"If you've put the braces on my pants, I can handle putting them on."
[Two]
PENNSYLVANIA STATION
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
31 AUGUST 1942
"Thanks for the ride, Boats," Lieutenant Stecker said to the bosun's mate who had driven them to Manhattan from Lakehurst.
"Yes, Sir," the bosun said. "You go right through that door and you'll see where you turn in your travel vouchers for a ticket-the sign says `Rail Transportation Office."
"Thanks again," Stecker said and closed the station wagon door.
He picked up his small bag and stood there smiling and waving until the station wagon had driven away.
Lieutenant Pickering stepped off the curb, put his fingers to his lips, and whistled. The noise was startling.
In a moment a taxi pulled to the curb.
Pickering bowed Stecker into the cab.
"Foster Park Hotel, please," Pickering said to the driver, and then turned to Stecker. "I don't understand why we didn't have the station wagon drop us at the hotel."
"Because that was not some seaman second class," Stecker explained, "who would not give a damn if you told him to drop you in the middle of the Holland Tunnel. That was a boatswain's mate second class.
Boatswain's mates second class do not normally chauffeur people around."
"So?" Pickering asked.
"So he probably was driving us because nobody else could be found to drive us. He did not mind doing so, because he thought we really had to catch the train to Long Island. Still with me?"
"To repeat, so?"
"So now he is returning to Lakehurst thinking he has made a small contribution to the war effort by giving up an evening drinking beer and taking two Marine officers to catch a train.
On the other hand, if he dropped us at the hotel, bosun's mates being the clever fellows they are, he would have deduced that we were not bound for Long Island. He would have reported this fact to the chief who runs the motor pool. `Those two fucking jarhead flyboy second Johns didn't go anywhere near fucking Penn Station.' And the next time we asked for wheels at Lakehurst, we would be told, politely, of course, to go fuck ourselves."
Stecker looked at Pickering to judge his reaction to what he thought of as his Lesson 1103 in The Practical Aspects of Military Service. It was immediately apparent that Pickering hadn't heard at least half of what he had said. Pickering was looking out the window.
Then he leaned forward and slid open the panel between the backseat and the front.
"Where are we going?"
"Foster Park Hotel, Sir."
"By way of Greenwich Village? Jesus, do we look that stupid?"
"This is a shortcut I know, Sir."
"Stop at the next cop you see," Pickering said.
The taxi made the next right turn and then turned right again, now headed uptown toward Central Park.
"A guy's got to make a living," the cabdriver said,
"You picked the wrong sucker," Pickering said. "I used to live here."
"You sure don't sound like no New Yorker."
"Oh, shit," Pickering said, laughing, and then slid the window closed and moved back onto his seat. "Did you hear that?
That was a New York apology. Our driver is a mite pissed because I don't sound like a New Yorker; I made him waste his time trying to cheat us because I don't sound like a New Yorker."
"Did you hear what I said about why we're in this cab in the first place?"
"What does it matter?" Stecker shook his head in resignation and leaned back against the cushion.
Like the other forty-one hotels in the Foster chain, the Foster Park Hotel provided its guests quiet elegance and every reasonable amenity.
Andrew Foster learned early on in his career that a large number of people were willing to pay handsomely for hotel accommodations so long as the hotel was centrally located and offered first-class cuisine, well-appointed rooms and suites, and round-the-clock staffing. In every Foster hotel, for example, a room service waiter was on duty on every floor around the clock; a concierge was on duty in the lobby day and night; and complimentary limousine service was provided to and from railroad stations and airports.
Foster Hotels were not, in other words, the sort of places sought out by second lieutenants looking for a cheap place to rest their weary heads for a night.
A bellman, wearing a short red jacket, black trousers, and a pillbox cap tilted at the prescribed angle, rushed to open the door of the taxi when it pulled to the curb before the Foster Park Hotel marquee. As soon as he saw the two second lieutenants emerging from the car, his face showed that he was obviously aware that the Foster Park Hotel was doubtless beyond their limited means.
