by T. L. Gould
Corporal Brown turned to the other guys. “Now, you mothafuckers get the fuck out of here!”
“We didn’t know, man. I mean…we thought…” They started toward their friends to help them up.
“You take another step, and I’ll put your asses on that bus!” Corporal Brown shouted as he reached to open the side door. “That what you want?”
“C’mon, spider gooks!” Bobby Mac howled. “Get on the bus. We’ll give you a fuckin’ ride you won’t forget!”
“Open dthe door!” Ski yelled. “Don’t dcall me a baby-keeler, modorfowkers!”
The shouts of “Fuck you, long-hairs!”, “C’mon motherfuckers!”, “You want more shit?”, and “Get closer, you chicken shits!” flew from the open windows like shrapnel.
“I’ll fuck you up!” Bobby Mac yelled. “I’ll kill you, you baby-shit motherfuckers! You don’t know who you’re fucking with!”
Corporal Brown lunged toward the three. “I said, get the fuck out of here!”
They staggered backwards away from Corporal Brown. One of them raised his arms in the air, his lips trembling like wings on a hummingbird. He just kept repeating, “We’re sssssorry, man. We didn’t mmmmean no harm. We’re sssssorry, man. We didn’t mmmmean no harm.”
“Fuck you, mothafuckas!” Corporal Brown yelled as he stepped onto the bus behind Tiny, Moose, and me. “Fuck you, mothafuckas!” he shouted once again as he closed the door and stepped hard on the gas pedal.
It was an unfinished victory, but a victory just the same. We continued with the “fuck you!” out the windows until the bus was three blocks away.
“This is going to be an exceptional trip,” Tiny said as we turned onto Walt Whitman Bridge, the gleam in his eyes as bright as the day.
We pulled into the circular drive of the Brigantine Motor Hotel just around three o’clock. We had a couple of hours to unpack and settle in before the bus would head into Atlantic City for a quick trip to the boardwalk.
The evening was uneventful. Aside from the occasional stares, the unexpected thank-yous, and the ever-present beer, we enjoyed a simple summer’s evening on the boardwalk. We stopped at the Pier long enough to catch Kenny Rogers and the First Edition performing “I Just Walked In to See What Condition My Condition Was In.”
Late Saturday morning, we clambered onto the bus for the fifteen-minute ride back into Atlantic City. Fifty Miss America beauty pageant contestants were waiting to meet the boys from the Philadelphia Naval Hospital.
It was probably a good idea on paper, a good public relations highlight: beautiful, young, all-American girls, those chosen as the “most beautiful” in each of their respective states, mingle and chat with a small group of Vietnam veterans, even a few wounded Vietnam veterans. Imagine the photos and the headlines.
It was like a kindergarten class meeting up for play day with Goliath. The delicate flowers, so well-heeled with their social preparedness, had not one clue how to act in this situation. Their privileged and pampered upbringings, in their nurtured eggshell existence, hadn’t included real-life people with real-life experiences. Some were so awkward or so pompous (it was hard to tell which) they merely spun on their toes and turned away, as if practicing an evening gown pirouette for tonight’s show. A few did manage to stumble out an “Uh, hello there” or “What happened to you?” A couple of them were so socially inept that their staring became uncomfortable even to other contestants. The events handler was sharp enough to head off any embarrassing public relations gaffe and mercifully, for the girls, brought the boardwalk play time to an abrupt halt.
We strolled and rolled and limped along the boardwalk for the rest of the afternoon, dropping in one of the bars for a cold beer and a shot. A few of us stepped around back and passed a joint. The afternoon went lazily by, and we clambered back on board the bus once again to head to the hotel.
“Be ready and out front no later than 1700,” Tiny told us.
We were back on the bus around five-thirty to head over to the pageant pre-show and grab a bite to eat at the host hotel.
Most of the guys were excited about seeing the show live, and none of us really knew what to expect. Our seats were centered just left of the runway, about twenty rows back. We occupied the first ten seats in each of the two rows. Tiny, Corporal Brown, and I wheeled Earl Ray, Big Al, and a couple of the other guys down the carpeted aisle and got them situated in their seats. We took the wheelchairs back up the ramp and stored them out of sight. The rest of the guys found their way into the two rows and placed their crutches and canes down at their feet.
