Wingmen (9781310207280) (22 page)

“Looks like
there might be a few gentlemen left after all,” she said.

“Would the
little lady be so kind as to allow me to buy her a drink?” asked
Brogan.

“Watch this,”
said Schuster in Fred’s ear. “The master at work.”

“Suppose so,”
said the woman to Brogan. She watched him out of the corner of her
eye, holding her cigarette near her face. It dribbled a stream of
smoke that disappeared into a gray layer of unmoving air just above
them.

Brogan held up
two fingers. “Another round, James,” he said. He turned back to her
and moved in close. “And what’s a nice girl like you doing out so
late without an escort?”

The girl rolled
her eyes to look at Brogan. “I just got off work. You know. The war
effort and all that.”

“That’s very
patriotic.”

“Thanks.”

The drinks
arrived and she lifted her glass in a toast. “Here’s to the war,
buddy.” They clinked glasses and drank; she was still eyeing him,
sizing him up.

“Now that
you’re off work,” said Brogan, “perhaps you would like an escort
home. The streets are full of undesirable characters—like
soldiers.”

“Watch it,
buddy,” said the prostitute. “My boy friend’s in the Army.”

“Poor choice of
words. What I meant was Marines.”

“Never met a
Marine I didn’t like. I’ll tell you, buddy, the only men I ever
worry about are sailors. They float around out there in them boats
until a lady just isn’t safe when she’s alone with one. Know what I
mean?”

“Harmless fun,”
said Brogan. “They’re just kids trying to forget the miseries of
war.”

“Sure,” she
said, “and I’m the Queen of Sheba.” While she talked, she flicked
ashes to the floor between them, and now she dropped the cigarette,
too, and ground it out with her foot.

“You still
haven’t answered my question, ma’am,” said Brogan.

“You mean about
escorting me home.” She pulled a compact from her purse and checked
her face.

“Yes, ma’am,”
said Brogan.

(Fred almost
started laughing. It was truly strange to hear Brogan say, “Yes,
ma’am.”)

“Well,” she
said, putting the compact away. “There’s always cab fare to
consider.”

“Have no fear,
ma’am. I will cover all expenses. How much do you expect it to come
to?”

“Twenty bucks,
buddy, paid in advance.”

“Goodness,”
said Brogan. He pulled a wallet from his pocket and considered the
contents; then he held it open so she could see inside it, too.
“Six, seven, eight, nine. All I’ve got is ten dollars, ma’am. Do
you think that would be enough?”

“No,” she said,
with utter finality.

Brogan looked
at Fred and Schuster and shrugged. Schuster leaned close to Fred
again and whispered, “He’ll never get the price down. It’s a
seller’s market.”

“Perhaps I
could borrow a few dollars from my friends over there. What do you
say, Trusty?”

Fred shrugged
and nodded. He knew Brogan had a roll of bills ten times that
amount in another pocket.

“Take it or
leave it,” said the woman, not unpleasantly. She took a sip of
beer.

“Shall I call a
cab?” asked Brogan.

“Don’t bother.
I live across the street.”

“You’re cute,”
said Brogan. He slid one hand up her arm and over her shoulder and
touched her on the chin. She flashed a fake smile at him and picked
up her purse.

“See you later,
James,” she called, as she left.

Brogan hurried
after her, stopping at the swinging door to motion to Fred and
Schuster. “Come on,” he said, “hurry up. We don’t want to lose
her.”

Fred put down
his drink and picked up his cap to follow. He wasn’t sure what he
was getting into, but it was better than standing there paying for
drinks he didn’t want. Schuster followed.

Out in the
street, they saw the girl enter a house across from the bar. She
left the door open and a dim light peeked out. Brogan took Fred by
the arm and hustled him across the street and up the short flight
of stone steps to the door. “Come on, Trusty. I told you I was
going to show you a good time.”

Fred pulled to
a stop. “What do you mean? There’s only one girl. She’s yours.”
Fred looked through the open door and saw a corridor with several
doors, one of which was open.

