He looked around. “You guys done good. That’s all of my part in this little showcase. I think the j.g. has something to say.”
Ed DeWitt stood, pulled the Bull Pup off his back, and held it in front of him with both hands. A bulge on his left forearm showed where the bandage was that covered his in-and-out bullet wound.
“We’re back from a quick mission. Sometimes I like them. They give us some action, let us get shot at, and then we’re home where we can take it easy for a while. The trouble is, we never know how long a little while will be. Right now we have no orders. I don’t even know of any hot spots around the world where we might be called to participate.
“So, we’re going back to basics. In a combat situation, we must be sharp mentally and physically. Not much we can do to change our mental ability other than to stay focused and stay alert during a mission. On the physical side we can always get better. You can do a hundred push-ups? Fine, how about five hundred? You can run a mile in six minutes? Fine, can you do it in five minutes flat? Top mile runners can do the mile now under four minutes.
“Starting tomorrow we’ll have light packs and weapons on a seven-minutes-to-the-mile run. We do ten miles. In the afternoon we will go to the ups schedule: pull-ups, sit-ups, and push-ups. The man who wins each category gets a free case of Bud.”
That brought a cheer.
“For now we’re out here for live firing. I want Senior Chief Sadler and Howard to run some rounds through on the Bull Pup, and the EAR. The commander will work with the rest of you on firing yours and the rest of the weapons for all-around familiarity. We don’t use the fifty much anymore. Our Bull Pups have replaced it with gratifying results. We’ll move up a hundred yards so we’re five hundred from the old live oak snag over there, and spread out for firing.”
Senior Chief Sadler had fired his Bull Pup on the mission, but never quite understood the range and damage the weapon was capable of. Now, in the daylight, he fired at the snag, and marveled at the way the rounds either hit close to it or did an airburst with the laser sighting.
“You were right, j.g., this damn weapon will revolutionize the ground soldier’s job. He won’t have to wait for mortars to come up, or for artillery to wipe out something, and he can shoot over the fucking reverse slope of hills, into bunkers and in back of buildings. I love this gun!”
Howard took his turn with the Bull Pup. He winced at the kick the 20mm round gave off. “Hey, like a shotgun,” he said. Then he watched the burst over the snag and laughed. “Keriest in a fucking bucket, look at that thing. I want to buy one of these to go duck hunting with. Hell, have my limit with the first flight.”
They both fired the EAR weapon, and asked about the range.
“We’re not sure, from two hundred to three hundred yards. Howard, would you walk out there four hundred yards and see if we can knock you off your feet?”
Howard stood automatically, then frowned. “You pullin’ my leg, j.g. Don’t think I’ll take that walk.”
They all laughed. “We’ve used it at two hundred yards, but I can’t remember anything much longer than that,” DeWitt said. “They must be working on a more powerful model that will reach out longer and have more of a punch, and a larger battery in the stock.”
Murdock worked the men on the weapons until he was sure that each man had fired all the types of weapons they had brought. It was essential that every man could fire effectively every rifle and machine gun that they used. If the machine gunner went down, another man had to be as good with it as the first man was, and grab it and use it at once.
By 1600 they were finished. It took them another half hour to police up the brass from the firing. They dumped the shell casings in their packs and then began the hike back to the truck. They moved mostly downhill and Sadler led them, sometimes running, sometimes walking fast. They were sweating and tired when they came to the truck after the six-mile trip. The men climbed on board at once, eager to get back to the base and a good meal later on.
Sadler looked at the Navy man who was their driver for the day. He had stayed with the truck and eaten his MRE. He had dumped the envelopes and papers and packaging in a circle around where he had sat for his lunch in the shade of the truck.
“Ready to go, Senior Chief?” the driver asked.
“Sailor, you have a name?” Sadler asked.
“Yeah, Senior Chief, I’m Rawlings.”
“Rawlings, I hope you enjoyed your lunch.”
“No way, Chief. Not a chance. It was an MRE.”
