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.