It was a brand-new restaurant to go with the brand-new Japanese bridge leading east. Sunset lit the water red. Fans spun overhead, politely, enough to eddy Kleat’s cigar smoke but not rustle the pages of Duncan’s World Tribune. The starched white tablecloth was immaculate.None of it seemed real.“We find their pilot for them,” Kleat said, “and like that, adios, pendejos.”“For the record, he’s not found yet, only his helmet,” said Duncan. “And one other thing, it was Molly who found him. Not us.” He raised a toast to her.Molly gamely lifted her glass. Kleat passed.The ice-cold Heineken was like culture shock. She sat there. Her farmer tan torpedoed the dandelion-yellow sundress she had been saving for just such an evening. It jumped up at her, the sunburn and freckles to her upper arms, then the shoulders as white as moons. She looked half naked to herself. And her hair, like something chopped to Goth with surgical scissors, which was what she’d resorted to. She lifted her chin.