“I should make you eat the wrappings, Rawlings. Now down on your knees and pick up every spot of paper and plastic you see for ten yards and cram it all into your pockets. Don’t you ever leave a litter like that again on a SEALs trip.”
Rawlings’s eyes went wide; then he saw the Senior Chief wasn’t kidding, and he dropped to his knees and began picking up the green plastic wrappings and the envelopes and wrappings from the MRE.
The SEALs in the truck burst out cheering. Sadler went around the truck and crawled into the cab. Murdock slid in beside him.
“Good play, Senior Chief,” he said, and the two men slapped hands in a low five.
“It’s a start, Skipper. Now we have to keep these guys in tip-top condition. That’s going to take some work.”
4
Back at the platoon equipment room, Bill Bradford changed into his civvies and hurried across the quarterdeck and out to the parking lot. His four-year-old Honda Civic started on the first try, and he buzzed into Coronado and across the bridge into San Diego. Down on India Street, he parked in the alley, and walked into a storefront that had a sign over the door that said: “San Diego’s Artist Colony.”
The front held a five-wall design with paintings hung on every available space. Each wall had a person’s name on it. Bradford went to the side and looked at his display. His paintings. All marines: some fishing boats at the embarcadero, some with breakers smashing into the rocks down at Sunset Cliffs. There were eight oils there, all marked with prices from $65 to $245. All were framed and ready to hang.
“Hey, man, you made it,” a man said. He wore faded jeans and a paint-smudged white T-shirt. He held a pallet and two brushes.
“Yeah, Rollo. Late workday. Anybody else here?”
“Yeah, Xenia rolled in a half hour ago. She’s in a funk of some kind. Went into her room upstairs and banged the door. Don’t see why she’s got her tit in a wringer. She’s selling more than anybody.”
Bradford chuckled. “She’s the sensitive type.”
A woman walked in wearing a see-through blouse, no bra, and a short skirt. She was barefoot, and her dark hair had been piled on top of her head, probably to get it out of the way of the fresh paint. “Who is the sensitive type? Rollo here? That’s painful to think about.”
“I meant you, Xenia; is there something bugging you?” Bradford asked.
“Yeah, life, death, art, salesmen, the percentage they take, every fucking thing is bothering me.”
Bradford grinned. “Hey, same old Xenia. Everything about the same. How is that portrait coming along?”
“It sucks, but I can probably sell it. Isn’t this wine-and-cheese night? Where’s the damn food and drink?”
“Jeffrey’s turn to bring it tonight,” Rollo said. “I told him two bottles would be enough. We never have more than half a dozen people stop by.”
“Mostly our friends for the free wine,” Xenia said. She shrugged. “Hell, they told me this wouldn’t be easy when I started. It still ain’t.” She motioned to Bradford. “You started yet, or can you take a look at my non-progress?”
“Happy to.”
“You can’t look, Rollo. You’re too fucking critical.”
“Yeah, my life story.” He took his brushes and went around to the wall on the far side, where his easel and a high stool were set up, and went to work on a still life.
Xenia lifted her brows and shook her head. She was a tiny woman, five feet tall if she went on tiptoe. Her long black
hair framed her face when it was down, and fell halfway down her back. She had brown eyes that snapped and daggered, and a thin nose over strangely full lips and a delicate chin. She looked like a caricature of a little china doll, but with the temper of a coiled rattler.
They went up steps to the loft where generous street and side windows let in painter’s light. She turned on more fluorescent bulbs and pointed to an oil she was working on, a twelve-by-fourteen, on a piece of canvas that looked like it came over on the Mayflower.
“Why the ratty old canvas?” asked Bradford. “I thought this was going to be one of your good ones.”
“Look at it, weirdo.”
“It is one of your good ones. Reminds me of some of those other small portraits you did. This one of your relatives or just a good face?”
“What do you think?”
“Not a relative, for damn sure. I like it. Why are you bitching?”
