"That's just it, Latisha.
We should do what?
For twenty years guys in prison do what they're told.
Get up at six.
Eat at eight.
Take a
shit
at - you get the picture.
Guys don't elect the warden, they don't make the rules.
Then, bingo!
Frank Villa expects in one day they'll become model citizens.
He's dreaming.
When the head of a prison organization says, 'Show up for work on Monday,' the guys will show up."
"What about that little girl's mother?"
"Hey - that's her wish."
"Prostitution?"
"Extra money."
Latisha shook her head.
"And we're breaking the prison fag habit."
"Oh come on, Gil."
"Listen, fine lady, you don't legislate morality.
You channel wild behavior, you control it.
You make a business out of it.
You don't shake your finger at it.
Swear to God, sometimes I think Villa's setting up a church men's group."
"I don't know about all that, but - "
He started to turn into a driveway - "What is this?"
"This is the what I wanted to show you, the Officers' Club."
He stopped in the parking lot.
A sign said this was the Eagle's Nest Officers' Club and this was COMO and UOPH and BOQ, but the part of the sign that explained the letters was gone.
He shut off the engine.
"How are we going to get to our house if this car won't start?"
"Don't worry.
It'll start.
I want to show you this place.
It's fine."
He wasn't answering her questions, but in any case, she thought, it might be interesting to get an idea of Navy life.
The US Navy, unlike many others - the Russians, the Japanese - had learned to live on these islands. They had rec. centers, hobby shops and even a McDonald's.
It wasn't the devil wind that defeated the Navy - it was peace with the Russians.
She smiled.
"Let's take a look."
"All right," he said enthusiastically and opened his door.
"Wait," she said putting her hand on his arm.
"My luggage, my dishes, where are they?"
"Not to worry.
They're in the trunk."
"Gil, you're sure?"
It wasn't really the dishes, the platinum-edged Grace china, that were important.
It was the old heavy cast-iron skillet.
More of her mother was in that skillet than in the china.
Her mother's early married life, frying bacon for her husband as he struggled through medical school.
Even later when they had a maid.
A week before she died, Latisha found her out of bed, stir-frying some onions and peppers in the skillet.
"This skillet is
gonna
be yours, Latisha," she said.
"Be sure you don't go scrubbing it too deep.
You'll wipe out your father and me."
That skillet was all she had left in the world.
Just a layer of carbon on an old skillet, some platinum-edged china, and a marriage about to undergo one last try.
She had to do what she could.
"Come on," he said, "bundle up.
I'll show you."
He got out and opened the trunk.
There was her luggage, the china, and the heavy-looking box marked kitchen.
Seeing her dishes made her want to get settled.
"I can't wait to get to our house.
Right after we do this tour, we go home, okay, Gil?"
He smiled and closed the trunk.
"Let's go.
It's raining."
They ran for the covered entrance.
As he rounded a corner of the building, the wind and the slippery grass sent him sliding to the ground.
"Shit," he said.
Green stains and muddy, sandy dirt covered one side of his blue prison pants.
"Jesus Christ, what a place!" he exclaimed.
In the entryway they loosened their parkas and walked in. She noticed his eyes exploring the walls of the entryway.
He touched the walls.
"Need paint?" she asked.
"No.
Great place for posters."
The door to the club was ajar.
Old dusty offices lined the wall on the left.
They had military titles and letters on the doors.
To the right there was a ballroom with a stage up front.
Through the dusty darkness of the room they could see a broken window and a stage curtain billowing in the wind.
"Gil, a ballroom!"
She clutched his hand tightly and smiled.
"Our daughter will have her first dance here."
"Slow down, fine lady, we haven't even - "
He paused and squeezed her hand in return.
"A ballroom."
"Take me around the floor once, like you used to, Gil."
He held her and moved her around to the music she hummed.
"Jesus, Jesus, it's good to be with you," he said.
"Thank you for coming here.
I love you."
She hugged him. "Ah, Gil, come on, we can see this place another time.
Let's go home."
He turned her back toward the entrance to the ballroom.
"Look at that bar," he said pointing across the hall. They walked across and looked at the polished wooden bar, the round tables and chairs, neatly stacked in the corner.
The walls and the bar were done in a nautical motif and old anchors, fishnets, and harpoons were scattered about.
"This is perfect!" he said.
He glanced back at the series of offices.
"And offices and - let's keep going."
As they walked down the hall a middle-aged man in coveralls walked toward them, his eyes on the ceiling, following an exposed water pipe. He had been a few ahead of them in line at the air terminal.
He reminded Latisha of the handyman in her apartment, not that they looked alike, but that they both presented themselves to the world as possessed of the only real truth - the secrets of plumbing.
