Both the military and civilian law enforcement agencies of Oahu were literally hopping. The FBI, Naval Investigative Service (NIS), Army CID, and the local police were scouring the island. Tearing the place apart looking for clues or answers. Kicking asses and taking names! A NIS agent, George Charles, had been shot in the head - murdered in cold blood - and his body had been discovered in a ditch. He was only twenty nine years old and had left a wife and daughter.
Contrary to popular belief and current television. NIS agents are not now, and were not then, beloved high-tech crime fighting heroes.
Shitty actor Mark Harmon may say that but he's full of crap. The assholes spent most of their time busting folks for smoking dope, pilfering government goods, or sailors on ships in the harbor flashing their dicks or asses to tourists on the Pearl Harbor tour boats (which had happened four times since I had been stationed at the boathouse). The average sailor considered them to be sneaky, fucking stool pigeons and to tell the truth, not too many swabbies where crying crocodile tears over Mr. Charles's demise. That's not say that what happened wasn't horrible - especially for me - but that's just the way it is.
We had driven the truck to Brewer's place and pulled it straight into the garage. Brewer had jumped out to close the garage door behind us and I immediately had heard a back door slam. I looked out the back window and saw a semi-naked man running through the back yard while trying to throw his clothes on. The side interior door suddenly swung open, revealing Blanche in a pink see- through nightgown with no panties underneath. I suspect that I am becoming a borderline pervert as I catch myself leering at her after I had just witnessed her husband kill someone in cold blood. Then I experience a quick flashback of Blanche and I fucking standing up in the broom closet at the boathouse. I remember that she had smelled like cigarettes, dime store perfume, and cheap wine.
"What the hell is going on? I thought you were spending the night at the boathouse?"
Brewer stepped in front of her. "No, honey. I caught a ride home with these guys but we have to clean the truck up. Malcolm had too much to drink and puked in the cab. I'll be in in a minute."
She shot nasty glare at me - I had had a hard time getting it up for her even thought I hadn't been laid in months prior to our encounter - and stepped back into the house. "Well, hurry the hell up and don't wake the kids."
While Blanche was bitching out Brewer, I had taken the opportunity to retrieve my stash from the back of the truck. I shoved it back into my pocket and pulled Malcolm out of the front seat and laid him out on a huge pile of government canvas that I'm sure had been stolen and was on the garage floor. The drunk son of a bitch had remain passed out through the whole ordeal. He didn't move a muscle as we cleaned the interior of the cab from top to bottom with four rolls of paper towels and two bottles of disinfectant. It smelled clean as a whistle. That fucking thing hadn't been that clean since the Nixon era. Brewer stuffed the used paper towels in a paper grocery bag.
We wrestled Malcolm into the truck cab.
That didn't take much since the anorexic little bastard - he lived off of bologna sandwiches and coffee - barely weighed a hundred pounds. Brewer lit up a cigarette. "Drive out the front of housing. Watch your speed. If Malcolm doesn't ask questions there's no reason to let him know. If the cops pull you over just tell them that you were dropping me off because we worked late." He stepped closer to me and stuck his little pistol in my gut. "Nothing fucking else! Not only are you involved up to your neck in what happened tonight, but I remember what you told me about that guy that's looking for your ass back home. The dude you smacked in the noggin with a baseball bat. Things could rough for you if you turn pussy and decide to spill your guts."
I can't believe I had bragged to Brewer about drilling la Favor with a baseball bat. It had been after a long night of snorting cocaine, munching on mushrooms, and drinking shots of rotgut tequila. I had totally forgotten about it up until then. That had been such a blackout night of partying I'm surprise that I hadn't told him that I had also fucked his wife in a broom closet. My ass was in deep hot water. Once again.
The ride home had been non-eventful.
Malcolm didn't know a thing, I had to fireman carry him to his bunk when we got back to the boathouse, and business went on as usual. NIS agents paid their visit to the boathouse exactly four days after the murder. They didn't hang around long. Everybody's stories seemed to check out and the agent's interest appeared to already be waning. Brewer had already spoken to the cops after they had interviewed almost every adult member of the Navy housing complex where he lived and where just outside of the agent's body had been found. He claimed that he had spent the entire night at the boathouse after the pig slaughter and Malcolm and my statements backed this up. Malcolm could have passed a lie detector test, unless they asked him about humping boathouse dogs or pigs - he thought he had never left the boathouse that night.
I knew the interviewing agent's stenographer on a casual basis prior to their visit to the boathouse. A ravishing, tanned, long legged beauty from Florida named Reggie (short for Regina) Morales who wore her blonde hair in a sexy shag cut and who had the finest ass I had ever seen in uniform. She was married to a hot-headed, insanely jealous, and somewhat dangerous dental technician of Mexican persuasion named Joe. Joe Morales was a high degree black belt and claimed to be the light- heavyweight kickboxing champion of Texas and who was known for beating the piss out of people who were stupid enough to as much as glance in his wife's direction. Reggie sometimes had drinks with Rose, the boathouse prostitute, and had confided in Rose that she had only married Joe to piss off her rich daddy, owner of a flourishing speed boat business in Cocoa Beach, and that she sometimes got off on Joe's psychotic jealousy. We had spoken several times in passing - when she had picked up Rose after work or bumping into each other at the base post office - that kind of shit. But the combination of her job and her husband made for a nervy combination. Understandably, I about shit my pants when I swore that I saw Reggie wink at me from her side of the room after the interview was over.