Pacific Interlude (11 page)

He could not get over the fact that they had spent so little time together, three hours at most. He felt as though they had been together for a year. His perception of time had changed. He had always believed that in retrospect, pleasure seemed short, pain long, but this was the reverse.

“Any restaurants around here still open?”

“No good ones. I thought I'd bring something in.”

“I feel like taking you somewhere and celebrating. Do any of the nightclubs serve good food?”

“There's a fancy supper club, but it's awfully expensive. It's called the Queen's Taste. All the real toffs go there.”

“Sounds exactly right for us. Tonight money's no object.”

“You mean you're not one of those Americans who has all his money sent to his wife?”

As a matter of fact he had allotted most of his pay to Sally, but when she made a good insurance deal, she sometimes sent some back. His mother also sent money even though she really couldn't afford it and he tried to send it back. No use … she'd just send it again. Anyway, at the moment his wallet was loaded, which was the way he felt … loaded with a renewal, thanks to this girl.

“I saved some of the millions I made teaching history,” he said. “Put on your best dress.”

“If we just want to eat and drink, we could go back to your Lucky Eighteen's house—”

“And spend the rest of the night with Mr. Buller?”

“He is a blow-hard, I must say. He seems awfully stuck on himself.”

Syl was not unhappy to hear that she did not like Buller. “He is a problem, but we're working on it. He hasn't been in the service long. Still thinks it's sort of a game.”

“I wouldn't want the job of whipping a big one like that into shape,” she said, stepping into a new pair of panties, and slipping into a black lace brassiere.

“Do me a favor, will you?” he said.

“What?”

“Take that black thing off again for a minute. I want to see you take it off, not put it on.”

She laughed.

“You'll have to feed me first.”

While he got back into his uniform, she wriggled into a tight black cocktail dress, not, he thought, as becoming as her simple pink frock. It had buttons and bows in an odd assortment of places, but he was in no mood to be critical, for God's sake. As eager now for dinner as he had been for bed, she hurried down the steep flights of stairs ahead of him.

The Queen's Taste seemed familiar to him, as though he had visited it in some other life, but then he thought how expensive restaurants were pretty much the same all over the world. This was pretty much like the Ritz in Boston or the Algonquin in New York. A stocky middle-aged woman sitting on an antique chair by a round Queen Anne table in a lobby could have been his mother, waiting to take him to a play during school vacation. Somehow the memory was not happy. He was filled with an abrupt feeling of loneliness, which was how he tended to feel as a child. He felt considerably better, though, as he followed Angel into the dining room. By somebody's conventional standards, the back of her dress was probably cut too low, but not for his or him …

A headwaiter in tails seated them in a corner near a table where a woman who looked like an old duchess and a handsome thin society type who might be her daughter were eating. Both were tall, tweedy and stylish. They looked bored when Syl first noticed them, but a moment later he realized that the younger one was staring at him and Angel as much as “good manners” would allow. She looked somewhat sardonically amused at the young American lieutenant and his little Australian girl friend. He glared back at her. She picked up a wine list and began studying it.

“I'm always afraid they're going to throw me out of this place,” Angel said. “They don't even let the ratings in here.”

“I thought you Aussies were more democratic than that.”

“They make a big thing about having to have a coat and a tie. That leaves the swabbies out of it, and they won't make exceptions.”

“I don't think I like it here.”

“The food's good, almost your money's worth, I hear. I've been here for drinks but never dinner.”

She asked him to translate the menu, which was not easy, considering it was in a sort of Australian French. He ordered the house specialty, a rack of lamb, a bottle of Bordeaux and two dry martinis because Angel said she'd like to try one. While they were waiting, a string trio began to play Chopin. He never had liked that kind of music.

The martinis arrived, and as she sipped hers he remembered the signal these drinks had been when Sally took them. Angel didn't need martinis to shed inhibitions. She didn't make love for money or to get anything except pleasure.

“Ugh,” Angel said, “it tastes like medicine. You can finish mine.”

“Glad to oblige. Let me order you a Pink Lady.”

“What's that?”

“Wait and see. It's terrible but maybe you'll like it.”

She did like the Pink Lady and after finishing two began to giggle at everything he said. His two martinis made him sound wittier, at least to himself and his Angel, and they began laughing out loud without saying much of anything. Pretty soon they began playing footsie under the table, and Angel slipped off her shoes and began working her way up his legs. Driving him crazy. Glancing at the two women at the nearby table he saw that the older one was staring at her plate, but the attractive younger one was looking right at them, her high cheek-boned face clearly more full of envy than disdain. When their eyes met, she looked away, and picking up her check, called for the waiter. Soon the two women left, the older one hobbling on two canes.

Finishing her meal, Angel said, “It takes a real toff to buy a girl a dinner like this
afterward
.”

“This is
before
too, I hope,” he said. She giggled and pressed her big toe into his crotch. He had never enjoyed a meal so much.

After driving home as best he could after all the booze he'd consumed, not to mention the confusion of keeping on the
left
side of the road, he didn't know whether he feared or hoped that Angel would be too sleepy to make love. He was both exhausted and eager. The exhaustion disappeared when she reminded him that he had asked to see her take off the black bra. Although still a little unsteady on her feet, she found some music on the radio and did a little striptease. It had a powerful effect. That night's lovemaking topped even what they'd had earlier that evening.

He slept late. When he awoke, sunlight was streaming through the window, glinting on the brass bed. Angel, wearing only a towel pinned kiltlike around her waist, was cooking bacon on the gas ring. He had a hangover, but the fragrance of the bacon and coffee was a good antidote.