Earl Ray pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels, took a swig, and started passing it around, when Tiny got sight of it.
“What the hell are you guys doing?” He tried to muffle his voice some, but the good folks for three rows forward and back began to chuckle.
“For God’s sake, give me that. Where…no, how did you get it in here? What the hell am I saying? You guys could get a whore onto Q Ward if you wanted!” We laughed at that one.
“Oh, for God’s sake! Tell me you haven’t? Son of a bitch.” He just lowered his chin to his chest and squeezed down the row in front of us toward the bottle of Jack. Roger raised it to salute our past accomplishment.
Tiny took the bottle and tucked it under his arm. It was okay. Between the two dozen of us, we had finished the first bottle on the bus, the one we had started back in the hotel lobby. We were feeling pretty good, and the laughter was coming easy. We were being pretty loud, too, but we didn’t much care; the place was still half-empty.
Suddenly the lights went down and this booming voice came over the sound system. It bellowed over the darkened ballroom like the voice of God. It was so loud and abrupt that a few guys tried to head to the floor for cover. Spotlights burst overhead, flashing and crisscrossing back and forth like frantic search lights.
“Ain’t this some shit,” Bobby Mac hooted. “It was only a bottle of Jack, for Christ’s sake!”
The spotlights stopped overhead and focused directly on our two rows. The overhead lights came on again and relit the room of evening gowns and tuxedos.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice boomed down. “It is my great pleasure and honor to welcome our special guests this evening. Please join me in giving a big round of applause for the group of Vietnam Veterans from the U.S. Naval Hospital in Philadelphia! We are thankful for their service and their individual sacrifices. Welcome, and thank you!”
The room erupted in a standing ovation.
The pride of being recognized, of being a veteran, a Marine, came over the guys with a sudden flush; smiles and tight-lipped grins sliced across stoic faces. That automatic tight-jaw profile stiffened every posture, and for once in a long while, the doubt, the fear, and the anger were gone.
For me, the thought of anyone thinking I had been to Vietnam was an insult to the guys in these two rows, and I just wanted to get as far away from those damn spotlights as I could. If I stood up to leave, it would only look foolish, like I was trying to bring attention to myself. So, I sat there smiling at my Marine Corps combat-wounded friends, clapping as loudly as I could, wishing I had done what they had done, wishing I had never listened to the girl in the photograph, wishing I had that damn bottle of Jack. Tiny was standing in the aisle, that Santa Claus look on his face, clapping like a big circus bear. The bright red scar across his forehead gleamed in the light like a crooked smile.
The pageant itself was a blur. Tiny returned the bottle of Jack Daniels, and the scuffling and gossiping between the commercial time-outs was more interesting than the show itself. Miss America was eventually crowned that night, and I don’t think any one of us could name the state she came from. Not that we were drunk. There wasn’t enough Jack to get five people drunk, let alone twenty. The uneasiness and bad taste from meeting the girls earlier in the day made this whole event seem out of place and phony.
Tiny shepherded our group back onto the bus, and we sat mostly silent for the return ride to the hotel.
Once in the lobby, talk began about finding a good bar and letting loose. Our small group of six landed in the hotel lobby bar and the others called it a night. Except for an older couple and a lone bar hugger, we were the only patrons. One look around and we knew this place wasn’t going to do it. We didn’t even take the drink offered to us by the guy nursing his gin gimlet.
“Where’s a place some guys could have a good time?” I asked.
The bartender looked us over and made a suggestion. “There’s a small place in Atlantic City, Reg Morgan’s. Not sure what you’re looking for, but it’s a nice little bar.”
“Sounds good enough,” Moose said. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll call you guys a cab,” the bartender offered.
The cabs were out front in less than five minutes, and within another fifteen minutes, we had reached our destination somewhere in the darkened side streets of Atlantic City. The cab drivers refused to let us pay. We thanked them and started toward the front door of the bar called Reg Morgan’s.