"May I help you, gentlemen?" he asked politely.
"We can manage, thank you," Pickering said.
"Are you checking in with us, Sir?" the bellman asked in a tone suggesting that this was highly unlikely.
Even sharing a small double, a night at the Foster Park would cost these guys half their month's pay.
"I devoutly hope so," Pickering said, At that point the doorman entered the conversation. He wore a black frock coat, striped trousers, and a gray silk hat, and was far too dignified either to open doors or to wrestle with luggage, "Good evening, Mr. Pickering. How nice to see you, Sir."
"Hello, Charley, how are you?" Pickering said.
The doorman snatched Stecker's small bag from his hand and passed it to the bellman.
"Put the gentlemen's luggage in 24-A," the doorman ordered as he relieved Pickering of his small bag and gave it to the bellman.
Twenty-four-A and 24-B were a pair of terraced four-room suites that overlooked Central Park. The only more prestigious accommodation in the Foster Park was 25, the Theodore Roosevelt Suite, whose nine rooms occupied the entire front of the 25th floor.
The doorman walked quickly to open the door for the two lieutenants.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Pickering?" he asked as Pickering walked past him.
"Don't get between me and the men's room," Pickering said.
"The last time I met nature's call was somewhere over Maryland.
The doorman chuckled.
"I believe you know where to find it, Sir."
"How could I forget?" Pickering said.
The resident manager of the Foster Park Hotel, in a gray tailcoat and striped trousers, was standing a discreet distance from the entrance to the gentlemen's facility when Lieutenants Pickering and Stecker came out, "Good evening, Mr. Pickering," he said. "A pleasure to have you in the house, Sir."
"And it's always a pleasure to be here."
"There are no messages, Sir, I checked. And I had a small bar set up in 24-A. If there is anything else?"
"Very kind of you. I can't think of a thing. Thank you."
"Have a pleasant evening, Sir."
"We're going to try," Lieutenant Stecker said.
"Starting, I think," Pickering said, with a snort in the bar."
There were perhaps two dozen people in the dimly lit bar, mostly couples and quartets sitting at tables, but with several pairs of single men at tables and two other single men sitting at the bar.
There were also two strikingly attractive young women sitting together at a table in the corner.
The bartender addressed Pickering by name, adding, "Famous Grouse, an equal amount of water, and a little ice, right?"
"You have the memory of an elephant," Pickering said.
"Give my cousin one of the same."
"I'm not related to him," Stecker said, almost a reflex action, and then: "Did you see what's sitting in the corner?"
"Yes, indeed. I think he works for the Morgan Bank."
"I meant the blonde and her friend," Stecker said, even as he realized that Pickering had again successfully pulled his chain.
"Oh," Pickering said. "Her.
The bartender delivered the drinks. Pickering sipped his and then got off the stool.
&n
bsp; "You keep the target under surveillance while I check on the car," he said. "Try not to slobber and drool."
He walked out of the bar carrying his drink, then through the lobby to the revolving door to the street.
When he caught the doorman's eye, he motioned him over.
"What's up?" the doorman asked, his tone considerably less formal than it had been.
"The two ladies in the bar," Pickering said. "Are they what I think they are?" The doorman now looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"Jesus, Pick."
"Answer yes or no."
"Yes and no. They are. But they aren't working the bar, Pick. I know better than that."
"Tell me, Charley."
"I don't know if they're free-lancing, working the bars at the Plaza or the St. Regis, or whether they're a couple of Polly Adler's girls. Or somebody else's. They come in every couple of nights, have a couple of drinks, and leave. They never so much as make eyes at any of our guests."
"They know you know?"
"Sure.
"I want to go to bed," Pickering said, and then when he saw the look in Charley's eyes, added, "Alone.
And early. My buddy, on the other hand, is randy. Since we have to get up at four goddamn A.M., I'm in no mood to prowl the nightclubs. Getting the picture?"
"Sure. Which one?"