“I see I'm still in heaven,” he said. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“I hope I didn't wake you up. I have to run to work.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost eight-thirty. You can stay as long as you want. Joanie won't be back until tonight.”

“What time will you be back?”

“I'm afraid I won't be able to see you tonight,” she said casually. “My regular chap is coming back this afternoon.”

He felt stunned.

“When can I see you again?”

“It wouldn't be right for me to run off and see you when he was here. I don't know when he'll go away again.”

Her damn moral distinctions baffled him and angered him. Even though he had no right and he knew it.

“Won't we see each other again?”

“Maybe not for a month or so and maybe you won't be here then. You can't expect me to leave my regular chap, can you? It wouldn't be right.”

“No, hell no. Wouldn't be right.”

“I can easily introduce you to some girls, if you like. I think you'd definitely go for Martha and I know she'd be crazy about you. Joanie would like you too and she may be leaving her regular chap—”

“I think you've spoiled me for anybody else,” he said, and at the moment he meant it.

“You've kind of spoiled me too, but I can't let that happen. Girls who let married Yanks turn their heads are just daft.”

She glanced at the clock on the wall.

“We have just time for a quick one if you want before I have to run.”

“I suppose I should say no, but I guess you've talked me into it.”

She came to him then and their lovemaking was so intense that he was afraid he was hurting her, but in its fashion her wonderfully muscular little body was almost stronger than his.

“God, I don't even have time for a shower,” she said, suddenly jumping up.

She toweled herself, put on a subdued blue secretary's dress which almost succeeded in concealing her figure, ran a comb through her hair, gave him a kiss and ran through the door.

“Just shut it hard when you leave,” she called. “It's a spring lock.”

“It's a spring lock”—famous last lovers' words. Well, there was nothing now but to get dressed and go back to the
Y-18
, Simpson and Buller. Never mind, he was certain that he would be grateful to this Angel for a very long time.

CHAPTER 7

S
YL GOT BACK
to his ship a little after nine that morning. If Angel's room was heaven, the
Y-18
was hell, especially for a man suffering from a hangover. With workmen cutting, welding, chipping and sandblasting all over her steel hull, he felt like a mouse in a huge tin drum which was being beaten on both sides.

As soon as he stepped from the ladder to her rusty decks crisscrossed with hoses and lines, a workman with a welder's mask shoved to the top of his head approached. “You the captain here?”

“Yes.”

“The superintendent wants to see you in his office right away.”

The peremptory tone told him something was up and he went to his cabin to ask Simpson what was going on. His sour-looking executive officer was at the desk, going through a pile of work orders. He was obviously in a rage.

“Captain, we've got to
do
something. The yard is goofing off, our men are goofing off, and we have to take a stand—”

“What's the matter with the yard?”

“Shoddy work. These welders leave seams like mud hills. I'll show you—”

“In a minute. What's wrong with our crew?”

“They're not
here
. Liberty was up at eight this morning, but not even Mr. Wydanski and Mr. Buller showed up.”

“There's not much work they can do under these conditions anyway.”

“The hell there isn't. They can work on the engine and paint out the forecastle. Even the duty section that stayed last night is giving me a hard time.”

“How?”

“They're smoking all over the ship, ignoring my orders. I know the tanks are steamed out, but you have to build up good habits. No smoking aboard this ship period, except on the fantail. No exceptions ever.”

“I'm not sure you're right about that—”

“How can you say that? I know tankers. I know men—”

“If they think we're just trying to enforce a lot of chickenshit regulations without any common sense, the only habit you're going to build will be breaking the rules. They know that when the tanks are steamed out, rules against smoking are obviously foolish. We'll lose credibility—”

“Captain, if you start countermanding my orders, you'll have to run this ship alone.”

“No, I'll just get an executive officer who will follow my policies and find out what they are before issuing his orders.”

Simpson's face flushed.

“Are you going to tell the men they can smoke because my orders don't mean anything?”

“I'll go with you this time. Later you can tell the men we've thought it over and decided to change the policy. Let it lie for a few days. And as for the men and officers not showing up in the morning, they had a big party last night. Now they've blown off steam, we'll tell them they have to keep in line. Anything else?”

“I have a list of supplies a mile long. Mr. Buller should be trying to get them right now.”

“I'll have a talk with him as soon as he gets aboard. Mr. Simpson, how long has it been since you've taken a day off?”

“How can I worry about that when there's so much to be done?”

“Now that the yard work is going fast, we'll get the pieces put together. Meanwhile we all have to try to keep our sanity.”

“Sir, God helps me to keep my sanity. I mean that. I don't have to go ashore, get drunk and run around with whores to do it.”

Syl wanted to murder him on the spot. “I wasn't suggesting that. There are some … nice cathedrals you could visit. Hell, Mr. Simpson,
everybody
has to get away from the ship once in a while. All right, now let's take a look at the welding. The superintendent says he wants to see me.”

The welding seemed rough but strong. Simpson disagreed.

“Captain, we've got to tell headquarters to stop payments on this,” Simpson said, running his hand over the bulging seams. “The government shouldn't pay for a botch like this.”

“I'll see what the superintendent has to say.”

The superintendent did not seem inclined to be cooperative. “Young man, if you expect to be captain of a ship you have to learn procedures in a shipyard,” he began with an upper-class British accent.

“What is your name, sir?” Syl asked, making a point of keeping his voice so low and polite that it was a kind of insult.

“Higgins, Ralph Higgins. What's yours?”

“Sylvester G. Grant, lieutenant, United States Coast Guard Reserve, commanding officer of the U.S. Army tanker,
Y-18
. One of your workmen said that you want to see me. If you want to explain Australian yard procedures to me, I'll be happy to listen and explain the American system. But if you want to lean on me—”