In Danger's Path (26 page)

“My quarters are popularly known as either the Monk's Cell or Celibate City, if that's what you mean.”

Ernie snorted. McCoy, shaking his head, chuckled.

“If you hold me in such contempt, why did you try to talk me into marrying your girlfriend if you got yourself blown away?” Pick asked.

“He probably thought I could reform you,” Ernie said. She looked around the sitting room. “Surprise, surprise, no naked ladies.”

“They're probably hiding in a closet,” McCoy said.

“I was about to offer you champagne, but if the two of you…”

“I'll pass on the champagne.”

“I won't,” Ernie said.

“I also just happen to have in my cell, through the door over there, a full case of Famous Grouse, recently flown in in my Corsair from San Francisco, California, in anticipation of the honor of your visit.”

He led the way to the sitting room of his half of the suite.

“You didn't know we were coming,” Ernie said.

“Both Mother and my father—separately—suggested it was a real possibility,” Pick said. “I really hope it wasn't so that we could have a man-to-man, or girl-to-man, chat. I get enough of those from Billy.”

“You said something about champagne?” Ernie said.

“You take care of the glasses,” Pick said, pointing to a bar in the corner of the room, “and I will extricate the bubbly from the refrigerator.”

McCoy went to the bar, found the still-sealed case of scotch behind it, and started to open it.

“Wouldn't you really rather have champagne?” Ernie asked.

“No,” McCoy said simply, and removed a bottle of Famous Grouse from the case.

Pick returned with a bottle of Mumm's champagne and started unwrapping the wire cork-guard.

“Mumm's, huh?” Ernie said.

“Actually, I prefer Moët and Chandon,” he said. “But it's hard to come by. There's a war on, you may have heard. You found the Grouse, I see, Ken.”

“You keep fucking up, Pick,” McCoy said, “they're going to send you back to VMF-229.”

“There's a lady present, Captain,” Pick said. “Please remember that you, too, are supposed to be a Marine officer and gentleman.”

“What does that mean?” Ernie asked. “Pick was in VMF-229.”

“It's now where they send Marine pilots—fuckup Marine pilots—nobody else wants,” Pick explained. “Pilots that nobody else in the Corps but Charley Galloway can handle.” He paused. “Would you believe I applied for transfer to VMF-229? Billy turned it down.”

“Billy needs you to train his pilots,” McCoy said. “
Your
pilots. You're the squadron exec, for Christ's sake!”

“An amazing thing happens when they pin captain's bars on some people, Ernie,” Pick said. “They start to think of themselves as generals-in-training.” He turned to McCoy. “Just for the record,
Captain
, I have never failed to be at the proper place at the appointed time. I
am
training my pilots.”

“Billy said that, too,” McCoy said. “But you won't be around to do that for your squadron if your MAG commander gets tired of hearing officially about your social life—and I mean the speeding tickets and the drunk driving, not only this out-of-uniform crap—and gets tired of Billy covering for you.”

“I told you, I applied for transfer to VMF-229. And Billy turned me down.”

“And now you're trying to force them to send you anyway, right?” McCoy asked. “Why? Because that's easier than going to Pensacola and finding out once and for all?”

“What the hell are you talking about? Finding out what once and for all?”

“You know what I'm talking about.
Who
I'm talking about.”

Pick looked accusingly at Ernie.

“He already knew about her,” she said. “But we compared notes, okay?”

“Et tu, Brutus?” Pick asked sarcastically.

“If you want to get pissed at somebody, get pissed at Dick Stecker,” McCoy said. “He said when he asked—”

“Where did you see Dick?” Pickering interrupted.

Lieutenant Richard Stecker, USMC, the son of Colonel Jack (NMI) Stecker, had gone through flight school at Pensacola with Pickering. He had been severely injured landing his shot-up Wildcat on Guadalcanal's Henderson Field.

“Ernie and I went to see him in Philadelphia when we passed through. That's where they send banged-up avìators, you know.”

“I went to see him…”

“…a month ago,” McCoy finished. “He told me. He also told me to tell you he is now walking with a cane only.”

“When I saw him, he was on one of those things…parallel bars set just high enough for your hands. Having a hell of a time. Jesus!”

“He wants to go back to flying,” McCoy said. “Anyway, he told me
he
was worried about
you
. Ol' Hot Shot himself. He told me that you told him that Good Ol' Whatsername…”

“Martha,” Ernie furnished. “Martha Sayre Culhane.”

“Thank you
very
much, former friend,” Pick said.

“Who, when the dashing Marine Aviator told her ‘I love you,' said, ‘Thank you just the same, but I am not at all interested.'”

“Don't push me, Ken,” Pick said.

“Breaking your heart.”

“Honey,” Ernie said to McCoy. “It's not funny.”

“And causing you to turn to whisky and wild, wild women to forget. Which also caused you to change from being a pretty good Marine officer to a fuckup…”

“
Fuck you
, Ken.”

“…about to have your ass shipped to the fuckup squadron. How do you think your father's going to like that?”

“This is my business, not my father's, not yours. Is the lecture about over, Captain, sir? Frankly, I'm getting a little bored with it.”

“Jesus Christ, if this woman is so important to you, why the hell are you quitting? Give it another shot!”

Pick shrugged, but didn't respond directly to the question.

“I asked if the lecture was about over?” Pick said.

“Not quite. Almost.”

“Then pray continue.”

“And what makes you think Charley Galloway would put up with your hotshot, ‘I'm a Guadalcanal ace, the rules don't apply to me,' bullshit?” McCoy said, half sadly, half angrily.

