Waiging War Chapter 4
AN: Wow! Thank you for taking a chance on this story. Your reviews have been wonderful and encouraging. Much appreciated.
"Stop breathing down my neck, idiot! Or I'm gonna stick this screwdriver up your nose." Happy hissed at Toby, waving her chosen weapon in his face.
A thin slice of silvery moonlight was the only illumination in the tiny office and it limned the mechanic, turning her hair into a midnight river of ink flowing from the back of her cap. She was kneeling beside a cluttered desk working at jimmying the back off of a radio.
"I'm busy admiring both your beauty and complete steadiness while committing a burglary. Plus my nose has a Phillips-head fitting. You don't have the right tool," Toby whispered back smoothly, the flash of white teeth from his wide, flirtatious grin daring Happy to make good on her threat.
"But that nose is mounted on a blockhead, so I could make it work. Now, why don't you shut up and get your hand off my back before I rip it off and shove it in your loud mouth. Got it?" She gritted, scowling over her shoulder.
"Will both of you stop it, already?" Walter muttered the question, exasperation evident even in his hushed tone. "Toby, aren't you supposed to be keeping a look out with Sylvester?"
"No," Toby contradicted. He straightened up and took a half step back, almost treading on Walter's toes, before adding, "It was my job to create the distraction sending your CO on a wild goose chase. I executed my part of the plan brilliantly, and I don't mind saying so since no one else will. Now I'm at loose ends, so I want to watch Happy in action."
Walter tsked. "Well go watch Sylvester's inaction instead. Happy and I have this. You're both literally and figuratively standing in the way of progress. This office is too cramped for all of us."
"Why don't you go keep watch?" Toby argued, "Me and the roughly 300 million other people in this world who aren't bird watching weirdos don't know the call of the Ko'ko' bird. Isn't that the signal Sly chose to alert us? I can help Happy."
"You wouldn't know a ballast tube from an inner tube and you don't know one end of a tool from another, so you'd be a useless assistant for Happy." Walter frowned, jaw setting stubbornly.
Voice slowly raising in volume, the doctor folded his arms across his chest. "You might have heard? I'm pretty smart and I have a medical degree from Harvard. If I can handle a scalpel and identify a Eustachian tube, I can probably figure the rest of it out."
Happy stood up, nearly bumping heads with the aggravated shrink. "While you two ladies were standing here bickering, I got your damn ballast tube," she said holding up the part between her finger and thumb. "Now let's get the hell out of here before your stupid boss gets back."
Suddenly they heard a loud, piercing series of whistles from somewhere down the hall.
"Is that the Ko'ko' bird call?" "How the hell should I know?" "Go! Let's go!" The three friends shouted at once, tripping all over each other in their haste to evacuate the confined space. An avalanche of papers slid off the jostled desk and tumbled to the floor, some of it settling in drifts against the far wall.
The geniuses fell in a jumbled heap of arms and legs in the doorway, the coveted radio part skittering out of Happy's hand and rolling to the opposite side of the hall, just as an MP came to a halt not ten feet away.
"O'Brien! What is the meaning of this?" The officer demanded, his flashlight playing over the muddle of bodies.
Squinting into the beam, Walter looked up from his prone position on the bottom of the pile. "Uh, hello, sir." He wheezed as he yanked one of his arms free and gave an improper, mocking salute.
Happy and Toby disentangled themselves as quickly as possible. The three of them leapt to their feet and stood at attention.
"Well?! What are you doing here this time of night? Explain!"
"Um, Sir. Uh, we were hoping to see if our discharge orders came through. Isn't everyone wondering when we're all going home? If we were kept better informed we wouldn't have to resort to nefarious activities," Walter blurted out, disrespect evident in his patronizing tone.
"All of your discharge papers just got moved to the bottom of the stack," the sergeant snapped. "Now clean up this mess and get out of here. When not on duty, the three of you are confined to quarters until further notice. Don't let me catch you in here after hours again!"
The delinquent friends saluted as the MP stalked away to finish his rounds. Toby's salute quickly morphed into a rude gesture while Walter dropped once again to the floor, feeling around in search of the ballast tube.
Happy groused sourly, "I sure hope it was worth it, Walt."
OXOXOXOXOXO
Two weeks.
It'd been two weeks since he'd dropped that bombshell on Paige.
And just like a bomber pilot, he hadn't stayed around to assess the damage. She hadn't seen him since. He was completely off the radar.
She'd asked everyone she saw if they knew him. She looked for him in the audience at her last two Saturday evening shows at the USO.
Nothing.
Of course it would've helped if she knew his name. That was the first question she would ask if she ever saw him again.