“I’m always bitching.” She pushed up against him and rested her breasts on his chest, then reached up and pulled his head down and kissed him. Then he kissed her back, picked her up, and carried her to the sofa where she slept. He sat down easily and she stayed on his lap.
“You don’t feel a bit bitchy to me,” he said. “Now what’s the trouble?”
“Oh, nothing I can tell you. I thought I had four paintings like this one sold, a kind of set, different faces, same background, same general look, only different people. At the last minute the guy changed his mind and said he could sell only two of them. There go two sales. That’s enough to make me into a wild, clawing hellcat.”
“Ouch, X, I know how that hurts. Hey, I only sold three of my cheapies last month. Didn’t make enough to pay my share of the rent. Hey, I know hurt.”
She stared hard at him, her brown eyes going soft. She pecked a kiss on his cheek. “Hell, you’re only here half the time. We should cut your share of the rent on this place.”
“No way. I’m in, I can make the fee.” He lifted her off his lap, pushed her to her feet, and stood. “Hey, I need to get some work done. I saw some wild ocean lately and this small boat on it almost in trouble, just one man in it fighting for his life.”
“Go,” she said. Xenia sat back down on the cot and looked at her painting. Then she sighed, got up, and went to work on it.
“I’ll be next door when you want coffee,” Bradford said. He went across the hall and into another room with the same front view, and turned on the soft fluorescent lights. There were three partly finished oils. One on an easel, two leaning against the wall. He went to work on the oil of a fishing boat tied at the dock down near Seaport Village.
A half hour later, Xenia knocked on his door and came in. She had on the same clothes, see-through blouse and all.
“Some people came in downstairs. Rollo must be out on the sidewalk dragging them inside. Let’s take a look.”
There were six people in the small showroom. Three men soon surrounded Xenia at her paintings, looking mostly at Xenia’s breasts, and only now and then at the six paintings on display.
Bradford found a thin man with a scar on his right cheek and flaming red hair who stared pointedly at one of the moonlight-on-waves oils on display that Bradford had done over a year ago.
“I like it,” the redhead said. “Gives you the idea that there’s a lot more there we can’t see, just what the moonlight shows us in the streamer of light across the whole painting.”
He moved to the side six feet and stared at it again. “I like the waves. You have them down perfectly. Have I seen your work before?”
“This is the only place I show,” Bradford said.
“A shame. I like this one. How big is it?”
“Thirteen by twenty, a rather strange size, but I liked it.”
“Yes, the proportions are exactly right. I’ll take it. How much is it?”
“One ninety-five, but if—”
The man held up his hand and stopped him. “Young man, never cut your prices. Never. Your work is worth more than that, but I’ll pay what you ask. I may be back to look for another. I’m putting in a new restaurant bar with a marine theme. I’m trying to patronize only San Diego artists, but I can’t find everything I want. Do you have any more marines in the back room?”
“Yes, two, but they aren’t framed. One is of—”
“Bring them out. Let me take a look. Framing is no problem.”
Bradford hurried up the stairs, and took two oils he had done six months ago and never had framed. One was of a fishing boat just casting off from Seaforth sport fishing pier with twenty eager fishermen on board getting their gear ready. The other was of a wave crashing into the rocks out on the Mission Beach jetty. He took them down and held them.
The redhead nodded. “Yes, the jetty. Good. I’ll take that one too. How much do I owe you?”
Bradford was stunned. “This jetty is a hundred and fifty, so that makes three hundred and forty-five.”
The redheaded man nodded. “You shouldn’t take checks, since you have no way to clear them. I have enough cash.” He took a roll of bills from his pocket and peeled off three one hundreds, then dug a fifty out of the inside of the roll. “Here, that’s close enough. Can you wrap them up? I don’t want to get them gouged before I hang them.”
Ten minutes later the customer was gone. Only two lookers were still in the showroom, and half the wine and all of the cheese and crackers were gone. One man was talking with Xenia. He looked at her paintings and then at her breasts. She moved her shoulders so her breasts rolled, and the man laughed.
