Landa shook his head, slightly.
Ingram looked up and asked, “No?”
Landa blinked, sorely tempted to share his secret with Todd and Helen. What justice they would have felt to learn that the I-57, Herr Taubman, and the rest of those Japs were 12,000 feet down. He finessed it with, “I’m just astounded at what you’ve been through.”
Ingram’s eyelids were drooping. The exhaustion from the flight, the beer, his first in a long time, had put him close to the edge.
Helen saw it, too and stood. Massaging his neck, she said, “Time to get my boys home. You both need naps.”
Ingram looked at Landa and winked, his eyes saying, the nap comes later.
Landa dropped Todd and Helen off at the Alma street house in San Pedro and drove to the BOQ at the Long Beach Naval Shipyard. A large manila envelope was in his inbox. He opened it when he got to his room.
FROM: Commanding Officer, Destroyers Pacific
TO: Capt. Jeremiah T. Landa, 416232, USN
DATE: 8 August, 1944
SUBJ: Orders
INFO: Commanding Officer Destroyers, Task Force 58
Commanding Officer: Destroyer Division 11
Commanding Officer: Twelfth Naval District
Commanding Officer: U.S. Naval Station, Treasure Island
1 Upon receipt, you are detached as program liaison to COMTWELVE.
2. You are ordered to proceed to port in which Task Force 58.3 may be and resume command of Destroyer Division 11.
3. Upon receipt, you will proceed to San Francisco and report to the Commanding Officer U.S. Naval Station, Treasure Island, for transportation.
4. Accounting data 3629454.7728 152 73/2177440.
By Direction
R. H. Meyers
Landa sat back and tipped his hat back on his head. “Sorry Ralph. I’m coming back.” Actually, he didn’t feel sorry for Ralph Sorenson, the man who Arleigh Burke had assigned as his temporary relief. Landa’s job was done. Time to get back to work. Mission accomplished.
Two drinks later in the O Club bar, Landa decided that the mission was not yet accomplished. Something tugged at the back of his mind and he headed for a phone booth. A late Thursday afternoon, it was quiet at the club and all three booths were empty. He dialed the operator, asked for the number and dropped in three quarters, a dime and a nickel.
Laura’s phone rang ten times. “Sorry, sir, No answer,” said the operator.
Damnit! “Try again, please.”
“Certainly, Sir.” Again ten rings. “No answer, sir, I’m sorry.”
He caught her before she rang off. “Try another number please?” He fumbled at his little black book, found the number, and told her.
The phone rang three times. “Hello.”
“...ahem.”
“Who is this?”
“Mrs. Thatcher, it’s Jerry Landa.”
“Oh, good evening, Captain.”
So it’s Captain is it? “How you doing, Roberta?”
Now it was her turn to pause. “What can I do for you?”
“Have you heard from Laura?”
After a long pause, she said, “Captain, I--”
“--Roberta, please. I’m shipping out tomorrow or the next day.”
“You’re going back out there?”
“Way the hell out there. Listen, I don’t want to leave it like this. I must talk to her.” Landa was surprised to hear himself beg. “So if you know where she is, please tell me.”
“I’ve been keeping loose tabs on her, but she doesn’t know it.”
“Good. What’s up?”
“She’s working at a piano bar. And it sounds like she’s making progress.”
“That’s swell. Doing what?”
Roberta Thatcher raised her voice to the clipped tone that was signature Roberta Thatcher, Queen of Pretense. “Playing the piano. Singing, I suppose.”
“Where?”
“Studio City. A little place on Ventura boulevard called Dominic’s.”
“Roberta, you’re a doll.”
“Just be careful, Captain. She’s damaged goods. It’s going to take a while.”
“Don’t I know it? Thanks.”
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
10 August, 1944
Studio City, California
Landa wolfed a ham sandwich for dinner, drew a Ford from the car pool and headed up Sepulveda for the San Fernando Valley. Three hours later, he was traveling down a surprisingly busy Ventura boulevard. There were bright lights, lots of people and cars rushing about on a 95 degree August night. Dominic’s was about five doors east of Laurel Canyon, the name over the door done in plush red, diamond tufted leather. The street was crowded and he drove down the alley finding a parking spot behind the restaurant.
