by David Poyer
“I like anything that attracts young fresh pussy.”
“Good point.”
The club was at Mayfair-in-the-Grove, a high-rise Spanish-style shopping complex. They took an elevator up from the basement garage. Hammered copper and brass doors opened on tiers of expensive-looking shops. The terraces were paved with brick and cooled by tiled fountains and tropical foliage so lush it looked unreal. Dan glanced around, then up at twinkling lights he only belatedly recognized as stars. The plaza was open to the sky.
The Yellow Man wasn’t just packed; the line snaked out the door and past Lord & Taylor. Harper was right; there were scads of women. Some young, some older, though well cared-for, all expensively dressed in silks, leathers, metallic bustiers, velvet jeans. Gold jewelry hung from every possible point of attachment. There was a lot of joking and laughing, a lot of Cuban accents. Dan felt out of place, uncomfortable, but Miller struck up a conversation with a woman behind them. She giggled when he introduced himself, and said, “Do you boys reggae here often?” She told them “Yellow Man” meant mulatto, that the old song “Yellow Bird” was actually about a mulatto woman. Dan wondered if this was so, why there were no blacks in the line, or anywhere here, for that matter. Except for Cephas, of course.
Harper slipped the girl who seated them a bill and they got a table far enough from the band to hear one another, but still close to the action. A harried waitress appeared, and they ordered margaritas and rumrunners and Barbancourt rum with lime and tonic.
Dan sat listening to the music. It was hot, fast, but he couldn’t seem to get into it … as if he wasn’t really here, ashore, in a place designed for people to spend money and have fun. He was someplace else. But it was hard to say where … as if he’d been jerked too swiftly through too many different places in the last month. Charleston, Gitmo, the Passage, adrift in a tiny boat; Razytelny, Barrett, and now Coconut Grove, listening to the Buffalo Soldiers singing an a cappella version of “Ninety-Six Degrees in the Shade,” the lead singer in a metallic crocheted hat with dreadlocks down to his waist like Bob Marley. And as each scene flashed by, unanswered questions popped up like “no sale” tabs in an old-fashioned cash register: Strishauser and Billy; Sanderling’s death; the captain’s truthfulness; whether they’d have to return to refresher training; Graciela’s fate … none of it settled, as if nothing ever was settled, only left behind … . No wonder he was fucking disoriented … .
Harper was shouting something and he leaned, cupping his ear. “What?”
“I said, it’s bullshit. All this talk about us and the Soviets getting ready to go to war any minute, it’s bullshit, that’s what it is. You know?”
The chief warrant was back on another of his ultraconservative hobbyhorses, apparently. Dan nodded noncommittally and Harper yelled, “What we’ll probably do, next war, it’ll probably be both of us against China or something. Want me to prove it?”
“Sure,” said Dan, curious as to how he was going to do that.
“I’ll tell you. Remember when they captured the Pueblo? They got operating cryptographic machines. Okay, you say, so we stop using the KW-seven, right? We go to a new machine? Wrong. We kept right on using it. So, you think anybody really cares?”
“Well, they must,” said Dan. “Why else are we out steaming all the time, they’re building a six-hundred-ship Navy—”
Horseheads snickered, and Harper said sharply, “Get real, shipmate. Even you ain’t that innocent. Who makes bucks off that? The goddamned shipbuilders, the politicians, the labor guys. Remember I told you, the only thing the government can do is redistribute money? That’s how they scare us, so we let them reach in and pick our fucking pockets: the fucking Russkies are planning to sucker punch us. Well, I flat just don’t believe it. They bogeyman us, so we tax the shit out of our people, and we bogeyman them, so their generals can keep churning out tanks and shit. ’Scuse me, but it’s all so fucking obvious, it makes me want to laugh.”
“Wait a minute,” said Dan. “You were telling me—remember when we were out on the rifle range, and you were telling me how feminists are actually Communists, trying to wreck the family and—”
“And that’s all absolutely right. But you tell me. You were aboard that Russki tin can, right? Did those guys hate your guts, want to hang you from the yardarm?”
