Eagle Station Part 25

A half-smile formed on her lips. "Well," she said with a lilt, maybe I will stay."

"h.e.l.lo, Babs, drag it in and I'll wet it down with the usual," Jim Polter said, and kissed her on the cheek. She curtsied in return.

"Greta, gentlemen-I present Barbara Powers. Call her Babs, but don't call her anything or talk to her until she has had at least two sips of one of my fainous Vientiane coolers." Polter moved to the liquor table and quickly mixed ca.s.sis and soda over shaved ice in a tall gla.s.s. He added a cherry and handed it to her. She took two long pulls.

"Lifesaving. Absolutely lifesaving," she said. She put the drink on the table and offered her hand to Wolf, who happened to be closest.

"Hi-I'm Babs. Say, you are a brute, aren't you?" She looked at him with frank admiration.

"Wolfgang Lochert," Wolf said and shook her hand.

"Wolfgang?" She lifted an eyebrow.

Lochert c.o.c.ked his head. "Wolf, then."

"Right. You look like a Wolf, all savage." She stood nearly an inch taller than the stocky man. She turned and offered her hand to the seated Greta Sturm.

"Babs," she said.

"Greta Sturm." Greta made no effort to smile or rise up from her chair.

She reached up and pumped once, Continental-style.

Powers' eyes swept from Greta to Wolf and back. She turned to Court and offered her hand.

"I'm Court Bannister," he said before she could give her name.

"I know," she replied. She stood prettily, but Court noticed her eyes did not crinkle in accompaniment. Instead, they looked directly into his own for just an instant longer than normal.

He noticed fine lines that aged an otherwise young face. He guessed her at less than thirty, but how much he couldn't say.

"Gentlerneri, please. Be seated," she said airily and sat on a metal chair next to the table. She picked up her gla.s.s and quickly drained it. Jim Polter took it from her and mixed another.

"Babs works at the Emba.s.sy," he said as he handed it to her.

"Amba.s.sador Plenipotentiary, I think."

"Powers?" Wolf said to her.

"Powers," she agreed. "Sister to Jer Powers. You know him, don't you?

The great Jerome Powers?" She took a long drink of her cooler.

"You do kid, don't you, Babs," Jim Polter said with a strained smile.

"Actually, gang, Babs is Mrs. Barbara Powers-Jerome's wife."

"His little wifey," she said in a cloying falsetto.

Things had not gone as Barbara Westin Powers had dreamed and planned that Colorado summer nearly ten years ago. The first part had been successful-the part where she had toyed with that young Dominguez.

Driving him nearly wild while she used him to tantalize Jer Powers had worked as she had antic.i.p.ated. Powers had taken the bait, but the hook had been set by her father, who had been so relieved she was no longer dating out of her race that he would have done anything his little girl wanted. First, he'd thrown the biggest and most sumptuous coming-out party seen at the Broadmoor Hotel since gold mining days. Then, as the time had pa.s.sed and Powers had seen more of her, Mister Westin had had a man-to-man talk with him and said that were he by some chance to become his son-in-law, a percentage of the dealers.h.i.+p would be theirs to do with as they pleased and, further, a thirty-year zero-interest loan up to $ 1 00,000 would be available when it became time to buy a house.

Naturally, his-and-her Ford Thunderbirds would be wedding presents.

Barbara Westin became Mrs. Jerome T. Powers after her one and only year at Va.s.sar (she decided she could afford a year to see what it was like), where she discovered good bourbon and bad boys. It was there she adopted the nickname Babs, because Barbara sounded too provincial. She had tried to get the girls to call her Buffy, but it never took.

Sometimes now she thought, G.o.d, what did I do to deserve this? I can't divorce that pig and still live a halfway decent life. By a halfway decent life, Babs Westin Powers meant a life where she did not have to work, but could have enough money to enjoy a nice house, a new car every two years or so, and plenty of clothes and jewelry to wear while visiting friends and touring exotic vacation spots and meeting many different men. Daddy would cut her off. He was very old-fas.h.i.+oned and believed in monogamy. He could have trampy girlfriends, she thought, and he had, ever since Mommy was gone, but she had to be Miss Goody Two-Shoes or at least appear to be. Jerk Jerome's family had enough money to supplement his income by $500 a month, and Daddy had delivered as promised, so she hadn't lived too badly ... so far. Jerk Jerome was certainly making more money with the CIA once he had cut loose from the Air Force after his service commitment had been up. And he couldn't fly-too bad: something might have happened and there was the $100,000 life insurance policy.

And he had not been a good administrative officer. Couldn't take orders or something. So he had gotten out as soon as he could and found an immediate job with the Agency, which was desperately seeking young men with a college degree and military experience. Jerome had found himself the third Air Force Academy graduate hired by them and had done surprisingly well in training. After a short time in the States, they had been extremely pleased to be posted to an emba.s.sy right off. Pleased until they arrived at dusty, Oriental boorntown Vientiane. Even a nifty ranch-style house and shopping trips to Bangkok hadn't brightened the absolutely dull day-to-day existence for a bright young (I'm not even thirty and look twenty) Emba.s.sy Wife.