“Come on,” said
Brogan, “you can have her first. I want to see how you last for
seventeen minutes.”

“You’re
kidding.”

“Hell, no,
Trusty. You’ll like it. Come on.”

The girl stuck
her head out of the open door and yelled down the hallway: “Hurry
it up, buddy. I won’t wait all night.”

“She’s not my
type,” said Fred. “I like, you know, younger women. Maybe next
time.”

“You’re
sure?”

“Absolutely. Go
ahead. She’s waiting.”

Brogan glanced
down the hall and squeezed his crotch with one hand. “I’d sure hate
to let it go to waste,” he said. Grasping Fred’s neck with his free
hand, he added: “You’re all right,” and headed down the hall. He
had his coat off before he reached the door to the girl’s room.

Almost sighing
with relief, Fred turned around and climbed down the steps.
Schuster was waiting for him and they headed back toward the
bar.

“He’s kind of
wild,” said Schuster.

“Yeah,” said
Fred. He didn’t feel completely at ease with Schuster. The man
talked little and never said anything of importance. When they
reached the door to the little bar, it shut in their faces, and a
sign that said “closed” appeared in the window.

“I was thinking
about heading back to the ship anyway,” said Schuster.

“Okay,” said
Fred. “But I think one of us should wait for Brogan. He won’t be
very long.” Schuster followed Fred across the street, and Fred
lowered himself gratefully to the steps of the apartment house. He
took out a cigarette.

“I’ll keep you
company. Don’t feel like walking back alone anyway,” Schuster said,
sitting next to Fred. He took out a cigarette also and accepted a
light from Fred. Fred was careful not to let Schuster see the
initials. He wasn’t sure what Schuster would think, but he didn’t
want anyone to know. It was a part of the Skipper that belonged to
him, and he wasn’t about to share it with anyone.

The dark city
hovered around them. There were no cars on the street; no people
strolled past them. Out of boredom Fred had to talk to Schuster,
and out of boredom Schuster had to talk to Fred. They waited for an
hour, speaking only in short sentences and grunts. When Brogan came
out, sloppily dressed but happy, he had an almost-full pint bottle
of bourbon with him.

Without
consulting either of the other two men, Fred led Brogan away from
the bars, toward downtown, where they caught a bus to the naval
station, where they caught another bus to the fleet landing, where
they caught a liberty boat to the
Constitution
. And had a very unpleasant
adventure.

“I’m an old
cowhand,” sang Brogan, not very musically, “from the Rio
Grande.”

Over a dozen
sailors in various stages of drunkenness sat in the liberty boat
with them. They all were wearing dirty white uniforms and held
their hats in their hands or pushed far back onto their heads. The
boat moved past the darkened hulks of ships at anchor as if it were
a commuter bus, the coxswain calling out the names of ships he was
approaching to see if he had any passengers for it. Fred was
thinking that it was a very logical arrangement, this harbor-wide
liberty boat system; it was much better than every ship running its
own boats and cluttering up the harbor.

“Just bury
me…on the lone prairie.” Brogan was getting less and less musical.
He’d absorbed a prodigious amount of liquor that evening, finishing
off the pint of bourbon only minutes earlier and splashing the
empty bottle into the dark waters of Pearl Harbor. Fred was
surprised Brogan could talk, or sing, at all. Schuster sat on the
other side of Brogan and appeared to be nodding off.

“That prick,”
said Brogan. “That motherfuckin’ prick. Can you imagine that
asshole giving us a dress inspection before letting the guys
go?”

“You don’t mean
the skipper?” said Fred.

“Shit,” said
Brogan. “Skipper’s an all-right guy. Wasn’t him that pulled that
shit on us. It was that prick of an air group commander.” He spoke
loudly, and several of the sailors forward of them turned around to
see who the drunken pilot was.

Brogan burst
into song again.

“Out. On the
tumblin’ tumbleweed.” Brogan was one of those painfully strong men
whose bodies keep going when their minds are totally gone. Fred
almost felt sorry for him.

