"My God, " Pick said, "you were a vice cop and I have to teach you about booze? Upon my word as an officer and a gentleman, Sergeant Hart, the way one drinks whiskey-and by whiskey, I mean scotch whiskey-is to mix it in equal portions with just a little bit of ice.
I wonder why I used to think scotch tasted like medicine?
George thought after he'd taken a sip of his drink. Well, what the hell, when I was a little kid and pop ate oysters, I used to want to throw up. And now I love them. They're what they call an acquired taste.
He turned on his stool and caught the arm of a waitress.
"Hey, George," she said, "I thought that was you. You look real nice in your uniform."
"Hazel, could you get me a dozen oysters?"
"You bet your life I could, honey." When he turned back to the bar, Jerry handed him a newspaper.
"Seen the paper?"
"No, I haven't. Thank you." He unfolded the paper and spread it on the bar. There was a four-column picture of an aircraft carrier, and below it the headline: AIRCRAFT CARRIER `WASP' SUNK IN
PACIFIC.
He read the story: Washington, DC Sept 15 (AP) - In a terse announcement this afternoon, the I Navy announced that the aircraft carrier USS `Wasp' was lost at sea yesterday (Sept 14), with heavy loss of life, while operating in the Solomon Islands area.
The Navy said that initial reports indicate thèWasp' was struck by at least three Japanese torpedoes from a submarine in an action which also saw a destroyer sunk, and serious, but not fatal, damage caused to the battleship USS `North Carolina."
There was other war news, some of it accompanied by photographs:
in North Africa, German airfields at Benghazi have been attacked by units of the British Long Range Desert Group, and severe damage is reported.
American bombers have attacked Japanese bases in the Aleutian Islands.
The Russian forces defending Stalingrad are in desperate shape. The defense perimeter has been reduced to a thirty-mile area. The German High Command has predicted the fall of the city within a matter of days.
Word has reached London that the Cunard liner `Laconia,' carrying British military dependent families and Italian prisoners of war, has been sunk off the Cape of Good Hope by the German submarine U-156.
On Guadalcanal, in the Solomon Islands, the Marines have succeeded in turning back a Japanese attack on `Bloody Ridge' near the American air base, Henderson Field. Severe Japanese losses were reported.
Jesus Christ, Pick and Dick Stecker are on their way to Guadalcanal. It doesn't seem so fucking impersonal if you know people.
An elbow jabbed Hart in the ribs. He turned and saw that he'd been joined by a fellow noncommissioned officer of The United States Marine Corps, Staff Sergeant Howard H. Wertz, USMC, -the miserable, lying cocksucker who conned him into joining the crotch by telling him he could be sort of a Marine detective.
Sliding his beer glass around in a little puddle on the bar, Wertz gave him a smirking smile.
"You look good, kid," he said. "Parris Island must have been good for you."
"Yeah, all that fresh air," Hart said. "Still scrounging up all the warm bodies you can for the crotch, are you, Sergeant?"
"You know how it is, kid. You're in The Corps, you do what they tell you." I don't really want to stick his head in the spittoon or knock his teeth down his throat. How come? Christ knows, I thought about doing just that by the goddamned hour.
"I guess so," Hart said.
"You know what I wondered when I saw you, Hart?"
"Haven't the faintest fucking idea, Sergeant."
"I wondered where you got those chevrons on your sleeve.
"Oh, you wondered about that, huh?"
"Yeah, I mean, what the hell. I'm not normally a suspicious person, but what is it now, eight weeks since you went off to Parris Island?" Hart did the arithmetic in his head.
"Closer to ten, actually."
"OK, ten, then. You don't get to be a Sergeant in The Corps in ten fucking weeks." `Some people do."
`You know what I think, Hart? And I'm really disappointed. I think you sewed those stripes on to impress broads."
"Well, I admit it works. Some girls think Marine sergeants are really hot shit."
"Yeah, well, assholes like you wearing stripes they haven't earned really piss me off. You better have some orders to go with them stripes." He held out his hand.
