honor, because each one stood for something.
Of course, he couldn’t tell their stories to most people, because the details were classified, but all the scars meant something to him. Like secret tattoos that no one knew about.
The droning of a small aircraft caught Payne’s attention, and he watched it glide across the azure sky and touch down at Albert Whit-ted Airport, a two-runway facility on the scenic waterfront, a few blocks away. It was the type of airfield that handled banner towing and sightseeing tours. Not large commuter jets. And certainly not the tactical fighters that he had observed during the last forty-eight hours. They required a lot more asphalt and much better pilots.
Every few months Payne visited U.S. military installations around the globe with his best friend and former MANIAC, David Jones. They were briefed on the latest equipment and offered their opinions to top brass on everything from training to tactics. Even though both soldiers were retired from active duty, they were still considered valuable assets by the Pentagon.
Part expert, part legend.
Their latest trip had brought them to Florida, where MacDill Air Force Base occupies a large peninsula in the middle of Tampa Bay-8 miles south of downtown Tampa and 9 miles east of St. Petersburg. All things considered, it wasn’t a bad place to be stationed. Or to visit. Which is why Payne and Jones always looked forward to their next consulting trip.
They picked the destination, and the military picked up the tab.
“Hey!” called a voice from below. “You finally awake?”
Payne glanced down and saw David Jones standing on the sidewalk, staring up at him. Jones was 5’ 9” and roughly 40 pounds lighter than Payne. He had light brown skin, short black hair, and a thin nose that held his stylish sunglasses in place. Sadly, the rest of his outfit wasn’t nearly as fashionable: a green floral shirt, torn khaki cargo shorts, and a pair of flip-flops.
“I’m starving,” Jones said. “You want to get some chow?”
“With you? Not if you’re wearing
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“Honestly? It looks like Hawaiian camouflage.”
Jones frowned, trying to think of a retort. “Yeah, well . . .”
“Well, what?”
“Maybe I’m looking to get
Payne laughed. It wasn’t a bad comeback for a Sunday morning. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Ten minutes later the duo was walking along Bayshore Drive. The temperature was in the mid-seventies with low humidity. Gentle waves lapped against the stone wall that lined the harbor, while palm trees swayed in the breeze. Payne wore a golf shirt and shorts, an outfit considered dressy in Florida, where many people wore T-shirts or no shirts at all.
As they turned onto Second Avenue NE toward the St. Petersburg Pier, Payne and Jones spotted a parked trolley bus called the Looper. It was light blue and filled with tourists who were taking pictures of a tiny brick building with a red-tiled roof. A senior citizen tour guide, wearing a beige Panama hat and speaking with a Southern drawl, explained the building’s significance over the trolley’s intercom system. They stopped to listen to his tale.
“You are looking at the fanciest public restroom in America, affectionately known as Little Saint Mary’s. Built in 1927 by Henry Taylor, it is a scaled-down replica of Saint Mary Our Lady of Grace, the gorgeous church he built on Fourth Street that we’ll be seeing soon. Both buildings are typical of the Romanesque Revival style, featuring several colors of brick, arched windows, and topped with a copper cupola. This one’s approximately twenty feet high and fifty feet wide.”
Cameras clicked as the tour guide continued.
“As the legend goes, the local diocese offered Taylor a large sum of money to build the octagonal church that he finished in 1925. However, for reasons unknown, they chose not to pay him the full amount. Realizing that he couldn’t win a fight with the Church, he opted to get revenge instead. At that time the city was taking bids to build a comfort station, a fancy term for bathroom, somewhere near the waterfront. Taylor made a ridiculously low bid, guaranteeing that he would get the project. From there, he used leftover materials from the church site and built the replica that you see before you, filling it with toilets instead of pews.”
The tour guide smiled. “It was his way of saying that the Catholic Church was full of crap!”
Everyone laughed, including Payne and Jones, as the Looper pulled away from the curb and turned toward the Vinoy. Meanwhile, the duo remained, marveling at the carved stone columns and the elaborate tiled roof of Little Saint Mary’s.
“Remind me to go in there later,” Jones said. “And I mean that literally.”
3
The Columbia Restaurant is the world’s largest Spanish restau rant. Opened in 1905 in Ybor City, a historic district in Tampa where hand-rolled cigars and Cuban mojitos are ubiquitous, the Columbia has fifteen dining rooms and enough seating for 1,700 people. Throw in the kitchens and the wine cellar, and the restaurant occupies 52,000 square feet, filling an entire city block.
Payne and Jones had eaten there on many occasions-it was practically a requirement anytime they visited MacDill AFB-and had been tempted to drive there for brunch. That was before they learned the Columbia had opened a St. Petersburg location within walking distance of their hotel. Built on the fourth floor of the Pier, an inverted five-story pyramid filled with shops at the end of a quarter-mile turnaround, the restaurant had the same menu as the original, while offering 360-degree waterfront views.
The duo took their seats next to a massive window overlooking the bay and the airfield. Within seconds, water was poured and freshly baked Cuban bread was placed on the table. Jones wasted no time, tearing the flaky crust with his hands and stuffing a chunk into his mouth.
Payne laughed at the sight. “Hungry?”
“Famished. I’ve been up since dawn. Damn seagulls woke me up.”
“Seagulls? I’ve seen you sleep through enemy fire.”
Jones shrugged. “Have you ever heard those relaxation tapes where they play New Age music over whales humping and birds singing? Those things freak me out. No way in hell I could fall asleep to that. I’d lie there all night, counting grunts and squeaks. But give me the rumble of a turbine or the gentle patter of gunfire, and I’m out like a light.”
Payne smiled. “You’re one messed-up dude.”
“Me? Look who’s talking! What time did you fall asleep? Or haven’t you yet?”
“Actually, last night wasn’t too bad. It would’ve been perfect if it wasn’t for the damn phone. Woke me up in the middle of the night.”
“Anything important?”
“Who knows? They hung up before I could answer.”
“No caller ID?”
Payne shook his head. “It was the hotel phone. At least I think it was. I was groggy.”
“Did you check your cell?”
“I tried, but I had a slight problem.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Both pieces of it. “I was hoping you could fix it.”
Jones put down his bread and studied the device. He had majored in computer science at the Air Force Academy and was a whiz with electronics. “How’d you manage this?”
“I think I knocked it off the nightstand. But I’m not sure. I was sleeping.”
“No big deal. It’s just the battery. Unfortunately, something is jamming the slot.”
“I know. That’s why I brought it to the wizard. I figured you could work your magic.”
Jones grabbed a butter knife and went to work. Five minutes later, it was fixed. He pushed the power button just to be sure, then put it on the table in front of Payne. “Good as new.”
“Thanks! You just saved me a hundred bucks.”
“Not really,” he assured him. “I’m gonna eat more than that, and you’re paying.”