“You do a self-portrait in that blouse and I’ll buy it,” he said.
She slapped him gently. “You are bad, bad. But I kind of like it. How ’bout this nude on velvet? She’s got bigger tits than I do.”
They both laughed, and the man shook his head and walked away.
“Zippo. I struck out again,” she said. “Maybe I should cover up the boobs. They seem to draw all the attention. Maybe that blouse, the green one that shows about an inch of cleavage.”
“That might be better, but just for the shows.”
“You’re bad too. Did I see you score?”
Bradford held out the four bills for her to see.
“You lie, Brad, you lie in your teeth.”
“No lie. Two of my marines. He’s opening a new bar somewhere with a marine theme. Hope he comes back.”
Another artist, Hoya, came around from his display. He was darkly Mexican, and his paintings were almost primitive with wild blacks and oranges. “Not tonight,” he said, smiling. “Maybe next week. I’m out of here.”
At ten they shut off the lights. Rollo went home. Xenia was the only one of the six artists who lived upstairs.
“Come on up,” she said to Bradford. “Want a beer?”
They popped the tops and sat and looked at the paintings. Bradford kept looking at her work in progress. “I like it,” he said. “It has that Rembrandt feeling without being so stodgy. The colors are muted and faded almost. Yes, I like it. How much do you charge for a near-master like that?”
“Twenty thousand,” she said, her eyes sparkling.
“Sure, and I just sold two for fifty grand each. Sorry, I had no right to ask.”
“Hey, big-selling painter. What’s the chances of my getting laid tonight?”
“I’d say pretty fucking good.”
* * *
Twice that week the SEALs had a four-thirty end of the day, and both times Bradford took Xenia out to dinner. Once at Marie Callender’s Restaurant, the other time at Denny’s. They talked painting. Bradford almost wished he was out of the SEALs and painting full time. He had a knack for it, and with more experience he should be able to make a living at it. But he knew he didn’t have the deft touch that Xenia had.
“How do you get such shadings in your work?” he asked.
“Practice, amigo. I’ve been painting for fifteen years, every day, all day. For the first five years I almost starved. I shared an apartment with another
painter. I slept with him and he fed me. It was a good arrangement. When I sold enough paintings to go on my own, I moved out.”
“You’re good. You should be able to get more for your work than two or three hundred.”
“Hey, I pay the bills, meet the rent on time, and eat more or less regularly.”
That night they had another wine-and-cheese showing. They had distributed handbills: “Six starving artists showing their work tonight from six to ten.” They draped a hundred of them on cars parked along India and in one big parking lot. Xenia wore a modest blouse and sold a painting. Bradford came up empty, but one woman nearly bought one until her husband pulled her away. Bradford almost slugged him.
Upstairs, after the lights went off on the displays, Xenia pulled off her blouse and threw it against the wall. “Hate clothes. Why do we have to wear them?” She grabbed her brushes, which she had left in water so they wouldn’t go dry, and wiped them off, then went to work on the second of the two portraits of older men. Bradford watched her.
“You often paint in the nude?” he asked. She said she did, and slipped out of her skirt and underpants.
“Yes, that’s more like it,” Bradford said. He let her paint for another half hour, and then grabbed her and carried her to her cot.
“All right, but a quickie. I’ve got to have that painting ready to ship in two weeks, and it takes more than a week to dry. Stay with me and we’ll both work until midnight.”
They did.
The next night Bradford moved his easel into her room and painted and watched her. She was good. He was curious about the portrait. It vaguely reminded him of something. Bradford concentrated on the painting, and the only thing he could think of was a Rembrandt-type work. Not Rembrandt but of that era, back when paintings were commissioned by wealthy patrons who always wanted portraits of them and their families.
Xenia went downstairs to the bathroom, and he looked at her desk. Her checkbook lay there. He flipped it open to the last check written. The balance slammed up at him and he was astonished. Xenia had over fifteen thousand dollars in her checking account.
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