"No orders, Sergeant," Hart said. "Sorry.
He reached into the breast pocket of his tunic and took out his leather identification folder. He handed it to Wertz.
Wertz examined with great care the credentials of Special Agent George F. Hart of the Office of Naval Investigation.
"Go fuck yourself, Wertz," Hart said, taking them back.
"I'm not sure I believe that," Wertz said.
"Call me on it, you sonofabitch! Call the MPs and tell them you don't believe it. If I report that I showed you those credentials and told you to get out of my way, and you didn't, you'll be out of Saint Louis on your way to a rifle company so quick your asshole won't catch up with you for a month." Staff Sergeant Wertz made a decision.
"OK. So I'm sorry."
"Get the fuck out of my sight," Hart said. "I don't want to see you in here again as long as I'm in Saint Louis." Staff Sergeant Wertz slid off his stool and walked out of Mooney's bar.
"What the hell was that all about?" Jerry the bartender asked.
"Nothing," Hart said. "Forget it."
"You want another one of these?" Jerry asked, holding up the Haig & Haig.
"Yeah, Jerry, please." I don't feel good about Wertz. Why not?
"Why do I have this feeling that you liked it as well as I did?" Elizabeth "Beth" Lathrop asked, in his bedroom in the suite in the Andrew Foster. When she spoke, neither Beth Lathrop nor George Hart was wearing clothes. And they were both sprawled in more or less close proximity across his bed.
"Cut the bullshit, " he said, and swung his legs out of bed and went to the bottle of scotch on the dresser.
When Elizabeth "Beth " Lathrop came into the suite, she was wearing a blue cotton dress he would remember the rest of his life.
As he would remember the rest of her, the long blond hair parted in the middle and held in place with a bow in back. And the smell of her perfume. And her blue eyes (matching her dress) and her long delicate fingers.
And now her perfect, pink-tipped breasts and the delicate tuft of blond hair at her crotch and the incredible warm softness within.
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning you did what you were paid to do. Leave it at that, for Christ's sake. Skip the bullshit.
He watched her face in the mirror over the dresser. It tightened, and then she shrugged.
Don't tell me I hurt your feelings, honey. You didn't really expect me to believe that "it was good for me, too" bullshit, did you?
He poured scotch into a glass and glanced over at the bed. She pulled the sheet over her. He lifted the glass toward her and caught her eye.
" Yes, thank you, I will, " she said.
He walked to the bed.
"How did a nice girl like you get into this?" he asked. What a damn fool silly question for a vice cop to ask, he thought as he asked it.
"You know the rules, " she said. "That's one of the questions you're not supposed to ask. " She pushed herself up against the headboard, pulled the sheet over her chest, and then reached for the glass.
"Thank you, " she said, politely.
"Professional curiosity, " he said over his shoulder as he went to make himself a drink. "What was it?
Your husband threw you out? There's a kid somewhere, and this is the only way you can feed it? I think you're too smart to get under a pimp. "
"No husband. No kid. No pimp. What did you mean, `professional curiosity'?"
"I've heard a lot of stories.
"I'll bet you have. I bet you ask all the girls, right?"
"I'm a cop. Or was. A vice squad detective.
"O
ddly enough, I believe that, " she said. "You said `was'?"
"Now I'm in The Marine Corps. "
"I wondered about that, " she said. "Pick said you were an old pal from Saint Louis. "
"I'm from Saint Louis. "
"But you're not old pals?" He shook his head, no.
"I work for his father.
"Oh, that's right, his father is a captain in the Navy.
"A general in The Marine Corps," he corrected her, laughing.
"In Washington. "
"Close, " she said, and smiled.
He shook his head.
"So that wasn't a threat to make trouble for me? she asked
"No. Of course not. "
"I've never had any trouble... been arrested."
