Drago #3. Art Spinella
out to arm’s length.
“Smears,” I said. “What am I lookin’ at, Sallie?”
Moorly added, “It looks like the phosphorescent skim sailors have seen.”
I’d witnessed the phenomenon over the years piloting Dragonfly around the Pacific. The glow appears at night and there are stories of aircraft pilots who followed it home when all other forms of navigation failed.
Sal pointed out, “Correct. It’s not a heat signature, per se, but a reaction to atomic disruptions.”
I cut Sal a glance. “CIA?”
“Never was, nor would I ever be… As I said, I’ve worked with scientists who know this stuff. You pick it up along the way. I also cheated and Googled it after I saw the photos and returned for an excellent breakfast.” To Cookie. “Thank you ma’am.”
Cookie nodded and smiled. “Welcome.”
Sal continued, “There’s a lot of long words involved, but basically it’s a heat signature without the heat.”
I gave myself the Bandon head scratch. “What’s it all mean?”
Sal grinned. “Beats the hell out of me. Maybe if we get some sleep we’ll have a better idea with clear minds.”
Stan was first to stand. “Ain’t been up this late since… well, forever, actually. I’ve been up this early to get out of the harbor. But never been up this late, if you know what I mean.”
Cookie bade all a good night and went about the business of clearing the table while Sal, Stan and I walked outside.
Sal clicked on a small key-chain flashlight to see his way home and with a raised arm called over his shoulder, “Lunch. Minute Café. Noon.”
Stan and I crossed the gravel drive to his Ram diesel pickup.
“Cookie’s a good one, Nick. You lucked out.”
“That’s the truth.”
“Heard you were married once before.”
“For about seven minutes.”
“Where’s she now?”
“Got hit by a log truck.”
“Dead?”
“Stan, she got hit by a log truck.”
He mulled that for second. “That would make her dead.”
“As a mackerel.”
He climbed into the cab, fired up the diesel and backed out of the drive.
I was walking back inside when the thought struck me. Stan’s mention of my ex snapped a synapse in my brain.
“Well, Jesus H. Christ.”
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