He got out and stood against the car for a moment rubbing his hands. Sweaty. Why the hell am I so nervous? She dumped me, didn’t she. And then I went off and tried to move in on Helen. Stupid. Stupid. Landa shook his head, thinking of that evening under the stars mixed with joy for Helen and guilt for him. He felt so sheepish. Even Mrs. Peabody had seen him running around like a sex-crazed tomcat. You big dope…dope…dope. But Laura and Helen hadn’t talked. So what?
The back door to Dominic’s stood wide open, a fan in the doorway vainly trying to shove the heat of the kitchen into the heat of the night. Kitchen utensils clanked, a dissonant counterpoint to strains of Basin Street Blues drifting from the dining room along with sounds of laughter and tinkling glass.
“Forget it,” he swore to the sky. “Laura’s hair will be hanging in her eyes and she’ll be so plastered, she’ll be playing the piano with her elbows while a bunch of draft-dodging Hollywood jerks hang all over her, fumbling at her clothes.”
He stepped back in the car and began sorting his keys.
The band inside had changed to Twelve O’CLOCK Jump.
Not bad.
“What the hell?” He’d driven all this way. Better check and see how she was. But he vowed to keep his distance, not let her see him, and turn right around and go home.
He stepped out and slammed the door. Mounting the steps to Dominic’s he walked into the kitchen. Four cooks rushed around while waiters burst through a set of double doors, not paying the slightest attention to a full Navy captain in dress khakis standing in their path.
Landa pushed through the doors and walked into a fog of cigarette smoke. It was dark and he sensed more than saw people jammed about him. On his right was a packed dining area, each table with a small brass low-wattage light fixture. The ceiling was done in glittering plaster with stars and a three quarter moon illuminated by a soft spot-light. To his left was a dance floor surrounded by palm trees softly lit by green lights. On a stage was a ten piece band in white dinner jackets: their logo, Aces High. But, he sighed thankfully, it was air conditioned.
An odor of heavy perfume engulfed him. Someone tugged at his coat.
“Huh?”
It was a hatcheck girl in a short dress. “I said, ‘take your hat, sir?”‘ She nodded to a small vestibule with coats on hangers.
“Yeah, sure.” Landa absently handed over his hat and walked toward the stage.
Again, the girl tugged at his coat. “No room out there, sir.” She pointed. “I think you’ll find a stool at the bar.”
“Okay, thanks.” Landa edged his way to his right. People were everywhere and the place was very dark.
A waiter plowed into him, softly cursing.
“Sorry,” muttered Landa.
The bar was three deep with a mixed crowd, half civilian, the rest servicemen, mostly Army Air Corps. Gratefully, he discovered an empty stool and sat.
“Hey, Captain! How you doing?” A civilian stood before him.
“I’m sorry. Is this one yours?” Landa got up.
“Hell no,” the man said. “Sit, sit. This is your lucky night.”
“Pardon?”
“Please let me buy you a drink. Why,” he looked Landa up and down, “a real war hero.
I tried to sign up four times, but I lost a kidney as a kid. They wouldn’t let me in. Whadda ya say, Captain?”
The man had a friendly smile.
Another civilian turned and handed the first one a martini with a single olive. “Here, George. Next time, it’s your turn. Well, hello.”
George took the glass and said, “Meet Captain...”
“...Landa. Jerry Landa.”
“Jeez, Gordie. Lookit all those medals,” said George.
Gordie, a thin balding man in his late forties leaned close and peered at the campaign ribbons on Landa’s chest. “Damn rights. This guy’s got the combat action ribbon with four stars, two purple hearts; holy smokes.” He looked up. “Is this the silver star?”
Landa nodded. “You know your stuff.”
“Torpedoman aboard a four-stacker in the first War.”
“Jerry Landa, Gordie...”
“...Collins. And this here’s George Finnegan.”
They shook.
