... I was still curious,
though. And I knew I'd never live
it down back at the barracks if I didn't at least meet this Lynda. She was probably some old, fat madame
with warts and facial hair.
"I'm
here to see Lynda," I told the waitress. "She asked me to come. I'm in a band."
I
saw a spark of recognition in her eyes
– she must've been at the MACV gig too. She scampered to the back.
I
took a seat at the bar and ordered a Coke.
Soon
Lynda came out. She wasn't old or
fat. She was gorgeous. Blue-black hair down her back, a heavy
fringe of bangs over inky almond eyes.
Lynda
sat on the stool next to me and crossed her legs, the slit of her skirt
revealing slender calf to thigh. I
noticed her fishnet hose had a hole at one knee and the heels of her snakeskin
stilettos were worn. She held a
long cigarette between her slim fingers, the nails ragged red at the tips. I couldn't take my eyes from her. She looked mysterious. Dangerous. I wanted to touch her.
Trust
no one. Isn't that what Wash had
said?
"I
am glad that you came," she said, and I felt like I was falling downhill,
not able to stop. "I enjoyed
your band very much at MACV. I was
sad that I had to leave early to get back to the business here. That's why I sent one of the girls with
the note. I hope that wasn't too
forward?"
My
tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth. I couldn’t believe it.
She'd liked our gig, she was beautiful, she spoke excellent English, not
the fractured pidgin of most locals.
This wasn't what I'd expected at all.
Say
something, Kohler.
"Forward? Oh, no, it was fine."
"How
old are you – um – " She laughed. Not a coy bar-girl giggle. A woman's laugh. It sounded like a song. "I'm sorry, I don't even know your
name."
"I'm
Dean."
"Dean,"
she repeated slowly.
"I'm
twenty," I said.
She
tilted her head and gave me a teasing smile. "Oh, an older man."
I
laughed. It sounded nervous. "Why? How old are you?"
"Nineteen,"
she said, soft and low...