"He likes the blonde."
"Who wouldn't? That'd be expensive, Pick."
Pickering reached into his trousers pocket and came up with a wad of bills. He counted out three, twenty-dollar bills and handed them to Charley.
"Not that much, Pick. All he's going to do is rent it for a little while."
"I don't want him to know that, right? If there's any left over, leave it in an envelope at reception."
"I understand."
"Get rid of the other one."
"You must be tired."
"I'm in love."
"No shit?"
"No shit."
"Hey, I'm happy for you, Pick."
"I appreciate this, Charley."
"Don't be silly. Anytime. Anything, Pick."
Pickering smiled at him, touched his arm, and walked back toward the bar.
Charley signaled with his finger to the bellman standing on the other side of the lobby to join him.
"There's a blonde in the bar," he said. "Tell her there's a telephone call for her. Bring her here. If I'm not back, tell her to wait."
"OK. What's going on?"
"None of your goddamn business," Charley said. He went to the concierge's desk.
"Mr. Pickering's guest will probably ask a young lady to join him for a nightcap in 24-A."
"I understand," the concierge said. "I'll take care of it." Charley the doorman and the concierge had been employees Of the Foster Hotel Corporation long enough to know that Andrew Foster had one child, a daughter. His daughter had one child, a son. The son's name was Malcolm S. Pickering.
Charley the doorman met Pick Pickering when Pick was sixteen and was spending the summer at the Foster Park learning the hotel business: first as a busboy; later, when he proved his stuff, as a baggage handler; and finally, before the summer was over, as a bellman.
(Three)
BETHPAGE STATION
LONG ISLAND RAILROAD
0530 HOURS I SEPTEMBER 1942
Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, reached into the passenger compartment of the Derham-bodied Packard Straight Eight 280 limousine and pushed at the shoulder of Second Lieutenant Richard J. Stecker, USMC. When this failed to raise Stecker from his slumber, he pinched Stecker's nostrils closed, which did.
"Jesus Christ!" Stecker said, sitting up abruptly and knocking Pick's hand away, "And good morning to you, Casanova," Pick said. "Nap time is over." Stecker snorted.
"You have a hickey on your neck," Pick said.
"Fuck you."
"That was simply an observation, not an expression of moral indignation. I'm glad you had a good time...
you did have a good time?"
"None of your fucking business."
"You sounded like you were having a good time. It sounded like a first-class Roman orgy in there.
"Do I detect a slight hint of jealousy?" Stecker asked as climbed out of the limousine. "You had your chance. She told you she had a girlfriend she could call."
"I paid attention to the Technicolor clap movies I was shown. I don't go around picking up fast women in saloons, thus endangering my prospects for a happy home full of healthy, happy children borne for me by the decent, wholesome girl of my choice after the war."
"Oh, shit!" Stecker said. "And just for the record, she's a legal secretary."
"I gather you intend to see her again?" Pick asked.
"Jesus Christ," Stecker said angrily, suddenly remembering.
"I didn't get her phone number!"
"She's probably in the book," Pick said.
"Yeah," Stecker said. "Christ, I hope so."
"Will there be anything else, Mr. Pickering?" the chauffeur of the Foster Park limousine said.
"No, I don't think so. Thank you very much. I'm sorry you had to bring us out here at this ungodly hour."
"No problem, Mr. Pickering, glad to be of service."
"When you see Charley," Pickering said, "tell him I said thank you very much."
"I'll do that, Mr. Pickering. And you take care of yourself."
"Thank you," Pickering said as he shook the chauffeur's hand.
Pickering and Stecker picked up their bags, walked twenty yards to the head of the taxi line, and climbed in the first one.
"Grumman," Pickering told the driver. "Use the airfield entrance." At least, Stecker thought, he remembers that much. We did not roll up to the airfield gate in the limousine.
In Stecker's opinion, the key to success as a second lieutenant was invisibility. Second lieutenants should be neither seen nor heard. With Pickering, that was difficult. Pick was a living example of Scott Fitzgerald's line about the rich being different from you and me.