“Well, what will it be?” said Gordie. “They make great martini’s here.”
“Well...”
“Captain, jeez. You’re saving our ass out there. You can at least let us repay the favor,” said George.
What the hell? Landa burst out with his trademark grin. “Okay, just one. Thanks.”
“That’s swell.” Gordie reached in and thumped his fist on the bar. “Hey, Lyle, damnit. Set ‘em up! Three double martinis, one for a real Navy hero. Chop chop.”
The martinis were delivered and Landa sipped. “Wow!”
“Okay?” said Collins.
“It really is a double,” gasped Landa, his throat on fire.
“Like I said, they make ‘em great here,” laughed Collins.
“Yeah.” Landa sipped again and turned toward the band. They played music he understood. Right now, they were doing a takeoff on Tea For Two that was half Spike Jones slapstick, the rest fantastic jazz with a rolling base that had the crowd clapping in time. Landa got to know Finnegan and Collins above the din and learned they worked at Lockheed-Burbank building P-38s.
He looked at his watch. “Jesus.”
“What’s up Captain?” said Collins.
“Forty-five minutes I’ve been here,” Landa slid off the stool. It puzzled him that he landed rather heavily. “Must be in the wrong place. I thought Laura West played here.”
“Yeah, she does. What a number,” said Finnegan checking his watch. “Comes on in five minutes.
Landa shook his head. “Fellas, we better settle up.” He reached for his wallet. “How much do I--”
“--I thought we had an understanding. You’re money’s no good here, Captain. You ready for another?” said Collins.
Landa blinked for a moment then recalled he’d had three, no four martinis. Doubles. Jeepers! I’m bombed. Time to... “Fellas, thanks very much. Gotta go.” Landa shook their hands and backed toward the front door.
“Come back anytime, Captain,” they said.
“Right.”
Just then there was a drum roll and the place went dark. An announcer loudly built up the introduction and a single spot flicked on, illuminating Laura West at the piano.
“I’ll be damned,” Landa muttered.
The spot-light captured Laura in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. Her mouth was parted in the same wide, easy smile that drew Landa to her the first time they’d met. No, he reminded himself, the second time they’d met. The first time, she was dead drunk. Now, she wore a blue sequined dress and a simple pearl choker. Gorgeous. Simply gorgeous.
Laura arched an eyebrow, started playing softly, and said in a low voice, “Thanks Randy Stone for that nice introduction. And tonight, I think I see more of our boys in uniform than usual. It’s really nice to have you with us. Let’s hear it for them!” She shot a hand into the air and the civilian crowd applauded appreciatively.
“Drinks on the house?” she shouted.
The waiters and bartenders booed. Everyone laughed.
“Okay, okay,” Laura played a few more bars. “I guess we have to make a living too. What do you say we begin with this one?” The spot narrowed to her face as she launched into a rendition of Always.
“This is for you, sir.” A waiter stood beside him, a martini balanced on a tray.
“What?”
“They ordered it for you. ‘One for the road,’ they said.” He nodded over to a grinning Collins and Finnegan.
“Thanks.” Landa took it, waved at them and sipped. Then he concentrated on Laura once more.
Applause crescendoed as Laura sang the last bar. She stood and bowed, her dress shimmering. Her hair was combed to perfection and her eyes and smile were as perfect as he’d ever seen. She sat, lowered her mike, and asked, “Okay, Boys. What’ll it be?”
“Bless ‘em all,” roared the crowd.
“It’s not too early?” She gave a pout, her face perfectly framed in a spotlight that followed her tiniest movements.
Landa checked the radium dial on his watch. It was almost eleven-forty-five. He burped and leaned against a column. Time to amscray.
“Bless ‘em all,” they yelled again.
“You sure?” Her smile was electric.
The applause rose again. Laura turned to the piano and arranged herself, a waiter, barely visible, just off to her left, leaned over with a glass and bottle on a silver tray. Carefully, he set them down and poured.
Landa squinted through his malaise. I’ll be damned! Ginger ale. She’s drinking Ginger ale. It suddenly hit him. Jesus. She’s sober as a judge.