“No.”
“What were they like?”
“Just people. People like us, I guess.”
“There you go. It’s the assholes in charge. They’ll use the NAACP and the fucking bra-burners to bore from within. But are they going to screw themselves, start a war, make us nuke ’em? I don’t think so.” Harper drank moodily. “It’s a shell game. Only problem I got with it is Ronnie talks trickle-down, how come none of it trickles down to us?”
“No shit.”
“You remember we were talking about that in Gitmo. About the movie, the guys that found the treasure—”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“You still think the same? That you’d go for it, you could take home a big piece of loot and nobody’d know? Then you could get that boat, help your brother through school … .”
Dan nodded absently, looking across the dance floor. The lanky warrant officer was one of those people you couldn’t argue with. It was easier just to nod and move on to something else. But he wished Harper hadn’t said that word.
Cephas got up and put some quarters in the Pac-Man. Miller and Harper joined them, and Dan sat with Horseheads, who was tossing back the free popcorn. He stared into his drink, mood darkening by the second.
That word: boat. Shit, shit, why had Harper said it? Because when he had, it was not some glossy yacht that flashed in front of Dan’s eyes, but splintered, dark-sodden thwarts; the hull boards opening and closing like breathing lips. And looking back at him, Graciela, the baby, the boy … . He’d lived, and they … He perceived himself suspended above a black pit of despair and guilt. Why had God plucked him from death, fed and rescued him, and let them fall astern, rocking in the wake under the empty sky? How had anything he or they ever done deserved that?
“Jeez, what’s the matter, sir?”
“It’s nothing, Ed. I was just thinking about those refugees.”
“They’re okay now.”
“I mean the ones that didn’t make it … or that probably didn’t make it … . I don’t know. Shit, I don’t feel so good.”
“You better throttle back on those.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” But still he lifted it and drank, the liquor burning its way down his throat. Two or three more and he’d forget.
Cephas and Harper came back with two girls, Jay bragging about his score. “That’s not such a challenge, you got a little eye-hand coordination,” he told the yeoman. “Angela here, she’s got it down. Dan, Mitch, this is Angela, and this is Lori. Where you girls from?”
“Coral Gables.”
“Shit, you played it before. You got the technique down.”
“Hey, cowboy, I never seen the fucking thing before. You just make the little guys eat each other. What kind of technique can there be?”
“Yeah, you ought to be good at that, boy.”
“Boy! Hey, you see any boys around here, just blow ’em up to man-size.”
“Sorry, I choke on small bones.”
The girls giggled. The blonde, Angela, was about nineteen, with curly damp hair streaming down over her tank top. She looked drunk, and her nipples showed through the damp cotton. Lori was blond, too, but thinner, and her pupils looked frozen, as if she was on something powerful. Already, Harper was cupping her butt casually. “One for you. But you’ll pay, you’ll pay,” he told Cephas. “Hey, Dan, want to play Pac-Man? Angela’s ready for some stick action.”
“No thanks.”
“Dance with Lori; she wants to dance.”
He shook his head. Harper said, “Jeez, what’s the matter? Let’s get this party rolling. Here, babe, take this and go over and get us some more drinks. Get the li
eutenant a margarita, what he’s drinking ain’t working.”
Cephas lighted a cigarette and waved the match out, looking around. The beer seemed to be overcoming his reticence, and he started talking. Dan only half-listened at first. He worked every day with the departmental yeoman, but he’d never gotten close to him. Now he was surprised to hear him say, “You know, sir, I know how you feel about your ex. I been divorced two years now and I still hate the bitch.”
“Tell him the nut,” said Harper. “How you’re still making money off her.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. I’m not married anymore. But I’m still drawing BAQ.”
BAQ was basic allowance for quarters, the extra pay married servicepeople got. “How you do that?” said Horseheads.
“All you got to do is take the marriage certificate in and show them in the ship’s office; it shows up on your next check. I just never told the fucking Navy I got divorced.”