“What the fuck kind of name is Reg Morgan?” Earl Ray said with a grin.
“They can call it Hell for all I care,” Big Al said from atop my back. “Just get me inside.”
Big Al and I went in first to prop the door for the other guys, and they started in single file. Ski had made his way in, and Roger was negotiating Earl Ray and his wheelchair through the narrow opening.
Two men suddenly appeared out of the dimly lit bar and its swirling smoke. They moved as if they were in a hurry—not to leave, but to get somewhere.
The man in front was about five feet eight with black wavy hair and a handsome, slightly rugged face. He wore an expensive-looking green sport coat over a light blue crew neck T-shirt and dark slacks. His dark black shoes had a spotless shine.
“Hey, ain’t you guys the veterans that were at the beauty pageant?” He looked over everyone with a quick roll, pointing his finger toward somewhere. “The ones in the spotlights.”
“Yeah, that’s us,” Moose said with a little caution.
“You guys are the ones been to Vietnam. You’re over in Philly, right?”
“Yeah, that’s us.” Moose had stepped a little closer inside.
“Well, you’re in luck,” the handsome man said. He turned to the other man who was standing about two feet behind him. “Frank, help me get ’em set up. Come on you guys, follow me.”
Frank was about six-two or -three with broad shoulders, slim-waisted and very fit, and looked to be about thirty years old. He was wearing a light gray sport coat, a black crewneck shirt, and dark slacks. He didn’t have the suave, smooth mannerisms of the first guy, but was more rigid and alert, like a secret service agent.
The bar in Reg Morgan’s ran the entire length of the left wall. The right side housed a few small booths with couples crowded together. About two-thirds of the way down on the left was a stage with a three-piece jazz group cramped in its tight space. A beautiful black woman was caressing the microphone as if it was a part of her, and her low, lusty voice had the place mesmerized. Every bar stool and booth was occupied and not one person turned to look at us or our two escorts.
At the very back and to the right was a horseshoe-shaped bar that was empty and dark. We followed the two men back to the horseshoe, giving each other quick glances as if preparing a defense and escape plan.
The lights over the horseshoe bar came on, and Frank was standing on the other side lifting every gin, vodka, scotch, and whiskey bottle from the back shelves and placing them on the bar top. Bottles of Coke, Sprite, and ginger ale, along with ice, lemon and lime slices, and olives were placed next to the liquor.
“The name’s Dave Marzetti,” the guy in the green sport coat finally offered. “You guys help yourselves. Tonight the bar’s all yours. And you ain’t going to pay a dime.”
We all wondered if we hadn’t fallen into a Candid Camera trap. But, hey, who’s to look a gift horse in the mouth?
I slid Big Al from my shoulders onto the bar at the point of the horseshoe and Moose, Roger, Earl Ray, Bobby Mac, Ski, and I took our places at the half-round counter with gusto and delight.
“What’ll you have?” Frank asked.
“Scotch and soda.” Ski was the first to order.
Frank asked Ski what kind of scotch and started to make the drink. He set the bottle and glass down with a thump. “What the hell. You guys just mix your own. You don’t need me to do this.” As he leaned over from behind the bar, his sport coat flapped open, and a shoulder holster with a small handgun came into plain view.
Our second round of drinks wasn’t half finished when the man named Dave Marzetti came over and put his arms around Ski and me. “You guys got everything you need? Anything you want, you got it.” It was not a bragging, bravado tone; it was an “I’m here to give you anything you want, this is your night, and just ask” sincere offer from someone who truly gave a shit.
Ski looked at me as if Santa had just come down the chimney.
In a half joking response and looking straight at me, Ski winked. “Well, dwe could always use a little pussy.”
Dave Marzetti just smiled and walked toward the long bar and ordered a drink.
Our laughing and chatter were covered over with another slug of drink, and we continued eating the sandwiches overloaded with ham and cheese that Frank and a waitress brought out of the kitchen. The beautiful black woman and her band were taking a break, and we could talk across the bar without having to lean over and yell at each other.
