In Danger's Path (32 page)

“That was very clever of him,” Mrs. Sayre said, “wouldn't you say so, Pedro? No one would pay much attention to a reserve lieutenant colonel, would they?”

“I am afraid not,” Pedro said. “He apparently knows Filipinos.”

“And admires them,” Weston said, hoping it would please the messman. His face showed it did.

“I wonder if I could not be useful there,” Pedro wondered out loud. “I have sixteen years in the Navy and Mindanao is my home.”

“The problem we had with Filipinos when I left, Pedro,” Weston said, “was not finding recruits, but sending them away because we didn't have arms for them.”

That, too, pleased Pedro, and that pleased Weston.

“And taking care of the Admiral is important, Pedro,” Mrs. Sayre said. “I don't know what he would do without you. And he, too, would rather be over there than here.”

The door chimes went off.

“That's probably Daddy,” Martha said. “He doesn't know how to open a door by himself. I'll go, Pedro.”

Without meaning to, Weston got another look up her dress as she lifted herself out of the chair.

It was not Admiral Sayre, it was a Marine major, short, lean, and suntanned, in a blond crew cut. “Afternoon, Mrs. Sayre,” he said. “The Admiral asked me to call at 1530.”

When Weston politely rose to his feet, he felt a little dizzy. As long as he'd been talking, he managed to remember, Pedro had quietly freshened up his glass whenever it had dropped below half empty.

Christ, I'm half in the bag!

And then he remembered that Pedro had freshened up Martha's drink several times, too. He looked at her. Her face seemed a little flushed.

Mrs. Sayre glanced at her wristwatch.

“Well, if he said half past three, he'll be here at half past three,” she said. “Major Williamson, this is a dear friend of the family—”

“So dear that he didn't even call up to tell us he was alive,” Martha said.

Jesus, is she plastered, too?

Martha's mother ignored the interruption, and went on: “—Captain Jim Weston.”

“How do you do, sir?”

“Weston,” Major Williamson said, with no cordiality whatsoever.

I think he senses I have been at the sauce in the middle of the afternoon
.

“Can Pedro fix you something, Major?” Mrs. Sayre asked.

Major Williamson gave it perceptible thought before replying, “A light scotch, Mrs. Sayre, would be very nice.”

“Captain Weston was my late husband's best man when we were married. He's been telling us of his experiences as a guerrilla in the Philippines,” Martha said.

“You were a guerrilla in the Philippines, Captain?” Williamson said, looking at him dubiously.

“Yes, sir.”

The door chimes went off again as Major Williamson opened his mouth to press for details.

“That has to be Daddy,” Martha said. “I'll go.”

Weston got another look up her dress at her spectacular legs as she left her chair again.

You got the look up her dress, because you knew she would probably, and certainly innocently, expose herself that way again when she got out of her chair. Which proves you are a despicable sonofabitch—she's your buddy's widow, for Christ's sake—or drunk. Or both
.

What you came here to do was get Colonel Dawkins's letter into Major Williamson's hand, not make an ass of yourself, not be a despicable bastard. And
only
a despicable bastard would think…Jesus, I'd like to run my hands
…

“Sir,” Weston heard himself blurting, “I believe we have some mutual friends.”

“Is that so?”

After some difficulty finding it, Weston took Colonel Dawkins's letter from an inside pocket and thrust it at Major Williamson.

“What's this?” Williamson said.

“I believe it will be self-explanatory, sir,” Weston said.

Williamson took the letter, unfolded it, and looked at Weston.

“I'll be damned,” he said, his tone indicating that he was truly surprised to learn that they did have mutual friends.

Admiral Sayre marched into the room, trailed by his aide.

“Dick,” he said, touching Williamson's shoulder, “I really appreciate your coming here on Saturday afternoon.”

“No problem at all, sir.”

“I won't have the time—as I had hoped to—to talk to you about Weston. But I just got the word that Admiral Wheeler is due in here in about thirty minutes—God only knows what he wants—and I will, of course, have to meet his plane. But at least you got to meet Weston. It's a long story, but he comes highly recommended by General McInerney, and we're going to have to do what we can for him.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Just as soon as I can find a minute, I'll bring you up to speed on this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I really appreciate your coming here on a Saturday afternoon. Pedro got you a drink, at least?”

“Yes, sir,” Williamson said, holding it up.

“And as far as you're concerned, Jim,” Admiral Sayre said, “unless you're really in love with listening to a battleship admiral insist that the sole function of aviation is to serve as the eyes of the fleet, you'd better get out of here right now.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“We'll make it up to you when you come here,” Admiral Sayre said. “Finish your drink, of course.”

“Thank you very much for your hospitality, sir,” Weston said.

“Don't be silly.”

“Wait until I get my purse, Jim,” Martha said. “I'm going with you.”

“What?” her father asked, surprised.

“Daddy, I already know that the sole function of aviation is to serve as the eyes of the fleet. I really don't want to hear it again.”

“Well, you're imposing on Jim, don't you think? He may have other things on his mind.”

“Am I, Jim?” Martha asked, meeting his eyes. “Or can you put up with me for a couple of hours.”

“I'd welcome the company,” Weston said.

“You see, Daddy?” Martha said, and walked off the patio.

Admiral Sayre waited until she was out of earshot.

