Paranoia racked my entire being! Prison was in my near future. There was just no two ways about it. It had been months since the incident and the police appeared to have no leads at all, in fact the whole thing appeared to have blow over, but I just knew that the proverbial shit was going to hit the fan sooner or later. I could feel it in my bones.
The booze and the drugs that I was consuming on a daily basis wasn't helping my psyche and rampant paranoia either. And then there was Brewer of course.
The dumb son of a bitch, to my utter horror, went through some badass Clint Eastwood metamorphosis. He'd have a beer or two after work, bring up the murder even though by then no one gave a hot turd about that old news, and then make stupid shit statements to Rose and Janine, in pathetic attempts to get in their pants, like "dead men tell no tales" or "that asshole had it coming." One long work day, when nerves were shot and ragged, he even spouted off to the resident racist Brooks, how he had "capped one nigger already in Houston for trying to cheat my ass in cards" and wouldn't hesitate to do it again. Brooks promptly called Brewer a "honky fucking cracker," grabbed Brewer by the throat, and the two exchanged blows before they both tumbled into the bay. Chief Mason pulled both them out of the water and up on to the pier by their hair and slammed their heads together like Moe would with Larry and Curly. Or Shemp, whichever you prefer.
The handwriting was on the wall. There was no escaping it. No need to fight it. I decided to start getting ready for the joint. I quit drinking and smoking weed. Got up early in the morning everyday to run five miles and then lifted weights for two hours after work four times a week. I gave up junk food and ate mainly chicken washed down with protein shakes. Everybody thought I had lost my mind - no one could figure out just what in the hell had gotten into me - and they were right. I was toeing the edge of a nervous breakdown. Falling into the abyss. But I was damned if I was going to let some guy fuck me in the ass in Leavenworth prison when the time came.
Then one day I was walking out of the chow hall when I bumped into.....
"Holy shit! I thought that was you. Do you look different!" I turned around and there she was! Reggie! Beautiful blonde Reggie! NIS stenographer and wife of an insane kickboxing champion. "What's up with that? You been working out?"
Puffing up my chest. "A little bit. Trying to get in shape. Hitting the weights."
"Well, let me tell you. It's paying off." She actually pushed her hand against my chest. I almost shot my wad in my pants. "Wow! Hard as a rock." My chest not my crank.
"Would you like to have a drink sometime?" Fuck! I must have lost my mind. It just slipped out without a thought. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! This hot babe was not only married to a martial arts maniac, she was the secretary and stenographer for NIS. She could be a narc herself. I knew this, yet my sick, twisted mind couldn't get past those beautiful tits and legs of hers.
She didn't bat an eye. "I can't tonight but Joe is on duty tomorrow. How about we meet down in Waikiki tomorrow night."
Unbelievable. Yes! This was sheer suicide but I didn't give a fuck.
"The Blue Kangaroo at about seven good for you?"
That was just fine with her.
***
This is my disclaimer: I would never have fucked Reggie if I had KNOWN that she was a undercover NIS agent (secretary/stenographer, yes - NIS agent/narc, no). Well, I might of - she was so goddamn foxy and so far out of my league - but I would have at least given it a moments thought. I like to think that she wanted to bed me down for purely personal reasons and not that she was some femme fatale just using her lean, tanned, track star body to pump me (literally) for information.
My new found sobriety pledge had ended the next night.
Drinks and handholding at The Blue Kangaroo had led to a marathon make out session that started on Waikiki beach and ended up in her car that was parked down a dark side street. Then came clandestine lunches and afternoons we would sneak away from work to drink wine and smoke thin joints of Thai stick and cuddle on a blanket in secluded parks. Finally our affair was consummated on a night when the kickboxer was on duty and we humped wildly in their round waterbed covered with a comforter with rabbit fur lining. The woman had a body like an Olympic athlete - equipped with cupcake sized breasts and muff shaven into a short landing strip. She drove me crazy. If she asked me to kill her husband and run away with her, I would have done it in a second. Rose had taken me aside one day at work and whispered "This isn’t good.
Trust me, I like Reggie, but this is not going to end up good for you. You‘ve had your fling. Just let it go." But I didn’t listen. Rose was a hooker for Christ’s sake! Who the hell was she to tell me how to run my life? I didn’t give a shit. I was too far gone. This was insanity at it's worse. I loved every minute of it. It was sick, suicidal behavior. Yet, unbelievably fun.
