Terminal Compromise, Winn Schwartau [sight word books txt] 📗

another

beer from the poolside cooler. “It’s a shit load more interest-

ing that rotting here,” he spread his arms to embrace the lush

beauty from their 1500 foot high aerie. “How much sun and peace

and quiet and sex and water and beach can one man take?” He

spoke loudly, like a Southern Spiritual Minister. “Too much

scuba diving and swimming and sailing and sunsets and black

starry nights can be bad for your health. This is a goddamned

Hedonist’s Heaven.” He brought his hands to his side and gave a

resigned sigh. “I guess if you can stomach this kind of life.”

“Jealous?” Scott asked gently. He knew about Arlene’s reticence

to try anything new, out of the ordinary. She was very pleased

with her life in Westchester. She felt that knowing someone who

lived in Paradise whom she could visit once a year was new-ness

enough.

“No, man,” Tyrone said genuinely, speaking as himself again. “I

got exactly what I wanted.” He cocked his head at the pool,

where Arlene seemed more relaxed than she had in years. “Can’t

you see? She’s miserable, but she’s mine. Scott, you’ve lived

your fantasy, made a difference. Now, it’s my turn.”

Scott looked over at Arlene. “Hey, shit for brains,” he said to

Tyrone. “She’s no slouch. It’s what the hell she’s doing with

you I never understood.” Scott lunged at Tyrone’s attention-

getting sized abdomen with the steak fork.

“Nice and juicy,” retorted Tyrone, patting his prominent stomach.

“You’re not my type. I like mine lean. I cut off the fat,”

Scott barbed. Before Tyrone could get in his jibe Scott called

out, “Steaks’ on. Outside black, inside mooing.”

The girls smacked their lips in anticipation and sat in the

elegant all weather PVC furniture. A red sailor’s delight sun

was mere inches above the horizon, setting to the west over

Hassel and Water Islands which provide umbrage to Blue Beard’s

harbor of choice.

The men were providing all services this evening and the ladies

were luxuriating in this rare opportunity. Little did they know,

or little did they let on, that they knew the men enjoyed the

opportunity to demonstrate their culinary skills without female

interference. Beside, thought Scott, it was the maid’s day off.

“Seriously, though,” Tyrone said quietly as Scott piled the

plates with steaks and potatoes. “I know you better than that.

I don’t see how you can do nothing. You don’t know how to sit

your ass still for ten minutes. It’s not your personality.

Don’t you agree Arlene?”

“Yes dear,” she said, still talking to Sonja.

“And that room you call your office, Jesus. You have more equip-

ment in there than . . .”

“It looks like more than it is . . .” Scott downplayed the point.

“Mainly communications. The local phone company is a joke, so I

installed an uplink. No big deal.”

“C’mon, man, I just can’t see you sitting on the sidelines.”

Tyrone stressed the word ‘you’. “Not with what’s happening now?

There must be a thousand stories out there . . .”

“And a thousand and one reporters. Too much noise, too busy for

my liking. After the Homosoto story, if there’s one luxury I’ve

learned to live with, it’s that I can pick and choose what I do.”

Scott spoke much too reserved for the Scott Mason Tyrone knew.

“Aha! So you are up to something. I knew it. I gave you one,

maybe two months, but I never figured you’d last three.”

They carried the four plates laden with steaks and potatoes over

to the table where their spouses waited. Fresh beers awaited

their much appreciated efforts.

“I do get a little itchy and I read a lot.” Tyrone glared at

Scott with disbelief. “No really, just a little research,”

laughed Scott in mock defense. “O.K., I received a call, and it

sounded kind of interesting, so I’ve been looking into it.”

“Poking around, here and there and everywhere?”

“Kinda, just following up a few leads.”

“Just a few?”

“Well, maybe more than a few,” Scott admitted.

“When did this little project begin?” Tyrone asked accusingly.

He suspected Scott was hiding a detail or two.

“It’s not really a project . . .”

“Don’t skirt the issue. When?”

Scott lowered his head. “Two weeks after we got here.”

Tyrone stifled what might otherwise have become a volcanic roar

of laughter. “Two weeks? Ha!” Tyrone needled. “You only lasted

two weeks? How did Sonja feel about that?” He looked over

Scott’s at better half listen in.

“Ah, well, she sort of insisted . . .”

“You drove her nuts? In two weeks?” Sonja shook her head vigor-

ously in agreement but kept speaking to Arlene Duncan.

“Kind of; semi-sorta-kinda-maybe.” Scott grinned impishly.

“But, yeah, I have been working on something.” He couldn’t keep

it to himself.

“Dare I ask?”

“Off the record?” Scott sounded insistent.

“This is a twist. How about attorney-client privilege?” Tyrone

asked. Scott didn’t disagree. “Good,” said Tyrone. “Give me a

dollar. That’s my yearly fee.”

Scott complied, finding a soaking wet dollar bill in his swim-

ming trunks. He laid it next to Tyrone’s plate.

“Well?” Tyrone asked with great interest.

“Well, I discovered we never developed the A-Bomb to end World

War II.”

“Excuse me?”

“Someone gave it to us.”

THE END

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