Chapter 26

ADMIRAL TURNER STOOD in his office in New York, pretending it was the bridge of a battleship. Dressed in full uniform studded with medals and ribbons, he glowered at his daughter, Joan, as he spoke in a voice that had sent many seamen trembling in terror.

But Joan was far from being an obedient crew member. She sat wearing a new outfit that had cost more than an enlisted man’s weekly salary, dangling her left leg over her shapely right knee. The admiral’s checkbook sat open on his desk. As her father ranted, Joan preoccupied herself by studying the polish on her fingernails.

“— the dance at the officers’ club tonight,” the admiral lectured. “You’re not getting any younger, and you might miss your chance to get married, settle down, have babies and do all the cooking and cleaning. What’s wrong with you, girl? I insist that you go to the dance with Lieutenant Smith!”

Joan rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “That flat tire! Why would I want to waste an evening with him?”

“If you don’t go with him, then I don’t write out this check, young lady.” His gray hair bristled . . . but then, it always bristled.

She could tell her father wasn’t kidding. “Oh, all right, anything for you, Daddy,” she said sweetly. “Could you make it for an extra fifty?”

* * *

At the officers’ club a band played polka after polka while a few sailors attempted to dance in their dress uniforms. Crepe-paper streamers drooped from the fluorescent light fixtures. Bingo boards hung on the walls. Naval officers milled about sipping punch with their wives or girlfriends, or both. The low drone of conversation mingled with the loud music.

A row of older women, looking quite severe, sat in folding metal chairs along the wall. They had come for their weekly bingo game, and no one had told them the officers’ dance would preempt them tonight. Now they had nothing else to do.

Behind a long table near the bandstand, a blue-haired lady in cat’s-eye glasses ladled from a huge bowl of punch. Pedrito, in Lieutenant Tom Smith’s finest dress uniform, stood awkwardly in front of the table with the beautiful Joan Turner. She was stunning in her black sequined evening dress, her strawberry-blond hair done up in a French braid. So far she had refused his every attempt at conversation. He wasn’t used to women giving him so much trouble.

The blue-haired lady handed a cup of punch to Pedrito. “Please tell me what you think of it, Lieutenant Smith,” she said. “Very healthy. Lots of fresh juices. Just the way you always like it.”

Pedrito took a mouthful of punch and spat it out in a spray before he could compose himself and remember where he was and who he was supposed to be.

“Why, what’s the matter, dear?” the blue-haired lady said, wiping punch droplets from her cat’s-eye glasses.

Pedrito made an awful face, looking at the cup. “No liquor!” he said. “No rum, no tequila, nothing! Just plain fruit juice — what kind of punch is that?” He wiped his mouth with his uniform sleeve.

Joan registered surprise at her date’s reaction, then she thought she understood. “It’ll take a lot more than that to impress me, Smith — but I’m glad you’re at least making the effort.”

On the dance floor, couples had grown even sparser, exhausted from the nonstop polkas. Now, to a slower tune, the remaining dancers swayed sedately, but then the music changed to disco. Joan perked up.

“Well, I’m going to dance,” she said over her shoulder as she strutted out to the dance floor. “Follow me if you like, Smith — I intend to have a good time, no matter what you do.” Joan began gyrating alone to the music while Pedrito stood next to her at a loss, not knowing what to do . . . though he did enjoy watching her body move, the way it pressed against her black sequined dress.

“What’s the matter, can’t you dance? Didn’t they teach you that in officer training?” Joan rolled her blue eyes. “My, what a surprise.”

“I am a master of the dance — but that’s not a tango,” Pedrito said, offended. “I just can’t disco!”

“Watch — and learn,” Joan said. “And you’d better learn fast if you want to have a good time tonight.” Her whole body went into a shiver, and she shook her hips, moving with the music. Her evening dress followed every twist and turn, flowing with her supple moves.

Pedrito Miraflores was actually a very good dancer, and since this was part of his mission, he matched her gyrations, his eyes shining as he stared at her. They moved close, rubbing together as they danced. Pedrito grabbed her around the waist and pressed her against him as they continued to move together now, growing hotter.

The row of severe old women stared in shocked disapproval, clucking at each other.

Despite herself, Joan was pleasantly surprised, as if Lieutenant Tom Smith had just turned into a different person in front of her. Pedrito was willing to play the part of the uptight, strait-laced young officer . . . but only to a point.

* * *

Pedrito drove the car, lost but following Joan’s directions. She enjoyed telling him where to go, and she kept glancing sideways at him, reassessing him. This wasn’t the type of date she had expected at all.

“It’s just up the block,” she said. Ahead Pedrito spotted a neon sign that flickered with pink letters, much more high-tech than the Cantina de Espejos: MOTEL, Vacancy. “All right, that’s the place,” she said. “Good paintings on the wall, nice decor. Comfortable beds.”

“Good,” Pedrito said. “I like comfortable beds.”

* * *

Later, in the motel room, the headboard shook violently, much the way Yaquita’s brass headboard always shook in her room at the cantina. A white Navy uniform lay on the worn carpet, tangled with a fancy black evening dress. Pantyhose dangled from the television antenna, and somehow one black high-heeled shoe hung from the curtain rod.

The headboard bumped against the wall in a real tango beat. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell my father,” Joan gasped. “He’ll be so happy about this.”

“What?” Pedrito said. The headboard stopped shaking. Why would she want to tell the admiral? Most fathers came after Pedrito with shotguns when they found out what he had done with their daughters. “What are you going to tell him?”

“Why, that I’ve changed my mind. We can get married within the month! This is the opportunity he’s been waiting for. Just think of the big wedding he can throw us. . . . I just hope he doesn’t rent that officers’ club.”

“Married?” Pedrito slapped his forehead. “Ai! Is that all you women can think of?”

“I read it in a story somewhere.” She raised her eyebrows at him. Her blue eyes shone with languid satisfaction. “Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? I’m so tired of being intelligent, independent and my own woman. A husband is all I need.”

She snuggled up next to him, and Pedrito looked frantically around the room, wondering how he was ever going to escape from this dangerous situation.