An act of God had Reggie’s husband fly back on a Thursday to the mainland. He was going to compete in some military martial arts tournament in Virginia and wouldn’t be back until late the following week. I spent the entire weekend at their house. Buck naked from almost the minute I walked in the door. Reggie had stockpiled the refrigerator with food, beer, and champagne so there was no reason to leave and she didn't want the neighbors to see me wandering around. In the narcotics department she had a ounce bag full of a weed called Mango - a locally legendary strain of marijuana that was supposedly crossbred with a mango tree, leaving the smoke with a delightful taste and a kick in the ass to boot - and who’s creator it was rumored had been murdered by jealous island mobsters who wanted a bit of the action. To round out the weekend there were several grams of Peruvian flake and just a dash of MDA - a weird but fun hallucinogenic that supposedly the U.S. Army had developed for mind control purposes. The fact that I never questioned how two lower enlisted people could afford these delicacies and delightful treats much less get their hands on them shows just how blinded I had become by the sheer force of Reggie’s lovemaking and brainwashing skills. Snorting, drinking, hot-tubbing, fucking like two kids on a prom date, more drinking, more snorting, endless fucking, the weekend was a blur.
It was our sexy pillow talk that helped get Brewer busted.
On that late Sunday night wrapped in each other‘s arms - spent, burned out from the booze, the sex, and the drugs - under that goddamn rabbit fur lined comforter. Reggie’s head was nestled on my shoulder and she was lazily tracing her finger in circles on my stomach.
“Is it true that Ricky Brewer is dealing drugs out in Navy housing?”
Don’t ask me why that question out of the blue didn’t set off all the bells, whistles, and alarms in my head. You know why it didn’t. I had just spent the wildest Caligula-like orgy weekend with the absolutely hottest woman I would ever know in my life. All systems were down. You can’t blame me for that. Plus it seemed like Reggie was always asking questions about shit like that. Duh!
“Why would you ask that?” I murmured sleepily.
“I saw a file at work on of the agent’s desk when he was out on a case.” She rolled over and picked up the round mirror off the nightstand that had four or five lines of flake on it along with a rolled up dollar bill. I watched her snort up a line in each nostril, her rock hard breasts didn’t even move.
She handed the mirror to me and I hoovered up the remaining lines. Putting the mirror back on the nightstand she leaned over and practically tickled my tonsils with her tongue.
She broke off the kiss. “I’m worried about you. I don’t want to see you get in any trouble. I think Brewer is bad news.”
We went at it again even though by then my poor cock was practically crying out for rest. The woman was insatiable.
Afterwards, I looked into those lying blue eyes of hers. “Don’t worry. I’m not involved in anything with Brewer. Sure I’ve partied with him a shitload but I have nothing to do with him selling drugs. I would never do that. That shits just crazy. He‘s going to get busted big time for that crap eventually.”
“I think the agent’s thought at first that he could have been involved in Agent Charles’s murder but his alibi checked out.”
I willed my body not to tense up. This was not the kind of post-coital chit chat that I normally enjoyed. “Brewer? Fuck, he’s not a murder! Yea, he’s been selling coke and horse out of his house but he’s sure as shit not a murderer.”
She snuggled back against my shoulder. “You just stay away from him. OK?”
“Sure. No problem.” Even with all the blow in her system, she dropped quickly off to sleep.
I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Something all of a sudden felt horribly wrong. I now realized that Reggie had always been slyly pumping me for information the whole time we had been together. Not just idle chitchat. I just had been too goddamn stupid to know it. Casually asking about the drugs being sold in the barracks or on the base and who was involved, stereos and other electronic gear that was constantly walking away from barracks rooms and offices, missing guns from the MAA's office, something about a blackmail scheme going on. And I had always been more than willing to talk - even if I didn't know shit about what she was saying.
Trying to pump myself up. Make me seem more important to her. Thinking that she was honoring me by sharing inside information that she was hearing at the office. Mr. Fucking Bigshot! Just like I had done again only ten minutes ago. She had been getting me to bump my gums with hot sex and good drugs. Using that beautiful trimmed little beaver. I was a fucking snitch and didn't even know it! Until now. Talk about a way to ruin a excellent weekend.