A: Want to play Army men with me? B: Who are they battling? A: Oh my Army men don't battle. B: What? Then how do they resolve their disputes? - Army Man #1: Sarge, when that man point his rifle at me, it makes me feel sad. Army Man #2: You need to tell him that Johnny. Yeah, I know, it was way funnier in the Comics page.
Anyone who knew him could have spotted SSgt. Christopher Silas' bad mood from another continent. He'd been caught unaware by the neighborhood children's return from school while he waited for Jamila in the makeshift terrace in front of her apartment. He was stranded in place by two games of sidewalk jump rope, chastising himself for his irresponsibility, for risking so much in exchange of whatever time he could steal to see her between shift changes. It was usually only an hour when military presence was its greatest and he was least likely to be noticed coming and going; two hours if he was luck and Murphy could be recruited into play.
He had decided as he jimmied the flimsy lock on her a door half an hour earlier that not having a lieutenant looking over his shoulder had made him bold and therefore stupid and Christopher Silas was not one to suffer fools kindly. He was on her couch now being even stupider, waiting. He had looked through her desk for a pen and a piece of paper to leave a note. "I was here, I broke your door, I'm sorry, I hope $20 will cover repairs," something simple he could leave with the Eisenstaedt book he'd bought for her on R&R, so she wouldn't be scared when she found her door open and its lock breached. His M9's Russian cousin in a drawer felt like a slap.
It was older but recently cleaned and loaded and what made all the whistles go off in his head; in the possession of a woman who'd been held at gunpoint in front of him less than a year earlier, who'd balked at being in the same room with a gun half that long ago. He had cleared and pocketed the pistol and searched her place from top to bottom in ten minutes knowing where to look because he'd been trained. Nothing turned up.
New furniture wasn't evidence. Neither was the air conditioner in the bedroom, the water heater in the bathroom, the refrigerator and the stove in the kitchen, all the canned meat and fruits in the cupboards, a television set still in its box or a laptop computer that would set him back about three months base pay. He'd gone through every explanation that justified the newfound wealth without making her one of them or in Smoke-Speak, a sand nigger.
Every hair in his arms was standing on end when Jamila pushed the door open and his hand was on the grip of his M9 when her veiled head peered in. Whatever apprehension the broken door had caused was gone when she saw his face.
"What are you doing here?" She asked with a smile that almost made him forget. Almost.
Silas didn't answer. Jamila's veil came off and a bag of groceries did too. Their eyes met through the mirror hanging behind the door. Her hair was Rosemary Woodhouse short again. She didn't turn around to continue speaking.
"I don't have time for sulking children so say whatever is on your mind or leave." Silas shrugged out of his M4 and setting the rifle beside him, by the helmet, held up the gun he'd found on her desk, now without a magazine, by the trigger guard.
"You look settled in," he said. Jamila walked towards the computer. She flipped it open and turned it on.
"And you look like you've been sitting there for a while coming up with explanations so pick your favorite and get out of my house. It's been a long day. I want to be alone."
"Well, I want tickets to the Super Bowl XL but I gotta tell you it's not looking good."
"Who died and appointed you Grand Fucking Wizard of Accountability?" She asked foregoing the computer for a Mandarin orange from the grocery bag.
"The goddamned President of the United States, and he's not dead sweetheart." Silas stood up. He closed his eyes, trying to scale back the anger and dread enough so to be able to think before opening his mouth. "Don't make me do my job please," he begged.
"You'd really drag me out of here in handcuffs Sergeant?" His reply was all business.
"That computer alone costs more than I make in three months so tell me how you can afford all of this on a midwife assistant's salary and why you are keeping a loaded 9mm in your desk or yes, I'll have to take you in for questioning."
"You can call it back pay."
"Who owes you 20,000 dollars?"
"My father," she said at last. "He didn't seem to think I'd require compensation for putting together his bids for reconstruction work for the Brits. The gun is his too and just because I keep it oiled and clean doesn't mean I like the damn thing." Jamila threw the peeled tangerine against the wall. She'd perfected the art of hurling stuff as a pampered wife and it wasn't an easy habit to shake. She rooted through a stack of papers underneath the computer and threw those too; invoices with prices outlined in pounds sterling and product descriptions attached.
"Aegis?" He asked scanning the papers because he couldn't afford take her word at face value. He didn't trust himself enough for that.
"Aegis Defence. It's a British Halliburton. My family supplies the food for Aegis contractors and they can reserve 1,500 cubic feet in secure convoys once per month." Silas eyed the invoices. Paid for by Malik Haddad in Basra, shipped in care of Jamila Haddad, Mosul. He folded the invoices.
"Put yourself in my shoes."
"I'm a big girl Sergeant. You don't have to coddle me," she said disappearing into the kitchen where cupboards opened and closed before she reappeared with an inch of dark, amber whisky in each of the glasses in her hands. She gave one to Silas and drained the second.
"I don't drink whisky." Jamila raised an eyebrow and drained the second glass too as if she'd answered her own question without him. It didn't burn so much the second time. Silas slipped the portrait book from between his shirt and body armor. The hard cover was slightly damp. He wiped it with his sleeves and put it on her desk.
"I saw it in the airport; I thought you might like it."
"Eisenstaedt!" She smiled thumbing the cover. "I love his portrait of Goebbels. It gives me goose bumps."
"I should have known that."
"What?"
"I bought it for Marilyn Monroe and you like Hitler's Minister of Propaganda."
"Just his photo," she flipped the pages to Joseph Goebbels and held it up for him. "Doesn't it chill your blood?" It did. She turned more pages and stopped at Marilyn Monroe's headshot, fuzzy around the edges. "You remembered Marilyn," she added smiling. Silas blushed. Jamila lay down the book. It fell open to a streetwalker in knee-high boots on the Rue Saint-Denis. The line of her shoulders softened.
"I'm sorry about that Little Red Riding Bitch lapse," she said stepping closer. He chuckled and traced the fading scars in her face, lingering along the one on her jawline.
"I can't apologize for searc…"
"I'd think less of you if you did." She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Ta da! That was chapter five. I like Jamila.
Thy Author.