"This is your water main," the man said pointing to the pipe in the ceiling.
"Is that right?" Gil answered.
"Yeah, it's in pretty good shape.
You should see some of the buildings, pipes ripped apart.
Earthquake did it, you know.
Name's Nelson," the man said offering his hand.
"I heard of you. They call you The Plumber."
"Right.
Studied it in the joint."
"Any idea when we'll get water hooked up again?"
"Nope.
You'll get it right in your turn.
Houses first."
"If we got running water, we'd sure be grateful.
And indoor toilets."
"You and everybody else.
Fresh water first, then the toilets.
Just have to be patient."
Latisha smiled to herself.
This man was no maybe man.
This was a man of yes and no.
"I mean, we'd pay extra," Gilmore said and winked.
"A few extra dead presidents in your wallet.
You could buy better tools."
He patted a crescent wrench on the side of his coveralls. "Tools I have are fine."
"I'm Boss Gilmore, you know."
"I know."
Nelson gestured with his hand.
"Damn fine building.
Villa wants it for a family rec. center."
Gil looked irritated.
"Yes."
Nelson stared at him for a second then turned to her.
"Nice to meet you, Ma'am. Gotta follow this pipe.
Ain't
no damage I can see."
She watched him go, smiling to herself.
She had just witnessed a first.
Somebody told Boss Gilmore no.
"I didn't know Villa wanted this building."
He ignored her and walked further down the hall, where he opened a set of double doors to reveal a small dining room.
The wallpaper was brown and peeling and water had damaged some of the ceiling tiles, but the room had a dignity about it that suggested it might have been an officer's mess.
Gilmore shook his head.
"Unbelievable."
At the back of the dining room they found a well-preserved kitchen with a stainless-steel service counter and a full set of pots and utensils.
She put her hand on the service counter.
"My mother used to run a kitchen like this before she met my father.
Oh - that reminds me.
Your mother gave me a letter for you."
Gilmore took the letter with a look that said he knew what was in it.
Latisha could guess, too.
She liked Gil's mother.
For two years Mother Gilmore took the bus every weekend from Detroit to prison to see him.
Gil read the letter and handed it to her.
It said she was happy he was going to Adak with Latisha and it ended on what Latisha recognized as a usual Mom Gilmore theme:
James, I probably won't live until you return in fifteen years, so please, for me, lead a good life on Adak.
Love Latisha, have children, raise a family.
Use your abilities for good, not evil.
I will see you in the next life.
"She's a good woman," Latisha said.
First he responded with a quick 'Yeah,' but then he stopped as if to remember his mother.
"Yes, she is."
"Gil, do we have to tour this place right now?
Can't we go to our house?"
"Almost finished."
"I thought you wanted to - you know."
He laughed easily and swung his arm around her.
"Come on, it's only
gonna
take a minute more."
They walked through the dining room and down a long hallway.
What looked liked hotel rooms lined the hallway.
"Damn," he said, at the end, "it's damn near perfect."
"Perfect for what?"
He ignored her question and opened the door to the last room.
As he was about to enter, a door from the outside opened.
The wind and rain howled in, followed by Carl Larson struggling with a wooden crate.
Latisha shivered at the look of the man, his massive size, his small mean eyes.
This was the husband of the drunken woman on the plane who had spilled all the newspaper clippings on the floor.
This man was the I-65 killer.
"Hey, Boss," he said with a slow, dull voice, "This is the second load of stuff I've hauled from Clam Lagoon.
There's at
lease
three more loads.
This weather is the shits."
Suddenly his eyes were all over her.
Gilmore nudged himself in front of her, but Larson looked around him.
Rainwater dripped from his face, off his chin.
He looked like he was drooling.
His mouth was sensual, greedy.
A wave of terror swept through her.
Gilmore blocked his view again.
"Take it down to the office, Larson.
Now."
Larson grunted and, with another look at her, sauntered down the hall.
"He scares me," she said.
"A mean bastard.
Kind of a sad story."
"What?"
"They lived in New Orleans. Larson took their little boy down to the docks one day when he was doing a deal. The boy wandered off, fell in and got chewed up by the propeller of a freighter."
"Oh, that's a tragic story."
"Larson snapped after that.
A week later he did the first of the I-65 killings.
And his wife became a hopeless drunk."
"Who did he kill?"
"You don't want to know."
"Who?"
"Women driving alone on the road.
He'd ram their cars from behind, then…."
She shivered.
"I thought you said these were reformed convicts.
And what was he carrying?
Does he work for you?"
Gilmore opened the door to the room they were standing in front of.
"Come on, let's have a look."