“So, you think Frank is a cop?” Roger asked.
“Are you dumb, or what?” Moose jibed. “He’s Dave’s bodyguard, man.”
“No shit?” Big Al whispered.
“You country fucks don’t know what makes the world go ’round, do you?” Moose said.
“Okay, smartass city fuck, why does Dave need a bodyguard?” Roger asked.
“Because he does things other people don’t like, that’s why,” Bobby Mac laughed.
“What kinda things?” Big Al asked.
“What’s it fuckin’ matter?” Earl Ray jumped in from his wheeled position near Big Al. “He’s doin’ right by us, ain’t he?”
“Guess so,” Big Al said, looking around the bar.
“We gotta remember to thank that bartender back at the hotel,” I said.
“Yeah, who would have believed this?” Roger said.
“No shdit!” said Ski. “We’ve heet the jackpot, baby!”
The jackpot was just about to get a little more enticing.
It was less than thirty minutes when Dave Marzetti came busting through the front door to Reg Morgan’s, whistling loudly through his fingers in his mouth and motioning us toward the doorway.
“Come on!” he shouted. “We’re going for a ride! And I mean a ride!”
Frank came from around the bar like a leopard ready to pounce. He stood next to Dave and made a nervous look up and down the bar.
“C’mon. It’s okay,” Dave said.
We all looked at each other, and without a word between us we knew it was time to do what our generous host was asking of us.
Waiting outside were three Yellow cabs, each driver standing next to the open back door of his taxi. Dave and Frank climbed into a large blue car that was parked in front of the line of cabs.
We loaded up and started our little caravan down the darkened streets of Atlantic City. Five blocks later, we were parked in the back of the Holiday Inn next to the loading dock.
We stood next to Dave and Frank on the dock waiting for the service elevators when Frank nudged Dave on the shoulder. “Dave, I think the cabbies want pay.”
The cab drivers had shuffled their way up onto the dock and were standing several feet from us, seeming to know to keep their distance. They were all three looking down in nervous silence and fear of doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. Not that Dave or Frank would have harmed them—at least we didn’t sense that they would—but they had just ferried a group of Dave’s guests, and w
ell, maybe he expected the ride to be covered.
Dave started toward the three nervous men. “Oh shit,” Dave said as he reached in the pocket of his sport coat.
“Oh shit, is right!” I thought. “He’s going to shoot them, for God’s sake!”
His hand came out with a wad of bills—twenties, fifties, and hundreds. He walked over and gave each driver a twenty dollar bill for the five-block fare. They shambled back down the loading dock ramp and got quietly into their cabs.
Our two hosts stood at either side of the heavy doors as we all scuttled onto the large freight elevator, and we rode in silence for the few floors up.
The room was spectacular: a suite with a king-size bed, sliding glass doors out to the pool, and a sitting area just inside the front door. The wet bar had been freshly stocked with all the best liquors, two buckets of ice were on the huge coffee table, and an assortment of nuts, cheeses, and fruit filled a silver tray setting on the bed.
The bartender behind the small counter of the wet bar mixed drinks for everyone, and Frank nodded for him to leave. We all found a place to sit, not believing what had happened over the past couple of hours.
“Nice job!” Frank said to Dave.
“Shit, this is nothing,” Dave said with a proud smile. “Let’s go in the other room.”
The adjoining room was smaller than our party room, but it was big enough to hold two king-size beds and nothing more—nothing more except two gorgeous women lying with nothing on but their underpants.
“What’s this?” Dave said to the blonde, pointing to her panties. “Take ’em off, for Christ’s sake!” he chuckled.
We couldn’t believe that fate had brought us together with this man and his generosity. We didn’t give a damn what he did for a living; for all we cared, he was a saint.
We made our way back to the party room with a clumsy silence and an unusual fidgeting. It’s not like this was the first time we’d seen a whore, but these ladies could have beaten out any one of the Miss America pageant toddlers. They were like women from a James Bond movie. I thought of Rosie, her pink bathrobe and Tabu-laced room.