“
Constitution
,” said the
coxswain. “Anyone for the
Constitution
?”

The ship
towered over them, and an accommodation ladder with a lower
platform came alongside the liberty boat. Fred stood up. “That’s
us,” he said. He reached down and tried to pull Brogan to his feet,
succeeding only when Schuster lent a hand. Together the two men got
Brogan onto the platform. The liberty boat throbbed away into the
night.

“Happy
sailing,” said Brogan, and he tried to wave at the disappearing
launch.

“We gotta clean
you up,” said Fred. He glanced up the awesome length of the
accommodation ladder and saw an officer in dress whites standing at
the top. Fred pushed Brogan upright, buttoned his uniform coat, and
straightened his cap. The necktie was looped around his neck,
untied. Fred wasn’t sure how to tie a necktie when he was drunk and
the tie was on someone else. In any case, they had stood at the
bottom of the ladder long enough. “Come on,” he said, and the three
of them started up the ladder.

It was a long,
harrowing trip. The steps were slippery and spaced close together;
a single low handrail separated them from a fall which would have
been nearly a hundred feet when they neared the top. With Brogan
unable to find the steps and the ladder only wide enough for two,
they barely managed to reach the quarter-deck at all.

Fred would
remember best the Officer of the Deck’s jaw. It was big and square,
much like the jaws of comic book heroes. Since the man stood over
six feet tall, Fred was at eye level with that strong jaw. It was
impossible to ignore.

“You are out of
uniform,” said the OOD, who was a full lieutenant. His voice was
not pleasant.

“Permission to
come aboard,” gurgled Brogan. He was seeing nothing, feeling
less.

“He’s had a
pretty rough time,” said Fred, saluting as best he could with
Brogan hanging all over him. “We’d like to get him below.”

“If I’d wanted
to speak to you, Mister,” said the OOD, “I would have addressed
you. I was talking to you.” He looked into Brogan’s face with
glinting eyes.

“Permission to
come aboard,” answered Brogan.

“You will not
come aboard the
Constitution
until you are in proper uniform.”

“Hey,” said
Schuster, who was also a full lieutenant. He came up beside Brogan
and helped to steady him. “We don’t need a hard time,” he said. “We
just want to get him below where he belongs.”

The OOD snapped
his fingers and two Marines in dress uniform appeared magically
behind him. They were wearing side arms and nightsticks. “The
quarter-deck of this ship will not be degraded by the presence of
drunks,” he said.

“You gotta be
kidding,” said Schuster.

“Identify
yourself,” said the OOD. His voice was becoming harder and
harder.

“Shit,” said
Brogan. He broke away from Fred’s grasp and began to walk across
the quarter-deck.

“Restrain that
man,” said the OOD, and the two Marines blocked Brogan’s way.
“These three officers are on report for improper conduct. Now tell
me who you are.”

“Motherfucker,”
said Brogan. He struggled away from the two Marines and fell on the
OOD.

The scuffle
lasted for a grand total of about five seconds, ending just as
Brogan took a swing at the OOD and hit Fred instead. Then suddenly
all three were up against the bulkhead, with Brogan being held up
by the two Marines and a burly petty officer, all with drawn
nightsticks. Fred felt something wet on his upper lip. His nose was
bleeding profusely.

“They’re with
the fighter squadron,” Fred heard someone say; then he heard the
OOD send a messenger to find the squadron commander. He was so
enraged that he knew he would try his best to break the OOD’s nose
if he ever caught him alone. Or his ridiculous comic book jaw.

Within ten
minutes the skipper had arrived on the quarterdeck. Then Fred
wished he were somewhere else—or dead. He had never felt so
ashamed.

The skipper
talked for a few minutes with the OOD. It was obvious that he had
been in bed when the messenger found him; he was not wearing a tie
and his hair was still slightly tousled from sleep. Then, leaving
the OOD, the skipper came over to the three pilots and looked them
over. He stopped in front of Fred first. “You all right?” he asked.
His voice revealed nothing.