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.