There had been a few men, all but one in Bangkok. A quick liaison with a CASI pilot had occurred once at Jim Polter's, but that, she had decided, was too risky. Besides, she thought maybe the other wives looked at her funny. Too risky, that is, until now-Court Bannister.

To Babs Westin Powers, Court Bannister was a catch. Handsome, rich, well-known, not married. What a pair they would make. She knew she could make the break from her dumb, dull, desultory existence married to a man who didn't know how to f.u.c.k, fight, or frolic. (She loved that phrase. The CASI pilot had taught it to her.) And Court Bannister could do all three, she was sure, because she knew about him. Her favorite reading material, the tabloids, the society pages, the Hollywood magazines, kept her well abreast of what was going on in that exciting world of what they called the jet set. She had a pretty good idea of what he was like ... and what he liked. After all, he was the son of Sam Bannister and everyone knew Sam liked his women. And Court was a fighter pilot and everyone knew they liked their women.

"What do you do at the Emba.s.sy?" Greta said, studying her.

"Nothing much," she said, pulling herself back. "Just some typing in the political section. Look in at Jer's office. Keeps me busy." She took another swallow. "Keeps me off the streets and out of the bars."

"Must be wery tiring," Greta said, cursing herself for letting her accent slip. It happened sometimes when she was tired or upset.

"Not too," Babs said as she accepted a fresh cooler from Polter. He quickly refreshed the others' gla.s.ses and Court's Budweiser and said he had to tend to the grill. Wolf glanced over and saw there was just the right amount of steaks, as if Polter had known Babs, or someone, would be joining them.

Babs Powers turned back to Court and fixed him with her eyes. "What brings you to Vientiane, Court?"

He almost smiled at the intensity of her gaze, for he thought he knew what it meant. He had been brought up around movie stars, starlets, and sycophants all his life. He knew a comehither gesture when he saw it.

"Tourism, ruins, Plaine des Jarres, cultural activities. The usual." He could feel the beer.

"Hmm, yes, the usual. How were things out there with the dear old natives?"

"Revolting."

"Yes, I'll bet they were." She finished her cooler and looked up at him with a slight smile curved barely short of mocking.

She absently thanked Jim Polter as he handed her her third cooler. Wolf and Greta walked over to the pool and sat on the diving board, talking quietly. Jim busied himself with the steaks. Babs took a sip while holding Court's eyes.

"Do you come this way often?" she asked.

"Offhand-no." Court drained the beer from his mug and was handed another by a houseboy.

"Pity," she said, her eyes admiring his body. She leaned forward and reached over to tap his bare knee. "You keep in shape, don't you?"

I try." He couldn't help noticing her own figure, the almost too muscular calves of her legs, the smooth curve of flank under the silk.

"You obviously indulge in a lot of exercise yourself."

"Oh, I do." She made a mirthless smile, reminding Court of the cartoon cat about to devour the canary.

"Food's on, chow down," Polter sang out from the grill. "Eat now or forever hold your peace."

"How do you spell that, James?" Babs asked.

Polter guffawed and said, "Now, now, girl, be nice." He signaled the houseboy, who brought wooden platters for the steaks. Wolf and Greta came over and they sat around a picnic table under an arbor by the pool.

"Goodness, Jim," Babs said, I didn't expect to be fed. I just popped in to say h.e.l.lo and see who all your charming guests were. We get so few interesting vistors around here. This is a dreary, dusty village."

"I guess you'll just have to take Earthquake's steak," Polter said, and flopped the biggest of the steaks on her plate. Wolf nodded in comprehension and appreciation.

"Earthquake McGoon?" Court said.

"What on earth are you talking about?" said Babs.

Polter explained. Jim McGovern, nicknamed Earthquake McGoon, after Al Capp's character in his Li'l Abner cartoon strip, had been a heavyset pilot-a very heavyset pilot-from the Midwest who'd wound up flying C- 1 19 twin-boom cargo s.h.i.+ps for CAT or Flying Tigers in 1954. He'd been shot down air-dropping badly needed supplies to de Lattre's beleaguered French soldiers at Dien Bien Phu weeks before it had been overrun by the Viet Minh in March of 1954. He'd almost landed his crippled s.h.i.+p onto a sandbar in the nearby river. When he'd seen he couldn't make it, he'd calmly radioed, "Looks like this is it, son." None of his fellow pilots and friends at Vientiane really believed he was dead. He had survived one crash and was too legendary not to survive another. Someday he would emerge from the jungle and demand his steak and his drinks.

,.Monte Banks at the Purple Porpoise was so sure Earthquake was coming back he had his big Papasan chair mounted on sort of a stage and wouldn't let anybody sit in it," Polter finished.

Jim made the toast, "To Earthquake," and they all drank. A Bach quartet sounded from the speakers. Jim broke out a strong red Burgundy and poured for Babs, Court, and himself. Wolf and Greta stayed with iced tea. The houseboy lit Tiki torches around the pool as the purple dusk turned darker. They spoke of life in Vientiane: the influx of newsmen trying to dig up stories of the war in Laos, the latest Dooley Dollies who had come in to replace the volunteer stewardesses who had taught English and nursed for the Tom Dooley Foundation, and the antics of the Air America and Continental Air Service pilots.

