Grand Cayman Slam Read Free Page B

roared through the thin air of twenty thousand feet, over beautiful Isle of Pines and the other small islands of southern Cuba.
    I have been lucky enough with women—but I’m nowhere near in that film-star category of men which makes beautiful women press motel keys into their hands. I am big enough, but my hair is sun-bleached and matted, and I have scars enough on face and hands to frighten the weak of heart.
    And this was one very beautiful woman.
    So it was a mystery. I toyed with it for a while, then decided to find out just what in the hell her interest was. No easy task, really. Flight attendants have seen every conceivable brand of come-on. Especially the pretty ones.
    Finally, I finished my beer and signaled for another. She smiled as she walked down the narrow aisle.
    “Something else to drink?”
    “Another bottle of this, if you have it.”
    “We have plenty. Everyone else is drinking the rum punch.”
    “Great. I hope they drink it all.”
    “It really isn’t bad. You should try it.”
    “Is that why you’ve been staring at me? Wondering why I won’t drink your punch?”
    She stiffened for a moment. “I wasn’t staring at you.” And then she laughed. “Well, I guess maybe I was.”
    “I thought maybe I had something caught between my teeth. It worried me.”
    “Oh, your teeth are fine. It’s just that I thought I recognized you.”
    “Shouldn’t I be saying that?”
    “Lord, I guess that does sound like some awful line.”
    “Not so awful, because I have a feeling you mean it.”
    “Oh, I do. I used to work for another airline and we carried a lot of the pro teams. I keep thinking that I’ve seen you before. And the only place I can think we might have met is maybe on some flight. Are you a professional baseball player or something like that?”
    “Baseball has never gotten desperate enough to sign someone who hits the curve as poorly as I do.”
    “Football? You look like a football player.”
    I shook my head, smiling. Closer, she was even prettier. Silent, she was the picture of composure. But when she spoke, with her soft Cayman accent, she had just the slightest syncopation of speech that suggested she might have stuttered as a child. “I’m way too clumsy to be a football player,” I said.
    She eyed me carefully. “I’m not sure I believe that. You look anything but clumsy to me.” An electronic bell chimed softly behind her. It was the signal to prepare for landing. She grinned at me and gave a shrug. “Maybe we met in another life then, huh?”
    “If we did, I was a fool to leave it.”
    “How nice of you to say.” She hesitated for a moment, torn between conversation and her job. “Will you be staying on Grand Cayman long?” she asked quickly.
    “I’m not sure. I’ve got some business to take care of. I suppose you’ll be flying out tonight.”
    “No—I’ve got a week off. Some other girls and I keep an apartment there. It’s better than staying with my parents. I’m just going to lie around the pool . . . ”
    “And drink punch?”
    “It really is good. I think you ought to stop by and have some.”
    “Maybe I will.”
    “Diacona Ebanks.” She held out a soft hand, and I held it briefly. “My friends call me Dia.”
    “And my name is MacMorgan. Dusky.”
    She smiled again. “I’m at the Sea Mist Apartments, Mr. MacMorgan. Make sure you stop by. I feel I owe you something for being so rude. People shouldn’t stare, you know.”
    With that, she moved away, slim hips and smoke-brown hair swaying, bracing herself against airpockets as we readied ourselves for descent.
    I felt the stares of passengers seated nearby on the back of my head, and I saw the looks of envy from the vacationing men. She was some pretty lady, and I couldn’t blame them.
    Below, the sea was a turquoise desert glazed with copper. The sun was wheeling westward, low on the horizon, setting toward another day, other countries, and other lives.
    The plane banked to port, bringing