Free Buzz Cut by James W. Hall Page A

to his shoulders, wavy and clean. Light blue eyes that held to hers. Eyes with a deep spark. In faded jeans and a crisp white button down shirt. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, a deep chest. His skin was pale, more white than cream. In his early twenties. A mouth poised on the edge of a smile. Only a degree or two off Hollywood handsome. Nose too prominent, a half inch too much forehead. Interesting, you'd call him, worth a second look. A third. Irma was vaguely curious. The moon in the right phase. Her cowboy for the night, perhaps.
    "Abracadabra," the man said. "It's from the Hebrew ab, which means father, and ben, which is son, and ruach acadasb, which is the holy spirit. Do you like words? I do. I like words. My mother gave me a lifelong interest in them. I study them. We become friends. Words in my mouth, saying them, the feel of them, bringing them alive, and them bringing me alive. Do you have words like that, words you enjoy feeling in your mouth? Words that bring you alive? Abracadabra. Father, son, and holy ghost."
    The young man smiled at her and leaned closer. "Look, I know this isn't a normal way to begin a conversation, discussing etymologies. But these things are on my mind, and you should say what's on your mind. Don't you agree? Anyway, the fact is, since we're old friends, I thought we could jump over the formalities anyway. Get reacquainted."
    Irma changed her mind. She slipped down from her stool, picked up her pad and razor pen, and stepped away from him. Feeling the tidal pull of his voice, the dark undertow. Resisting it. "Are you fleeing? Have I scared you?"
    "I don't scare that easy."
    "Don't you remember me?"
    He was a yard away. Composed, his eyes on hers as if this were the end of a pleasant date, warming up to the kiss.
    "My name is Butler Jack. In that order, Butler first, then Jack. I've found I have to explain it because some people, they hear my name, they think there's a comma between the words, like I'm saying it backward. But that's frontward. Butler Jack. Ring a bell?"
    "No," she said.
    He showed her a charming smile. "Come on, don't fool around. Sure you do."
    "I don't know any Butler Jack, frontward or backward."
    "Oh, stop," he said. "You don't need to keep pretending."
    "You have me confused with someone else," she said. "I'm Irma Slater."
    "No, you're not. You're Monica Sampson. Daughter of Morton Sampson of Fiesta Cruise Lines. And I'm the kid who was in love with you. Butler Jack, the one who sent you love letters. Long letters full of poetry. I'm finally here. I've come to get you like I promised."

CHAPTER 6

    The woman known as Irma Slater coaxed herself back to her stool and settled there. Took a casual sip of the warm slosh in the bottom of her bottle. Felt the fish sandwich turn, grow fins, swim upward.
    "Your daddy made number forty-one on the Forbes list last year. Did you know that? Only a dozen Americans above him. Closing in on some of the lesser Saudis. And I was very sorry about your mother. I would've gone to the funeral, but back then, four years ago, I was at sea. Working the cruises. By the time I got back to port, the funeral was long over. She was a beautiful woman, your mother. Not up to your standards maybe, but striking just the same."
    Irma drew a clumsy breath. She glanced across at Jesse. He was washing glasses, bobbing up and down, focused on his work. She steadied herself with a hand against the bar. Looked closely at this guy. Hair off-blond, a tinge of red, or maybe that was the lights. His eyes darting around, interested in everything, the people coming and going, Jesse working behind the bar, Butler's gaze returning to her with a crinkle of humor as if he were absorbing this place, amused to find her in such a spot.
    "You're making a mistake. You're confused."
    "You haven't changed that much, Monica. Sure, your hair is different. Oh, I understand why you cut it. It isn't just for the disguise, is it? You wanted to get rid of all those years hanging down