The boss told him to clean up and lock up before he left. The place still smelled of cheap whiskey, stale smoke, and sweat from the people dancing and swaying to the band that played just a few moments ago. He had planned on cleaning up and then practicing for a while in the quiet night. As he picked up empty bottles, glasses, and full ashtrays he did not notice he was not alone until he walked toward the back and saw those amazing legs and heard a smooth as silk voice simply say “sit.” So he sat, and kept staring at those legs. A plume of smoke rose from the shadows. A hand reached out and picked up a drink, the ice cubes that once swam in the liquid had long given up the fight to now only water down the lukewarm beverage. She took a sip, and took another hit off the cigarette lighting her face just the slightest bit. His eyes were drawn instantly from her legs to her face, and he concentrated hard to make her out. She snubbed out the butt and leaned forward in the leather booth. At. It just seemed so wrong to be munching on loaded potato skins instead of the usual tikka and rice.Given its “girls night out” vibe -- I could understand why a TGI Friday’s was Rinaldi’s version of the Happy Hunting Ground. Plus, it was probably the only place in Haji-Land where a woman could hang out and not need a Berka. So all the civilian workers at the Kandahar Airport drank there.Rinaldi had appropriated one of the hospital’s medical transport Humvees – think, “giant hulking, armored, diesel powered ambulance with red crosses on the side.” I had wondered why he had taken that beast instead of one of the staff cars. I stopped wondering when he began to work his magic.We had been there perhaps ten seconds when Rinaldi locked onto two women sitting by themselves. They were at what the locals laughingly called a “bar.” They looked like they might be clericals in airport operations.One was built along the same lines as our Humvee. But she had a pretty face. The other one was actually.
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