“...bless the long and the short and the tall...” the crowd sang.
He turned and found he’d downed his martini. My God. What have I done? He ran his hand through his hair trying to recall how many of these things he’d consumed. At least four, plus this one, he looked at the glass, a lonely olive in the bottom.
“...there’ll be no promotion this side of the ocean, so come on me lads bless them all...”
He picked up the olive then put it back in the glass. What did I have for dinner? Nothing, a damned ham sandwich.
Suddenly, he started weaving his way to the hat check booth.
“Hey, watch it,” protested a waiter as Landa elbowed his way past. A glass crashed to the floor and Landa pressed on, not looking back.
Hurry. Landa’s stomach raged as he pushed through roiling cigarette smoke and the crowd. They were winding up the song as he lowered his head and kept pushing.
“...so come on me boys, bless them all...” The crowd held the last note for a long time, then cheered and clapped. The main lights went up for a moment as Laura stood and walked off the stage. They dimmed again and the band started playing a soft rhumba, with couples taking the dance floor.
The girl was inside, her perfume invading his nostrils, crawling in him, making his stomach feel as if a force six storm rumbled inside. Clamping his hand over his mouth, Landa fumbled in his pocket and gave her the ticket.
Her eyebrows went up. “You all right?”
“Ummmmfff.” Hurry up, Tilly, before I puke all over you.
He didn’t have a tip, and her pout let him know immediately how she felt. Reluctantly, she handed over the hat.
“Thanks.” He turned for the door.
“You leaving without saying hello?” Laura West stood close.
“Oh, my God. How did you--?”
“Kind of hard to miss when you blew past the waiter. Reminded me of a Rose Bowl game I once saw. You know, a fullback charging the line, people flying through the air. I mean it was--.”
“--Oh, I’m so sorry.” Landa’s arms went around her and he buried his head in her neck.
“Jerry.” Laura’s hands ran through his hair and down the back of his neck.
“I’m...so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
They kissed. Servicemen hooted and whistled as Landa kissed and kissed her again.
She pulled away. “Whew. Where have you been? You smell like either the
City Morgue or a Sixth Street gin mill.” She made a show of wiggling her nose. “Haven’t made up my mind.”
“Oh, God. I’m sorry.” Quickly, he told her about Collins and Finnegan.
Laura jammed her hands on her hips, a smile crossing her face. “You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”
“You still love me?”
“You came all the way out here to see me, didn’t you?”
Landa nodded, the storm in his belly suddenly abated. “I sure did.”
“Well then, you bet I do.”
He pulled her close and kissed her again. “Man ‘o man. I’ve been such a sap. Can we...”
“Look, Boom Boom. I’ve got one more show to do, then I’ll fix you up. Right now, coffee first, talk later.”
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
11 August, 1944
7th U-Boat Flotilla Headquarters
Lorient, France
Lorient was dead, corrupted, a city of the past. Artillery rumbled to the northeast as Taubman checked his watch: almost nine-thirty. He and Krüger stood on a broad thoroughfare under a balmy, full moon. Beside them was Krüger’s Kubelwagen, its top down. In the backseat wearing headphones was Krüger’s aide, an oberfeldwebel, warrant officer, named Kaufman who twirled dials on a trans-receiver. Krüger said, “Flying conditions are good. That Storch can land, refuel and take off in fifteen minutes. You’ll be in Tours no later than three a.m. That is, if the Americans aren’t out with their night-fighters.. Then it gets a little dicey. But Hauser is a good pilot. He can set that thing down in a barnyard, if need be.”
Taubman turned his face away and bit his lip. Blood coursed through his veins like river-rapids, and his clammy hands were jammed deep in his pockets, his fists balled. The last thing he wanted to do was to putt around the countryside in a little Fieseler Storch, a three seat, single engine, observation plane that looked like an overgrown grasshopper. With this moonlight, they would be fish on a fork for every dallying American or British fighter.
Except, his mind raced for a moment...I wonder if the damn thing can get me to Switzerland? Now that would be something, wouldn’t it?
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 28