"That's simply a question of time. Maybe it would be good for you. Twenty-four hours in the slam with a dozen girls off the street might make you understand what the hell you're doing to yourself "
"What have we got here, a Marine who used to be a vice detective? With morals?"
"You're so goddamned beautiful! You don't have to fuck every man who comes along!"
"Thank you, " she said, "but I don't fuck every man who comes along. The only reason I fucked you was that I couldn't find a third girl for the job. "
"You're running a string?" he asked, genuinely surprised. The madams of his acquaintance, and he knew half a dozen, were not at all like this girl Most were fat and middle-aged, and all were hard as nails, with cold eyes.
"I'm a photographer, " she said.
"That's a new one.
"You asked"
"Go on. "
"An advertising photographer, nothing special, mostly for catalogs and brochures. The way you get commissions is to be nice to art directors. Then they started asking me if I had friends who might like to earn a little pocket money. Somebody once said that the way to get rich is to identify a need and then fill it. So I provide a service. I have associates. Do we have to keep this UP - ?"
"Pickering's paying for this?"
"Do you have any idea how much housekeeping supplies this hotel uses?
Not to mention how many Foster hotels there are?
Keeping the heir apparent happy is just good business. They take it off their income tax as `client relations.
"But he knows?" he asked, but it was more of a statement.
"Of course he knows. Pick's a very good-looking fellow, but he's not that good-looking. I shouldn't have to tell you this, but there's no such thing as a free lunch.
He shook his head.
"Did you ever hear that you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth?"
Beth asked.
"You're so goddamned beautiful! You shouldn't be doing this! You don't have to do this!"
"There's another rule, " Beth said. "Clients are not supposed to worry about the girls. "
"Fuck you!"
"That's all you're supposed to do, " Beth said. "Let's leave it at that. And this time I won't tell you how much I liked it. " He met her eyes, and then looked quickly away. Beth made him very uncomfortable.
"Have you got a girl back in Saint Louis? Is that it? You're consumed with guilt?"
"No girl back in Saint Louis. No girl anywhere.
"I'm surprised, " she said.
"Why should you be surprised?"
"Because you strike me as a nice guy, " Beth said.
"You know what's really strange?" George said. "I really did like doing it with you. I never liked it so much before.
"I'm pleased.
"So laugh. "
"Sorry. "
"Goddamn you!"
"I really am pleased, " she said. "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but every once in a while... it's not just business.
"Am I supposed to believe that?"
"Believe whatever you goddamn please!" Their eyes met.
After a moment she said, "Why not? It's already paid for.
"Just for the hell of it, how much?"
"For the three of us, three hundred dollars.
"You could hire every whore in Saint Louis for three hundred dollars. "
"Come on, " Beth said, making a gesture at his midsection.
"Obviously, you want to.
He'd never wanted to sink himself in any woman half as desperately as he wanted to be in this one again.
It's all the fucking booze, he thought, as he walked to the bed and pulled the sheet off her. The booze, and that insane goddamn airplane ride under the bridge. All of it. I'm a little crazy, that's all. I'm too smart to fall for a whore, even one as beautiful, and nice, as this one.
"What the hell is that you're drinking?" Captain Karl Hart asked his son.
"Scotch. They make it in Scotland."
"Jerry, give me some real whiskey, and give him another of those. When did you start drinking scotch?"
"I don't know. How's the suicide?"
"Accident victim, accident victim," Captain Hart said. "I just checked. The undertaker got the lipstick and rouge off him, and the women's underwear, and I talked to the cop on the scene, and there's no further problem." Hart had one final thought about Beth Lathrop: There's one thing you have to say about her, she's not the kind of girl you could bring home to meet the folks.
[Five]
FERDINAND SIX
BUKA, SOLOMON ISLANDS
15 SEPTEMBER 1942
They decided to move out. They were out of choices.
For one thing they had to eat.
They'd started with more smoked pig than the ten pounds or so Sergeant Steve Koffler found on the morning he thought everybody had taken off and left him: At Ian's orders, Patience had taken twice that much more and hidden it in the rocks by the stream, in a small cave that could be sealed with rocks and protected from wildlife and insects.
