Free The Daisy Ducks by Rick Boyer

high. It
was an Asian face that was staring at me. The straight black hair was
gathered in a bun behind the woman's head, and fine tendrils of it
drifted around her beautiful face. The eyes and face bore a look of
sublime seriousness.
    She was a six-footer—unheard of in Asian females. I
quickly looked down at her feet. Was she wearing high-heeled boots?
No, moccasins. Was she Mongolian? The North Chinese are huge. But her
face wasn't Mongolian. The skin was too dark and the face too
rounded. She looked Vietnamese. A gorgeous Vietnamese giant. How long
did I stand gaping at her? Six months?
    "Excuse me," I murmured, too bewitched to
move.
    She didn't reply. I was dying to hear her voice, but
she slipped by me, silent as a wraith. Just as our faces met she
smiled quickly. Beautiful. The last I saw of her was from behind, her
lithe form dressed in white jeans and a ski parka, rounding the turn
on the landing to continue up the stairway. Then she was gone.
 
 
    5
    I WENT HOME after that and made a pot of steaming
keemun, which I drank in the living room while holding the list in
front of me. Certainly Roantis needed help; he was dead broke and
soon would be over his head in debt. And I owed him a big favor. Big,
but not huge.
    The five-by-seven list in my hand looked huge. It had
the presence of the Magna Carta or the Declaration of Independence. I
picked up the phone and dialed the overseas operator. Manila was on
the opposite side of the globe from Boston. I told the operator I
wanted to place a call to the U.S. military hospital there at ten
RM., which would be midmorning over there. Next I called the number
after Vilarde's name. Out of service. So much for that. I called
Rosie Vilarde in LA. No answer. I called the Flying K Ranch in
Leander, Texas, and asked to speak to Fred Kaunitz. A nice lady with
a heavy Mexican accent said that Senor Kaunitz was "no en casa"
at the moment. I left a message for him to call me back collect,
saying I was a close friend of a mutual friend, Liatis Roantis. I
wasn't certain she got the message entirely correct, but it was clear
enough. Back to Rosie Vilarde, still not home. On to Mike Summers.
Last known address was 5472 South Woodlawn, in the Hyde Park section
of the South Side of Chicago. As a sometime visitor to the University
of Chicago, I was acquainted with the area. Parts of Hyde Park are
very nice. Other sections are very mean. The address indicated that
Summers lived north of the Midway Plaisance, which meant it was
probably decent. South of the Midway, you might need an armored
personnel carrier to get around safely. There was no number. I called
Information and was told there were eight or nine Michael Summerses
in Hyde Park. None lived at 5472 South Woodlawn. I finally boiled it
down to three likely prospects, and struck out on all of them. Next I
tried the Summerses under women's names. I finally found it under
Ella C. Summers, 9605 South Blackstone. Ella herself answered, saying
she was Mikey's mamma. Mikey worked for a security company, night
shift. She didn't know where he was now. Probably down at the Blue
Flame Lounge around the corner.
    It didn't sound as if Michael Summers, formerly of
the Daisy Ducks, had found himself a comfy and lucrative niche in the
civilian world. I asked Ella Summers to have Mike call me collect
when he returned. I did not expect him to take me up on my offer, but
I'd keep trying anyway.
    I went out to the florist's and bought Mary a dried
flower arrangement as a token of peace. Then I went to the wool shop
and bought her some new tartan cloth that had just arrived from the
Outer Hebrides. She could sew herself a kilt from it. A couple of
silver Scottish thistle pins completed the package. These I
gift-wrapped and placed on the hall table. I was not trying to buy
her off; one does not buy off a woman like Mary. I was just trying to
smooth the way a little. She had remained pleasant, but distant,
during the past two weeks.
    Mary got home at