“Ken!” Ernie said warningly.

“I went out to Ewa with Galloway to see Big Steve,” McCoy went on. “When Charley walked into a hangar, one of his lieutenants called, ‘Skipper on the deck!' and everybody popped to. Including Big Steve. For Christ's sake, Pick, grow up! Charley wouldn't put up with half of the bullshit you're giving Billy.”

The doorbell rang just as Pick opened his mouth to reply.

With a little bit of luck, that will be one of Pick's naked ladies
, Ernie thought.
Arriving just in the nick of time to keep this from really getting out of hand
.

Pick went to the door and opened it.

Mrs. Quincy T. (Elizabeth-Sue) Megham, Jr., stood there, wearing a perky little hat with a veil, a silver fox cape, and a look that was a mixture of surprise, disappointment, and discomfiture.

“Oh, I hope I'm not interrupting anything!” she said. “I just took the chance…”

“Fortunately, you are,” Ernie said, and walked quickly to the door. “Hi, I'm Ernie Sage. You got here just in time to help me drink some champagne. These two are on the hard stuff.”

“Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude!”

“Not at all,” Ernie said, as she grabbed her arm and dragged her into the room. “I'm really glad to see you.” She propelled her to the bar and poured a glass of champagne for her. “I'm the closest thing Pick has to a sister,” Ernie went on. “A
big
sister. And Captain McCoy is Pick's best friend, although Pick sometimes forgets that.”

“How do you do?” Elizabeth-Sue said, directing the greeting mostly to McCoy.

McCoy inclined his head and said, “Ma'am.”

“You're stationed at the air station, Captain McCoy?”

“You can call him ‘Killer,'” Ernie said. “
All
of his friends do.”

“Oh, Christ!” Pick said, and laughed.

McCoy shook his head in disbelief, but he seemed more amused than angry.

“‘
Killer
'?” Elizabeth-Sue asked incredulously.

“As in ‘Lady-killer,'” Ernie explained.

“Oh, really?” Elizabeth-Sue asked.

Pick started to giggle. It had a contagious reaction on McCoy.

“He really is,” Pick said. “They both are. My best friends in all the world.”

“Then you're not out at the air station, Captain McCoy?” Elizabeth-Sue asked.

“No, ma'am. We're just passing through.”

Elizabeth-Sue's relief at hearing that was evident on her face.

“Lieutenant Pickering—Pick—and I are involved in the Friday dance program for the enlisted people at the air station,” Elizabeth-Sue said.

“Oh, come on,” Ernie said. “I told you we're best friends.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Elizabeth-Sue said.

“I mean I'll give you five-to-one odds that I'm not the only female in this room sleeping with a Marine she's not married to,” Ernie said.

Elizabeth-Sue's mouth dropped open and she looked at Ernie in utter disbelief.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Pick said.

“So why don't we stop pretending,” Ernie went on, “and, for example, decide where we can all have a nice dinner where no one who knows you or Pick will see you? After you and I finish the champagne, I mean.”

“I just can't believe I'm hearing this!” Elizabeth-Sue said.

“As a general rule of thumb, Elizabeth-Sue,” Pick said, “you can believe anything Ernie says.”

“You can believe this, Elizabeth-Sue,” Ernie said. “Captain McCoy and I are just as concerned as you are about you and Pick not getting caught. Maybe more than you are.”

“I never, in my entire life—”

“Yes, or no, Elizabeth-Sue?” Pick interrupted her.

Elizabeth-Sue looked at him for a long moment before replying, “Honey, I just can't think of any place, except one across the river.”

“We could eat here,” Ernie said. “It would be safer, and I really don't feel like going out anywhere.”

“Maybe that would be better,” Elizabeth-Sue said.

She drained her glass and extended it to Ernie for a refill. “May I ask you a question?” she asked.

“Ask away.”

“What do you do?”

“When I'm not in my camp follower role, you mean?”

Elizabeth-Sue flinched a little at that, but nodded.

“She's the creative director, reporting directly to the account executive for the American Personal Pharmaceuticals account at BBD&O,” Pick announced, sounding very much like a prideful brother.

Elizabeth-Sue confessed she really didn't know what that meant.

“It means she takes home probably twice as much money every month as Lady-killer McCoy and I do together.”

“That's enough about me, thank you very much,” Ernie said. “Get on the phone and order us some hors d'oeuvres.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Pick said, and went to the telephone.

“How long are you going to be in Memphis?” Elizabeth-Sue asked.

“Just as soon as Ken can get us a compartment on a train to Florida—and he's very good at that sort of thing—we're going to Palm Beach for a little sun. With a little bit of luck, maybe tomorrow.”

[TWO]
Temporary Building T-2032
The Mall
Washington, D.C.
0805 3 March 1943

A painfully sunburned Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, walked down the sidewalk between the rows of temporary buildings until he came to T-2032, then approached the door and rang the bell. A face appeared at a small window in the door, and a moment later there was a buzzing noise as the solenoid-operated lock functioned. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The “temporary” buildings on The Mall, built during World War I, had been designed to last no more than five years. Despite a quarter century's painting and patching to keep them functional, they showed their age. Floors sagged, roofs leaked, and keeping windows and doors operational required a small army of maintenance people.

The sign, painted Marine Corps Green, hung from a small pole on the tiny lawn before Temporary Building T-2032. It read, “USMC Office of Management Analysis.” From the street Temporary Building T-2032, a two-story frame building with a shingle roof, looked no different than Building T-2034, “USMC Office of Dependent Affairs,” to its right, or Building T-2030, “USMC Office of Procurement Contract Management,” to its left.