The next would be: What did he expect her to do with the information he imparted before he disappeared?
Her son was a genius? He'd figured that out from the less than ten minutes he'd spent interacting with Ralph?
It certainly explained a few things. Like how Ralph taught himself to read from her battered copies of 'Good Housekeeping'. Or why he spent three days labeling compass points all over the house. Or why he liked fiddling with broken gadgets better than playing with toys.
Paige hated slow days at work. Not only did it mean no tips, but her mind was always too busy wandering while the minutes plodded by.
She looked across the table at her stoic little boy as she rolled silverware into napkins. He was so serious all the time. Even now when he was gobbling down ice cream, his favorite treat, his eyes seemed to focus on a point far distant and completely undetectable to anyone else. Ralph didn't react at all to the claps of thunder chasing closely on the heels of the harsh strobes of lightening or the lashing of the punishing rain pummeling the roof and rattling the windows.
Being able to sit with her son was the one positive to the lack of customers caused by the storm. He was a frequent visitor at her job. Roxy wasn't only Paige's neighbor and one of the few people she trusted to watch Ralph, the kindly grandmother was also a part time cook at Stu's. When their shifts happened to overlap, Ralph would have to occupy himself for a time until one of the women was off the clock. Luckily Stu didn't object as long as the boy didn't bother customers or create a distraction for Paige.
He never did.
Because he lived in a world all his own. And the only man she'd ever met who held the precious treasure map to that world, she'd let slip away without asking his name.
As if her thoughts conjured him, the door burst open and the man himself blew in with a strong gust of wind and rain. His clothes were saturated and his shirt was plastered to his chest like a second skin.
Paige sat there goggling like a moron while he dripped, making a small lake around his feet on the chipped tile floor.
"Hey, Walter," Ralph piped up, pausing between spoonfuls to offer a rare acknowledgement.
Paige's gaze whipped around to her son. Of course Ralph knew the man's name. She hadn't even thought to ask him.
Willing herself to snap out of her stupor, she rose to her feet and grabbed a stack of cup towels off of the bar. "Here you go," she offered, unsure, shoving the towels in his direction. Toward Walter. Walter. It was a good name. A strong name.
Walter dabbed at his clothes and scrubbed at his close-cropped hair, his thanks muffled by toweling.
Now that he was here, Paige's questions flew out of her head and scattered like a spooked flock of sparrows until she couldn't locate a single one. She stood there mute and still until he gestured at seat across from her son and inquired, "May I?"
Wide-eyed, she nodded her ascent and left to pour him a cup of coffee, hoping the familiar task would help her recover her wits. It had been years since she'd reacted this strongly to a man. If ever. She told herself it was because he held the keys to unlocking her mysterious son.
"Good to see you again, Ralph," Walter said with a fond smile. "I have something for you."
He reached into his soggy shirt pocket and withdrew the prized ballast tube.
The spoon dropped with a loud clatter into Ralph's nearly empty bowl. Face filled with wonder, the youngster tentatively reached for the gift. In awed disbelief he whispered, "For me?"
Nodding, Walter asked, "Did you bring your radio with you today?"
"In my knapsack under the bar." The boy was all but bouncing with excitement.
"Well, go and get it. Let's see if we can fix it."
Paige walked up just as both man and boy were exchanging identical grins of enthusiasm.
Her son leapt up and darted away while Paige was setting a steaming mug in front of Walter.
"I thought you could use a hot drink. I don't want you to catch cold from getting drenched in the rain." Her eyes were following her son as he was scrambling behind the bar. She'd never seen Ralph this thrilled about anything.
Walter gave her a fleeting, sidelong look. "Thanks, but I'm no more prone to contracting a virus because I got wet. That's an old wives' tale. The science doesn't support it. However, you are suffering from anemia. It causes your nails to be pitted. That's why your polish streaks. You need more iron in your diet."
Paige's mouth dropped open. She didn't know whether to be insulted or shocked at his gall. "My polish streaks because Ralph does it. He likes to paint. And I don't remember asking your opinion. You shouldn't point out flaws in others. That hurt my feelings. Do you understand?"
Walter cringed apologetically. "I've been told things like that before. People with high IQs tend to have low EQ. That's emotional quotient. I don't always recognize when I'm being inappropriate. I don't gauge emotions in others well, because I don't have them myself."
He glanced at Ralph as he dragged his knapsack out of its hiding place, hefted it over one shoulder and stumbled back toward the table. "And your son doesn't like to paint. He wants to hold your hand, but he has trouble processing touch."
Fascinated, Paige sank down into a chair next to Walter's while the whole flock of her scattered inquiries returned to roost. She wasn't going to let him escape this time until he'd answered every single one.