And then Ian stalked another wild pig and impaled it on his MACHETE, SUBSTITUTE STANDARD, and for two days the three of them feasted on roast pig. Ian didn't want to risk smoking it, because of the smoke, and Steve figured there was no point in arguing with him. So they roasted it over the last of their dry wood, which was smokeless. The pig was pretty good, even without salt.
But now just about everything was gone. And the men had of returned from looking for Lieutenant Reeves and Lieutenant Howard. In fact, they hadn't even sent a messenger back-suggesting the unpleasant possibility that they had run into the Japs and would not be returning.
So they took their small arms and ammunition (the British Lee-Enfield rifles and their.303 ammunition) into the jungle, and buried them. The rifles in one place, their bolts in another, and the ammunition in still another.
Steve thought that was mostly bullshit. The Japanese were not going to wander around in the jungle looking for rifles an ammo. Nor was he, Ian, or anyone else going to come back and dig them up. They could just as easily have left them in the hut with the radio for the Japs to find.
As he was spreading a layer of dirt on his rifle, he wondered what he should do about reporting in.
Should he get on the air and tell Townsville or Pearl Harbor that FRD6 was leaving the net for an indefinite period?
He decided against that. It just might happen that he could come back; but if he had signed off the net, those by-the-book assholes would give him all sorts of static about coming back on.
Though he recognized it as whistling in the dark, the hope that he might get back on the air later almost made him feel comfortable about leaving the Hallicrafters intact. The rotten thing about that was the Japs would probably find it. If he was absolutely certain that the Japs would actually get it, he would have smashed the sonofabitch. But he wasn't certain of that. So in the end he compromised. He took all but one of the crystals that controlled the frequencies, wrapped them in the last remnant of his skivvy shirt, and put them in the pocket of his utility jacket.
He made one last report, this time to Townsville, for the atmospherics were such that he couldn't reach Pearl Harbor.
And then he signaled Patience to stop p
edaling the generator.
Feeling a strange mixture of sadness and blind rage, he left the hut for what he thought would be the last time.
When he got outside, Edward James and Lieutenant Reeves were in the clearing.
Reeves looked like a walking corpse, and the clothes he had on him were rags.
"What about Lieutenant Howard?" Steve blurted.
"I'm delighted to see you too, old chap," Reeves said. "I appreciate the warmth of your reception."
"We thought you were all dead," Steve blurted.
"We sodding well should be," Reeves said. "Mother did not raise me to be a sodding pack mule."
"What?"
"We struck gold," Reeves reported. "A sodding Nip truck all alone on a ration run."
"No shit?"
"Which we have carried up and down every sodding hill on this sodding island."
"Anybody get hurt?"
"Your lieutenant sprained his ankle. The chaps are carrying him in."
"That's all?" Reeves nodded.
Sergeant Steve Koffler felt like crying.
[Six]
THE FOSTER LAFAYETTE HOTEL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
1630 HOURS 19 SEPTEMBER 1942
Just after he knocked on the door to Senator Richmond Fowler's suite, Sergeant George Hart noticed a doorbell button nearly hidden in the framework of the door. He had just put his finger out to it when the door opened.
A tall, trim, silver-haired woman in a cotton skirt and fluffy blouse smiled at him.
She really must have been a looker when she was young.
"Sergeant Hart, right?" she asked. "Colonel Rickabee said you were coming over."
"Yes, Ma'am." She gave him her hand. A wedding ring was her only jewelry, but pinned to her blouse was a cheap metal pin, two blue stars on a white shield background. It signified that she had two members of her immediate family serving in the Armed Forces.
George's mother had been wearing one, with one star, when he'd gone to the house from the airport.
"I'm Patricia Pickering," she said, "but I suppose that a detective like you will have already deduced that, right?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"I'd like to apologize for what my idiot son did to you, Sergeant," she said. "To put that behind us."
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