Read Online Twenty Blue Devils by Aaron Elkins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aaron Elkins
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."
Nick laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “ask him how many other words he knows."
"More than you, anyway,” Parks said. ‘That's for dang sure."
"You're probably right at that,” Nick said agreeably.
The two of them had been friends a long time, he had explained in the car. Private First-Class Nick Druett and Corporal Dean Parks had met during the war, when both of them were in the same platoon, first in the Solomons and then on Bora Bora. Afterward, they had returned individually to French Polynesia to seek their fortunes and had run into each other again. They had talked about going into the hotel business together, but decided to try their luck on their own instead and had enjoyed a friendly competition of sorts ever since.
Nick had put all his money into a large copra plantation on Tahiti. ("The truth is, I didn't even know what the damn stuff was. I didn't know if you farmed it, or grew it on trees, or raised it on the hoof.") He'd done well with it too, but sold off most of the land a few years later and used the money to buy property on the outer islands, where he'd eventually opened a chain of four small hotels that he still owned. The remainder of the old copra plantation was now the Paradise Coffee farm, and although Nick still talked longingly about building more hotels—in particular a huge golf course resort on Bora Bora—his energies had gone increasingly into the coffee business.
Dean, more single-minded, had gone about it differently, sticking to his first project for almost fifty years now. He'd bought a decrepit old hotel on a near-worthless strip of beach between Papara and Paea, torn it down, put up a sprawling collection of ocean-front bungalows—he'd hammered nails right alongside the Tahitian carpenters—and christened the place the Shangri-La. Luck had been on his side. When the new international airport at Faaa eventually opened, turning Tahiti from a remote beachcomber's haven to a jet-set destination, there was only one decent American-style hotel on the island, and the Shangri-La was it.
According to Nick, that's the way it had remained for almost five years, and Parks had raked in the cash. More recently, the hotel chains—the giant Sofitel, the twelve-story Hyatt built into a mountainside—had siphoned off the more lucrative of the American tour groups, but the Shangri-La still had arrangements with several foreign airlines and was holding its own with a steady flow of groups from Chile and Hong Kong. And Dean was a great guy who took care of them in style. Not to worry.
"I'm going to take off now,” Nick said. He smiled at his old friend. “I really appreciate your waiting up for them, Dean."
"No problem. At what I'm charging you, I can afford to give personal service. Shoot, their keys are in the office. I'll be right back."
Nick waited for him to leave. “Um, by the way,” he said, looking just a little sheepish, Gideon thought, “tomorrow, at dinner? Could we not say anything about—well, you know.” He mimed digging with a shovel. “I haven't gotten around to telling them why you're here yet."
Gideon and John looked at each other. There was something funny in the air, all right.
"Nick,” John said, “that doesn't make any sense. They already know why we're here. They were right there when we talked about it at my house, remember? Nelson, Rudy, Maggie—"
"Yes, but they don't necessarily know that's why you're here now . They think you're just coming for the memorial service."
"And me?” Gideon said.
"So? John brought a friend along."
Gideon shook his head. “But I'll be gone by then. Besides, I don't like to—"
"Look, guys, could we do it my way, please? Can't we at least have a nice, friendly family get-together first, without spoiling it with...Look, I promise I'll straighten everything out the next morning. I just hate...ah, what the hell.” His face sagged with exhaustion; the exchange, along with the hour, had taken the starch out of him. For the
Nick laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “ask him how many other words he knows."
"More than you, anyway,” Parks said. ‘That's for dang sure."
"You're probably right at that,” Nick said agreeably.
The two of them had been friends a long time, he had explained in the car. Private First-Class Nick Druett and Corporal Dean Parks had met during the war, when both of them were in the same platoon, first in the Solomons and then on Bora Bora. Afterward, they had returned individually to French Polynesia to seek their fortunes and had run into each other again. They had talked about going into the hotel business together, but decided to try their luck on their own instead and had enjoyed a friendly competition of sorts ever since.
Nick had put all his money into a large copra plantation on Tahiti. ("The truth is, I didn't even know what the damn stuff was. I didn't know if you farmed it, or grew it on trees, or raised it on the hoof.") He'd done well with it too, but sold off most of the land a few years later and used the money to buy property on the outer islands, where he'd eventually opened a chain of four small hotels that he still owned. The remainder of the old copra plantation was now the Paradise Coffee farm, and although Nick still talked longingly about building more hotels—in particular a huge golf course resort on Bora Bora—his energies had gone increasingly into the coffee business.
Dean, more single-minded, had gone about it differently, sticking to his first project for almost fifty years now. He'd bought a decrepit old hotel on a near-worthless strip of beach between Papara and Paea, torn it down, put up a sprawling collection of ocean-front bungalows—he'd hammered nails right alongside the Tahitian carpenters—and christened the place the Shangri-La. Luck had been on his side. When the new international airport at Faaa eventually opened, turning Tahiti from a remote beachcomber's haven to a jet-set destination, there was only one decent American-style hotel on the island, and the Shangri-La was it.
According to Nick, that's the way it had remained for almost five years, and Parks had raked in the cash. More recently, the hotel chains—the giant Sofitel, the twelve-story Hyatt built into a mountainside—had siphoned off the more lucrative of the American tour groups, but the Shangri-La still had arrangements with several foreign airlines and was holding its own with a steady flow of groups from Chile and Hong Kong. And Dean was a great guy who took care of them in style. Not to worry.
"I'm going to take off now,” Nick said. He smiled at his old friend. “I really appreciate your waiting up for them, Dean."
"No problem. At what I'm charging you, I can afford to give personal service. Shoot, their keys are in the office. I'll be right back."
Nick waited for him to leave. “Um, by the way,” he said, looking just a little sheepish, Gideon thought, “tomorrow, at dinner? Could we not say anything about—well, you know.” He mimed digging with a shovel. “I haven't gotten around to telling them why you're here yet."
Gideon and John looked at each other. There was something funny in the air, all right.
"Nick,” John said, “that doesn't make any sense. They already know why we're here. They were right there when we talked about it at my house, remember? Nelson, Rudy, Maggie—"
"Yes, but they don't necessarily know that's why you're here now . They think you're just coming for the memorial service."
"And me?” Gideon said.
"So? John brought a friend along."
Gideon shook his head. “But I'll be gone by then. Besides, I don't like to—"
"Look, guys, could we do it my way, please? Can't we at least have a nice, friendly family get-together first, without spoiling it with...Look, I promise I'll straighten everything out the next morning. I just hate...ah, what the hell.” His face sagged with exhaustion; the exchange, along with the hour, had taken the starch out of him. For the
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