“I don't know how tough it will be for you, but I think Martha needs to talk over what happened to Greg with you. She knows how close you and Greg were.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you have the time, Jim,” Mrs. Sayre said, “I'd appreciate it if…what? Take her to dinner or something. She needs to get out of the house, be with someone her own age.”

“I'd be happy to, if she'd want to go.”

“Thank you, Jim,” the Admiral announced, and, trailed by his aide and his wife, marched off his patio.

“Weston,” Major Williamson waved Colonel Dawkins's letter in his hand, “do you think this is what the Admiral wishes to discuss with me about you?”

“Yes, sir, I think that's probably it.”

“Very interesting. Good afternoon, Captain Weston.”

Jim was left alone on the patio. Martha returned several minutes later, finished her drink, and then took his arm and led him back through the house to the driveway.

He was very conscious of the pressure of her breasts against his arm.

From this point on, black coffee, no booze, and absolutely no physical contact
.

“I like your car,” she said. “Does the roof go down?”

“Yes.”

“Put it down, then.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

[THREE]
Zeke's Shrimp & Oyster House
Alabama Point, Alabama
1815 6 March 1943

The restaurant hadn't changed much from the last time Weston had been here.

And that, he was acutely aware, had been in the company of Second Lieutenant Gregory J. Culhane, USMC (USNA '38); his fiancée, Miss Martha Sayre; and a tall redhead named…what the hell was her name?

It was a rickety building on a pier just inside the inlet to the Gulf of Mexico. Shrimp boats were tied up to the pier. The tables were rough planking picnic tables, and waitresses carried plates to them stacked high with steaming shrimp. You made your own sauce in paper cups from bowls of ketchup, horseradish, Worcestershire, and Tabasco, peeled and ate the shrimp with your fingers, and wiped your hands on paper towels. Rolls of towels sat among the bowls of ketchup and other condiments.

There was a jukebox and a piano, and a small plywood dance floor. The patrons were almost entirely young Navy and Marine pilots, and a scattering of aviation cadets who got off-base passes on weekends during the last month of their training. Some of their girls were almost as good-looking as Martha.

“The last time I was here, I was with you and Greg,” Jim said.

“I remember,” she said.

They found places at a picnic table occupied by two Marine lieutenants—both aviators—and their girls. When the waitress appeared, she asked, “Shrimp and a pitcher of beer?” in a tone suggesting she would be surprised by a “no.”

“I'd really like a cup of coffee,” Jim said.

“I'll have a scotch,” Martha said. “And the shrimp, and the beer.”

When she saw the look he gave her, she smiled and said, “Why, Captain Weston. I seem to recall that it was from you I learned ‘you can't fly on one wing.'”

“I didn't say a word,” he said.

“You wanted to,” she said, then turned to the Marines and their girls. “Captain Weston is just back from the Pacific. The first thing he did when he got off the plane was to call me—we're very dear friends—to report that contrary to published reports, he was not only alive but back and on his way to see me.”

“Welcome home, sir,” one of the lieutenants said.

“You were reported KIA, sir?”

“It was a mistake,” Weston said.

“Christ, that must have been tough on your family.”

“As well as his very dear friends,” Martha said.

“If I'm out of line asking this, shut me up, but what did they do, sir, when they found out they made a mistake? Apologize? What?”

“You must have been in the Corps long enough to know that the Corps never makes a mistake, haven't you?” Weston said.

There was the expected dutiful laughter.

“But I am so glad to see you that I forgive you,” Martha said, and kissed him. Not on the mouth, but on his forehead. When she pulled his head down, he found his face against her breasts.

Oh, Jesus Christ! Just as soon as we eat the shrimp, and she drinks as little of the beer as I can arrange, I'm getting her out of here. We'll ride around with the roof down. Maybe that will sober her up
.

Only a three-star no-good sonofabitch with bells would take advantage of a girl like Martha when she was in her cups. And the reason she's drinking is that she's a widow, your best friend's widow
.

“Here,” one of the lieutenants said, handing Martha a paper cup full of beer. “Until your pitcher gets here.”

“Thank you very much,” Martha said. “And yes, I would.”

“Yes, you would what?”

“Like to dance. My very dear friend here is a lousy dancer.”

“I'm a good dancer,” he blurted.

“Okay, then you dance with me,” she said, and stood up and held arms out to him.

The last thing in the world I want to do is put my arms around her
.

He stood up, and she gave him her hand and led him to the dance floor. He carefully avoided any body contact beyond the absolutely necessary.

“I get the feeling, very dear friend, from your rigid body and the worried look on your face, that you think I am misbehaving.”

“I think you've had a little too much to drink,” Jim said. “So have I.”

“In which case, I will ease up,” she said. “The last thing I want to do is embarrass you.”

“I didn't say you were embarrassing me.”

“You didn't have to. I know what you're thinking. I could always tell.”

Christ, I hope not
.

He saw over her shoulder that the waitress had delivered their shrimp and drinks—two scotches, no coffee—and a pitcher of beer.

“We have our shrimp,” he said.

“Damn,” she said, but she turned out of his arms, and, hanging on to his hand, led them back to the table.

He was surprised—and greatly relieved—that she didn't touch the scotch, and drank only a little of the beer from the pitcher. He was also surprised that they were able to eat all of the steaming pile of boiled shrimp. And then he remembered he hadn't had any lunch.