the phone again and found the number. Tom “Wits” Rabinowitz had always been a good listener, back when Sturman had first joined the Navy and was always getting into trouble. The phone rang, and there was a click as someone answered.
“Rabinowitz.”
“Hey, amigo.”
“Sturman? You sorry son of a bitch! What’s going on?”
“I was just thinking about how cute you are, it being Valentine’s Day and all.”
“That’s funny. I was just jerkin’ off to an old picture of you . . . hang on.”
Someone in the background started yelling at Rabinowitz, and Sturman laughed. Same old Wits. Dumbass was a lifer in the Navy, but he would be done with his twenty in a few more years. A horn honked and Sturman realized the light was green. He pulled forward and got into the merge lane for northbound Highway 1.
Rabinowitz got back on the line. “My wife just heard my jerkoff comment. She’s sending me outta the room, so the kids can’t hear.... All right, I’m going, Barb!”
“How’s the family?” Sturman said.
“They’re good. Kids are getting old fast. You ever marry that chick? The marine biologist?”
“Val? No. We’re kinda on the rocks.”
“No shit? You stickin’ your dick where it doesn’t belong?”
“No. We’re just . . . well, you know. She’s out of town now. Went down to the Bahamas to do some research.”
“Down here, huh? Have her stop by the base,” Rabinowitz said. “I’ll set her straight.”
Sturman sat up. “What do you mean? I thought you were in Norfolk.”
“No, man. I’m stationed in the Bahamas now. Uncle Sam moved us down here a year ago. I thought you knew that.”
“I guess it’s been a while. What are you doing down there?”
“More tech stuff. Has to do with sonar research we’ve been doing down here for decades. Ever hear about the Atlantic Undersea Test and Evaluation Center? The Tongue of the Ocean?”
“Wasn’t that the name of a whore you met back in Thailand?” Sturman said, smiling.
“Funny, asshole.”
“Really. So what are you doing there?” Sturman said.
“You know I can’t talk about that, man.”
“I’m not asking for classified information. Are you blowing shit up, or seeing how deep people can dive, or what? What’s this tongue thing you’re talking about?”
“It’s a deepwater trench, in the middle of the Bahama Bank. All surrounded by shallow water. Navy’s tested here since the sixties, because the Commies couldn’t listen in from across the Atlantic.”
“So you’re testing sonar? Weapons?”
“I’m not telling you anything. I mean it. What’s your woman doing down here?”
“Looking into some sort of unknown squid or something. You know anything about something like that?”
Wits was silent.
Sturman frowned. “Wits? You still there?”
“Sturman, I gotta run. My wife’s yelling at me, and my daughter’s screaming. Can I call you back?”
“Sure. Take it easy, man.”
“You too. But seriously, let me know if you want me to meet up with your lady friend. I could always use another wife.”
Sturman heard Rabinowitz’s wife hollering at him as he ended the call. He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment complex, shut the truck off. Opened the paper bag containing his Valentine’s Day dinner.
Then ate in the cab, alone.