Dan tensed. What Cephas was describing was fraud. The girls came back with drinks. Jay shoved one across the table, but he didn’t look at it. “You mean you’re living aboard ship and still drawing BAQ for living ashore?” he asked the yeoman.
“Cool your jets, loo-tenant,” drawled Harper. “Jesus, did you see him tighten up? Look. The poor son of a bitch makes what, four hundred a month? It don’t hurt anybody he makes another hundred. Shit, who does it hurt? You could do that yourself if you wanted.”
“No, I couldn’t. It’s against regulations,” Dan said. He was angry now, at himself as much as at Cephas. Knowing about something like this and not taking action on it was a violation in itself for someone in the chain of command—as he was. But turning a man in on the basis of a confidence exchanged over drinks … that wouldn’t play very well, either, in terms of building trust within the department. You stupid asshole, he raged at himself. Didn’t you learn anything from that episode with Lassard on Ryan?
ACROSS the table, the lean man in the toupee and glasses examined Lenson’s flushed, angry face with satisfaction.
Snookered, Jay Harper thought. The self-righteous prick done snookered himself. And not a fucking thing he can do about it. Lori came back with the drinks and he ran his hand up her back as he sipped Jack Daniel’s, rolling it past his tongue and sighing. The good stuff. He’d better enjoy it while he could.
Lenson mumbled something about a head call and stood up. Harper waved the glass, smiling after the lieutenant’s rigidly retreating back, barely restraining the impulse to give him the finger.
“Is he pissed off?” Cephas said anxiously. “He looked pissed off. Should I of told him that, sir? Is he gonna put me on report?”
“Cool it, shipmate. He can’t do nothing to you.”
“He can tell the disbursing officer.”
“If he does, I’ll take care of you. You know that.”
“Yeah. Yeah! Thanks.” The yeoman gave him a happy, relieved, grateful smile. “I really appreciate it, sir.”
“Don’t mention it.” Harper looked away, running his hand absentmindedly up the inner thigh of the girl who leaned on him. Young pussy, he thought. Wet and tight. Unlike his fucking wife. Forget her, he thought. With a little fucking luck, he’d never see that bitch again.
With a little luck …
Miller, back from playing the machines, looked worried. “What’s the matter, Chief?” Harper asked him.
“I’m broke dick. Shot my wad.”
“How did you do that?”
“It was a bet. On the Pac-Man. A guy said he could—”
“You’re kidding. Somebody sharked you at Pac-Man? Where the fuck did that last hundred I loaned you go?”
“Shit, I had to rent the car. I told you that. And you’re riding in it, too.” Miller pushed his hand out, rubbing his finger and thumb together. “Come on.”
Harper grunted. Glancing at the girl, he pulled out his wallet, fanned out a handful of fifty-dollar bills. He snapped off two and handed them to Miller.
“Thanks.”
“Goddamn it,” he grunted. But the chief was already headed away, back toward the machines.
“He gambles too much,” said Cephas, looking to Harper for confirmation. “Doesn’t he?”
“Hey, everybody’s gotta do something. Him, he can’t pass up a fucking bet. Me—it’s good looking women.” Harper snapped off another crisp note, held it up for a second in front of Lori’s blank eyes, and handed it to her. “For getting us the drinks, Sweet Cheeks,” he said. She took it without a word, but he felt the gentle pressure of her leg increase.
Cephas was a goddamn lost puppy. His family had screwed him up somehow. Harper’d had to listen to the story, but he didn’t have to remember it. The guy was so hungry for affection, he’d do anything he was told. Miller was a pain in the ass in another way. So he was Cephas’s sea daddy. And the loans gave him leverage, a handle, on the gunnery chief.
Everybody had a handle, he thought, running his hand up the girl’s thigh to the crack of her tight-fitting jeans. All you had to do was find it, find out what they needed, then figure out what they had to give you, or what they had somebody else needed. Anyone who could understand that could make it in business, in the Navy, anywhere. It was so simple. How could you not understand that? How could people be so fucking stupid?
He threw back the last swallow of bourbon, snapped off another bill, and held it up in two fingers. Cephas was watching him in admiration.
