Chapter 13

MEANWHILE, BACK IN NEW YORK CITY, an endless string of yellow taxis honked at each other in a bizarre cabdriver’s Morse code. Old Admiral Turner sat at his desk, writing out a check. He scratched his bristly gray hair as he tried to add numbers in his head.

As a full admiral and director of the New York Office of Naval Intelligence, he could have commanded any underling do the work for him. In matters of his own heart, though, his brash daughter, Joan, outranked him, and the admiral had no choice but to follow her orders.

Joan sat across from her father, wearing an unbuttoned street coat and a stylish hat into which she had neatly tucked her strawberry-blond hair. Her loveliness was like a statue’s, serene and stony. She crossed her legs in her tight lavender wool skirt, showing off plenty of calf, knee and even a bit of thigh. She rested a sequin-studded purse in her lap.

At times, the old admiral had trouble remembering that his little girl, Joan, was now in her mid-twenties and her own woman. Most definitely her own woman.

“Five hundred bucks will be fine for this afternoon, Daddy,” she said indifferently, gazing past his checkbook to the window behind him, where pigeons flew about. “Or more. Whatever you feel is best.”

An intent expression creased his weather-beaten face, and the admiral scribbled a larger number in the amount line.

After a brisk knock, the office door swung all the way open. A redheaded lieutenant, junior grade, marched into the office, his white cap tucked under his left arm. The redhead caught himself beginning to swagger, then wiped a confident grin off his face in an attempt to look meek. He had to work hard not to ogle the strawberry blonde at the admiral’s desk.

“Lieutenant, uh, Smith reporting for duty, sir,” he said, pronouncing his words carefully to squelch any lingering trace of a Spanish accent.

Joan wrinkled her nose in distaste at the young lieutenant, giving him the brushoff with her blue eyes. She uncrossed her legs and straightened her lavender skirt to hide as much knee as she could.

Pedrito Miraflores walked briskly up to the desk with military precision, stopped with a click of heels and gave a snappy salute. He stared straight ahead, awaiting Admiral Turner’s pleasure. With a sinking feeling Pedrito realized he had already slipped up, since members of the U.S. Navy did not salute when not wearing a formal cap, and most especially did not salute under a roof.

But the admiral didn’t notice. He leaned back, giving Pedrito a friendly smile. “Oh, Tom, relax! I’m glad to see you back from your trip already, boy.” He tore the check from his pad and tucked the checkbook into the pocket of his uniform. “Did you have a wild time on your vacation down in Colodor? How goes their mapmakers’ strike?”

Pedrito smiled his most charming smile. “It’s been quiet down there lately. Santa Isabel is a fine city, though I’m sad to say that the mapmakers have still not been able to hurl off their foul oppressors’ yoke.” His eyes twinkled as he tried to work his charms on Joan. “The lovely lady might enjoy a vacation there sometime. I would be happy to show her around.”

Joan raised her eyes to the ceiling with a clearly exasperated sigh. She knew Lieutenant Tom Smith and didn’t think much of him.

Pedrito sensed her mystifying disdain — women weren’t supposed to treat him like this — and shifted his attention back to the old man. “To answer your question, Admiral, I got plenty of rest and relaxation. I even finished reading my book of naval battles.”

“Sorry to hear it,” the admiral said with a frown, “but still there’s hope for you, Smith.” He made a point of glancing at his watch and pretending to be surprised. “Well, well, look at the time. Eleven o’clock.” He handed the seven-hundred-dollar check to Joan, and she tucked it into her sequined purse. “Tom, why don’t you take my daughter, Joan, here out to lunch and recover from your trip?”

Joan winced visibly at the suggestion. “Oh, Daddy!”

Pedrito smiled like a wolf at the admiral’s gorgeous daughter. “It would be my pleasure, sir!” he said, sensing the challenge. But she refused to look at him. She stalked toward the door, displeased, her high heels clicking on the floor. He promptly about-faced and followed Joan out, reaching for her arm to escort her. “How about it, Joan? Admiral’s orders.”

Joan jerked her arm away and turned on him with scathing contempt. “Go piss up a tree. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth!”

“I thought we were talking about lunch, not marriage —”

“One thing leads to the other, you oaf. Now go away. I’ve got higher standards than a loser like you.”

Her vehemence surprised Pedrito, but he was used to dealing with opposition. “Why, what’s the matter with me? I’m, uh, a clean-cut, nice young man.”

“What’s the matter with you?” Joan repeated with a snort. “Does the word boring mean anything to you? How about dull? How about, I’d rather listen to radio coverage of an amateur golf tournament? I’ll bet you’ve never told a lie in your life!”

Pedrito stared, surprised, unable even to respond to such a preposterous accusation.

“You don’t even gamble at bridge!” Joan continued. “Some party animal — you wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to show a girl a good time.”

Pedrito grew even more surprised, but he tried to remember to maintain his act. He didn’t even know how to play bridge. “But I —”

Joan flicked her hand at him as though to brush away a fly. “And to top it all off, you won’t touch liquor either. What the hell do you think you are, you strait-laced jerk? A saint? I have no interest in marrying a saint.”

Pedrito flushed as he tried to contain his anger. This Tom Smith character sounded like a real prize. “But who said anything about  marrying —”

Joan gave a snort of contempt and stalked off. Pedrito thought better of following, so instead he stared after her tight lavender skirt as she strutted down the hall in high heels, showing off her lean and muscular legs.

“A saint?” he muttered to himself, incredulous. “Nobody’s ever called me that before.” He scratched his head. “Caramba! The things they don’t tell you in a pre-mission briefing!”