"Honey," he began, as he drinks arrived at their table. "I've some bad news, I'm afraid."The woman rested a finger against her cheek and frowned. "You out of money, Arty?"
Rutherford laughed in spite of himself. Honey was all business, a professional first and foremost. He reached into his shirt pocket and and pulled out a few small banknotes, which he tucked down the "V" of her gown. The frown disappeared.
"Money is never a problem," he replied, withdrawing his hand slowly. He enjoyed her smile and the smoothness of her flesh as his fingertips brushed against her chin. How easily her happiness was won. "You know me better than that, don't you?"
She ran the palm of her right hand over his thigh, assuring him that she knew him quite well indeed. But as much as he loved her touch, he was still too tense to completely relax and take advantage of her company. His shoulder was sore. He had too much on his mind, and he'd had too little to drink. The timing was off.
Rutherford took her hand from his leg and held it gently. Should he explain to her? Could he?
"Your hand's all sticky, Arty! What you been up to? You been a cheat on-me-guy? Where you been tonight? Why you don't come here to see me more soon?"
Again, she had forced him to laugh. What a pro, Rutherford thought to himself. She would chide him all evening unless he gave in. And she would surely hear gossip about him tomorrow anyway, so he explained how he had split his drink and how the tappers had humiliated him at the bar. It made a pretty good tale, but Honey simply pouted and did not say a word until he had finished. It surprised him how serious she looked.
"You got old, Arty," she said. "You were the tough one. Mr. Tough Guy. But you got old. The tappers, they know what is kuasa now. They all know. You can't fight kuasa, Arty. You don't know how it is so strong. They can kill you."
Maybe they could, he mused. They were young, and they were strong. It was true that they had developed kuasa, this kind of mystical "power." He had seen some of them practicing silat, their martial art, in a clearing near the rubber groves. They fought with their feet now, and they were faster than Rutherford had ever been with his fists. Sixteen years ago, he could have take any two of them on without a bit of trouble. Back then, sheer size made the difference. But nowadays he was heavy and slow. They had grown better while he had grown worse, and as much as he hated to admit it, here was truth in what Honey had said. He was nearing fifty and getting too old for brawls.
"That bother you, Arty?" Honey's voice broke his trance. "They scare you, the tappers?"