I wouldn't know about that," Babs said. I make it a point never to date pilots. From around here," she added, swinging her eyes back to Court.

"You must have very many ... friends," Greta said, trying to hold her eyes wide and innocent.

"Well, I do represent the American Emba.s.sy, you know. I'm paid to make friends," Babs replied with scarcely a glance in Greta's direction.

"Yes, I bet you are," Greta said in as near a snarl as possible without violating the laws of civility. "Your husband-you are married, are you not? Your husband-what does he do?"

Jim Polter interrupted the interchange with some innocuous comments about the weather. Court and Wolf stretched out a conversation about the National Football League until dinner was over. Greta barely maintained control of her seething disposition while Babs cheerily traded remarks with Jim about Asian versus American sunsets.

It was well after nine and totally black under an overcast sky when they moved from the patio to the study. Greta said she was too weary for words and said she would take Jim up on his offer for a room. She bade goodnight. Wolf hemmed and hawed around until he too said goodnight and followed her down the long hall. Babs made a lewd grin when they heard him knock quietly on Greta's door.

"Well, how was Lima Site 85, home of your channing Eagle Station?" Babs said with a wide smile to Court.

Court looked at Jim Polter. "What did you say she did at the Emba.s.sy?"

Polter laughed.

"What makes you think I know what you're talking about?" Court said.

"Come off it, Court," she said. "Everybody knows what everybody else does around here. Nothing's cla.s.sified."

"The h.e.l.l you say. Maybe everybody who is anybody knows what happens to someone who is somebody-but I'm not somebody. I'm just pa.s.sing through."

"You don't just pa.s.s through Vientiane. You're either going someplace in Laos or coming from someplace in Laos." She turned to Jim. "Isn't that true?"

He held his palms up. "How would I know? I just labor here."

He put down his napkin and stood up. "I've got an early git-go tomorrow aye-ern," he said to her, "so I'm packing it in. You know where the booze is, Court. Come to think of it, so do you, Babs. Make yourselves to home. Night."

They said goodnight in chorus as he walked out.

Court poured them both a Drambuie from Jim's well-stocked cabinet. He eyed Babs. "What makes you think I know anything about-what did you call it? Lima Bean 85?"

"Get off it, Court. I know exactly why you're here."

"Well, you are married to a man in the business. I suppose he keeps you informed. Where is he tonight?"

She ignored his question. "I specialize in interesting people.

I try to find out as much as I can about them before I meet them."

"h.e.l.l of a hobby. You should be a spook." One of the houseboys cleared the table. He accidentally knocked a gla.s.s off the edge, but Court caught it before it hit the hard floor.

"Nice catch," she said. "What else can you do with your hands?"

He sat back. "Babs, if you will excuse me for asking, why do you come on so-"

"Forward?" She sipped her wine and looked at him over the rim of the crystal. "I thought all you Hollywood types liked i . that kind of woman."

"I'm not a Hollywood type. I haven't lived there more than five years in my life, and that was over ten years ago."

"Well, you were acting. I did see you at the movies."

"Years ago, when I was young and dumb. I was an extra for gunsmoke and horses.h.i.+t, sand and s.e.x."

"Well, maybe it was your father I saw so much." She recited: "'Silk Screen Sam, the ladies' man. If he can't get in, no one can."' It was a rhyme that had been around since 1938, when young Sam Bannister had been the bachelor idol of young movie fans throughout the world. "Is that what they say about you, too, Court? Do you want to get in?"

Court tossed his napkin onto the table. He got up and walked out to the patio. One Tiki torch cast a faint glow over the patio and pool. He had to get away from this woman.

"You could be more friendly, you know," she said as she followed him out into the night air.

Court didn't turn around, then was startled by a splash. He turned to see the dark form of Barbara Powers stroking quietly in the dark water of the pool. He recognized her dress, -lying in a careless heap on a deck chair, her shoes underneath. Something white and filmy hung from the back. He sat down in a wicker chair near the pool rim and watched her swim almost to his feet. She was attractive, and it had been a long time.

"Come on in," she said in a throaty voice. "The water is, as they say, fine."

Court shook his head. "I think not." He could see the Vshaped shadow of the cleavage between her trim b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her dark hair hung seal-sleek down her back. She reached out and lightly ran her fingers over the top of his bare foot. Despite himself, he felt the blood rising within him.

He saw himself dropping his shorts and plunging in and taking this girl underwater. He almost s.h.i.+vered at the thought.

"I think I'll stay out," he said, his mind finally made up.

"Cold?"

"No, chicken."

"Court Bannister? Chicken? I don't believe it." In one fluid motion, twisted in midair, she hoisted herself out of the water and sat lightly on the edge of the pool. The torch flickered golden on her curves.

"Babs," he said. "I'm taken." He tried to talk lightly and did best he could to keep eye contact with her, and not let his eyes roam over the secret valleys and mounds.