“Go get us another round, bitch,” he said to the girl, watching her and smiling.
DAN was back at the table, still feeling black, when Miller came back and stood by them, looking back toward the bar. “The fuck’s the matter with you?” Harper asked him.
“I was watchin’ the TV. There’s something going down.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. First was about some trial, a verdict. Then they said something about Cuba. You think we should better call the ship?”
“Something about Cuba,” repeated Harper. “What? It’s on the TV, you said?”
Dan got up. He didn’t say anything to them, just went to the phone booth by the bathroom and pulled his wheel book out with the quarterdeck number. It was busy, but on the third try he got through. “USS Barrett, quarterdeck watch speaking, sir. May I help you.”
“Lieutenant Lenson. Heard there was something up.”
“Yes sir, we’re putting out an emergency recall. Where are you? Get all the guys you can find and get them back to the ship ASAP.”
“What is it? Some kind of—”
“I can’t say, sir. Just get everybody back you can, pronto.”
He hung up and stood in the hallway, listening to the Caribbean rhythms. Then he went back in, to see the others gathered around the television set over the bar.
39
LESS than a mile away, Thomas Leighty stood with his hands in the pockets of his suit slacks on a littered, dimly lighted street, trying to ignore the distant yells of a group of drunks. A pickup truck sheered by and a beer bottle came hurtling out of it. It missed him, but not by much.
Maybe, he thought, I should have taken the official car. But he hadn’t felt right about driving it for personal use. Now, looking around at the ominously empty street, he wondered if that had been the right decision.
“Oh, new in town? Sure, a couple places you can go,” the waiter had said as he dined alone. They’d made eye contact a couple of times, then got to talking. “What do you want? You don’t want one of these back-room suck-off places, like the baths.”
“No, no baths.”
“Someplace nice. That’s what I like, too. What do you want, music? There’s Monty Trainer’s and 27 Birds—”
“A club. Someplace quiet.”
“Where you can be yourself. I know … there’s Uncle Charlie’s, out on U.S. One. But you’re not that far from the Double R.” He’d smiled slowly. “Then there’s my place … We could have a drink, listen to some music. I won’t be off till one, but I’ll give you my number, just in case you�
�re a late-nighter.”
Now he stood tensely outside the Double R. The street was quiet after the raucous passage of the truck. The bar was unobtrusive, almost unnoticeable unless you knew or had been directed to it.
When he was at sea, there were long periods of time he didn’t think about sex. He might admire another man’s body, but distantly, as one admires a piece of sculpture without the desire to possess it. Then they’d put into port, and he would know it would be that night. And he’d dress carefully and stroll out. Where no one knew him, he could show a different aspect of himself. Something he couldn’t do in Charleston.
But at the same time, there was the fear. The NIS knew about Sanderling. They suspected him, he knew that, and he found himself examining the shadows behind him. Being seen in a gay bar was “frequenting,” “associating with known homosexuals.” It could be the last nail in his coffin.
So that left him with the choice, he thought, standing alone on the dark street. He could do the smart thing—turn around and leave. Or he could wait out here and try to make contact as someone came out. He felt exposed here, though. Since overhearing the conversation on the fantail, he had a recurrent nightmare of standing on a corner like this and being recognized by someone from Barrett.
The last choice, of course, was just to go in.
Finally, he cursed himself for a coward and a fool and crossed the street and quickly pushed the door open, to find himself confronted by a bulky citizen guarding an inner door. “This is a private club, sir.”
“I can’t go in?”
He was examined up and down. “Provisional membership’s five dollars.”
He was sweating, but he kept his back straight as he strolled in. You didn’t look directly at anyone, not at first. You weren’t here because you wanted someone. You were just here for a quiet drink. Only later would come the subtle checkout, but if they met your eyes, you still turned away. Only to glance back a few moments later. Instead, he examined the decor. The walls were bare wood. The lighting was from wagon-wheel lamps. The bar area was separated from the dance floor by a wooden split-rail fence, like a corral. The sound system was playing Tammy Wynette.