During their basic flight training at Pensacola, second Lieutenants were furnished quarters, two men to a tiny two-room apartment in a newly constructed, bare-frame wooden bachelor officer's quarters building.
Such facilities proving unsatisfactory to Second Lieutenant Pickering, he rented a penthouse suite in the San Carlos Hotel in downtown Pensacola and commuted to flight school in his 1941 Cadillac convertible.
The two of them made a deal: Stecker paid for their liquor (acquired tax-free at the Officer's Sales Store). In exchange he got to live in the suite's second bedroom. He did not want to be a mooch, but he couldn't refute Pickering's argument that he was going to have to pay for the suite whether the second bedroom was used or not. So why not?
Not without a little surprise, Stecker quickly learned that Pickering was not a mental lightweight or even someone taking a free ride from his wealthy parents. For instance, the Cadillac had not been a gift. It was purchased from Pick's earnings during his last college summer vacation. He had worked as head bellman in a Foster hotel. Stecker was astonished to learn not only how much head bellmen earned, but how important a head bellman is to a successful hotel operation.
Pick had also worked in hotel kitchens enough to have made him a professional-level chef. Stecker never ceased to be amazed that Pickering could tell the precise doneness of a grilled steak-rare, medium, or medium-rare-by touching it with the tip of his thumb.
For a while grilling steaks for Pensacola maidens on the terrace of their hotel suite was a very profitable enterprise, carnally speaking. But then Pick fell in love.
Not with one of the maidens, but with a widow (a young widow, his age) who wanted nothing to do with him. Part of Pick's infatuation with her, Stecker suspected, was that she spurned his attentions. A most unusual occurrence where Pick was concerned; from what Stecker had seen, females ran toward Pickering with invitation in their eyes, not away from him.
The widow, Martha Sayre Culhane, was the daughter of the Numbe
r-Two Admiral aboard Pensacola NAS, Rear Admiral R. B. Sayre. Her husband, a Marine First Lieutenant, a Naval Aviator, had been killed on Wake Island.
Pick was of course a formidable suitor, but he got no further with Martha Culhane than some dinner dates and movies. And she flatly refused to marry him.
Stecker was absolutely convinced that she had not let Pickering into her pants.
But he was faithful to her, witness last night, when a smashingly beautiful woman with an uncontrollable lust for Marine Aviators had a friend who felt very much the same way. Pick hadn't even wanted to meet her.
That was either incredibly stupid or admirable.
Because Stecker had grown very fond of Pickering, he gave his buddy the benefit of the doubt. It was admirable. Sir Pick, riding off to the Crusades, vowing to stay chastely faithful to Maid Martha while she remained pure and untouched in Castle Pensacola.
Stecker looked out the window and saw they were riding beside the hurricane fence that surrounded the Grumman plant. Up ahead he could see the floodlighted area around the gate. Since the cab was not permitted inside the fence, they got out of it by the gate.
Stecker saw a white-hat inside the guard shack. That was unusual. Although there was a small Navy detachment assigned to the factory, the security force was civilian. The officers and white-hats were here to get aircraft through the production lines and out to the fleet and air bases, not to guard the plant.
Pickering paid the cabdriver, and Stecker walked to the gate, taking a copy of their orders from his pocket as he did so.
"Excuse me, Sir," the white-hat said, saluting as he came out of the guard shack. "Is your name Pickering?"
"He's Pickering," Stecker replied with a gesture in the general area of the taxi. He was suddenly afraid that something unpleasant was about to happen. The insignia on the white-hat's sleeve identified him as an aviation motor machinist's mate first class. Sailors holding the Navy's second-highest enlisted grade are not ordinarily found in guard shacks at quarter to six in the morning.
"You're Lieutenant Stecker, then, Sir?"
"Right."
"Wait right there please, Lieutenant," the white-hat said, and went back in the guard shack. Stecker saw him pick up a telephone and dial a number.
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