‘‘What did he tell you?’’
‘‘That patriotic, courageous, highly skilled, and ergo not too bright pilots were being recruited to go to China and pretend they’re the Chinese Air Corps until Roosevelt can get us in the war. He didn’t put it in quite those words, but stripped of the bullshit, that was what he meant.’’
Canidy chuckled.
‘‘Not that I was asked,’’ Whittaker went on, ‘‘but I wouldn’t touch the AVG with a ten-foot pole. What did you do, go crazy?’’
‘‘I told you, it got me out of the Navy,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘I figured if I stayed until my four years was up, there’d be a war on and I’d never get out.’’
‘‘From what Donovan told me,’’ Whittaker said, ‘‘the American Volunteer Group is a euphemism for ‘throw some Christians to the Japanese lions.’ ’’
‘‘We should not be having this conversation in a public place,’’ Bitter said. ‘‘If we should be having it at all. I don’t want to sound stuffy, but that’s—’’
‘‘I always try to be kind to naval aviators,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘But this ring-knocker sidekick of yours is trying my patience. Does he always interrupt serious conversations this way?’’
‘‘He means well,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘And he’s probably right. Let’s go to our room, so we can get out of these uniforms.’’
‘‘So you can pack,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘You’re not going to spend the night here. Either of you.’’ He saw the look of confusion on Bitter’s face, and explained. ‘‘I’ve got a house here. Plenty of room for everybody. It will be easier all around.’’
‘‘Not only that, it’s free,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Say ‘Thank you, Jim,’ Eddie.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ Bitter said.
He had decided that prudence dictated he join them. For he did not wish to have to tell Commander Porter, at 0800 the next morning, that he had no idea where Lieutenant Canidy was. Since Whittaker and Canidy were two of a kind, together they were liable to do anything.
As they walked up the wide stairway, Whittaker touched Bitter’s arm. ‘‘No offense about the ring-knocker remark?’’
‘‘Not at all,’’ Bitter said. ‘‘We ring-knockers always make an allowance for civilians in uniform.’’
‘‘It does have a sense of humor,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘I think I like it.’’
‘‘Screw you,’’ Bitter said. He had to laugh. The word to describe Whittaker, he thought, was ‘‘effervescent.’’ It was impossible to take offense at anything he said.
‘‘And you have my sympathy, Sour,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘I have trod where you are treading.’’
‘‘Bitter,’’ Bitter corrected him, before he realized his leg was being pulled. ‘‘Trod where, Whitefish?’’
‘‘Sleeping with Canidy,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘It isn’t so much the snores as it is the smell.’’
‘‘Well, we do have something in common, then, don’t we?’’ Bitter said.
‘‘Dick and I go back a long way,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘I was his hack at school.’’
‘‘I was at Phillips Exeter,’’ Bitter said.
‘‘Small world, ain’t it?’’ Canidy said dryly. Then he thought of something. ‘‘Jim, do you remember Fulmar?’’
‘‘Monica Carlisle’s shameful secret? Yeah, sure. How could I forget the charming prick?’’
‘‘I was just out to see my father,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘He told me Fulmar’s in Morocco.’’
‘‘What the hell is he doing in Morocco?’’
‘‘Don’t know,’’ Canidy said, ‘‘but I can imagine. . . .’’
‘‘You bet!’’ Whittaker said with a knowing look.
Curiosity got the better of Ed Bitter. Monica Carlisle was a movie star, possessed of spectacular breasts, blond hair worn hanging over one eye, who always portrayed the innocent about to be violated.
‘‘What about Monica Carlisle’s shameful secret?’’
‘‘He’s an old pal of ours, and he was at St. Mark’s with us for a while,’’ Whittaker explained. ‘‘He’s as old as we are. That’s the shameful secret. America’s innocent sweetheart either bred at eight or nine, or she’s a lot older than her public believes. And considerably less virginal.’’
‘‘No fooling?’’ Bitter said, genuinely surprised.
‘‘His father is German,’’ Canidy added, ‘‘and he went to college there. Since I imagine they’d want to draft him if he stayed there, or else we’d draft him if he came here, it’s likely he’s come up with the not unreasonable notion to sit the war out with some Arab friend in Morocco.’’
‘‘Good for Eric,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘That’s what we should be doing, instead of going off to the mysterious Orient. ’’
‘‘We should be doing? What’s with the ‘we’?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘I’m on my way to the Philippine Islands,’’ Whittaker said
‘‘You’re not kidding, are you?’’ Canidy asked seriously after a moment. Whittaker shook his head no.
‘‘Is that what you’re doing in Washington?’’
‘‘More or less,’’ Whittaker said.
They went into the rooms. Whittaker immediately lay on the bed, his battered cap now pushed down over his nose, his hands under his head, and his riding boots resting on the footboard, as Canidy and Bitter packed.
‘‘Actually, Richard,’’ Whittaker said, ‘‘I’m in Washington to have dinner with our Commander in Chief. He may well be, as Chesty says, a traitor to his class, and there is no question that he did me dirt, but I didn’t have the heart to turn my back on the sweet old guy.’’
‘‘How fine of you!’’ Canidy said. ‘‘St. Mark’s would be proud of you. ‘Greater love hath no man than that he dines with the Roosevelts.’ ’’
‘‘I didn’t think of it that way,’’ Whittaker said modestly.
‘‘Big affair?’’ Canidy asked. ‘‘Or just you and Uncle Franklin?’’
‘‘Uncle Franklin and Aunt Eleanor, actually,’’ Whittaker said.
‘‘And Aunt Eleanor will do the cooking herself, no doubt?’’ Bitter asked, going along with the joke.
‘‘God, I hope not,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘She’s a lousy cook.’’
‘‘How did our Commander in Chief do you dirt?’’ Bitter asked.
‘‘I joined up with the solemn promise from the Air Corps that after I trained, I’d go immediately into the Reserve. Two weeks before I graduated—by presidential order, or executive order, or whatever the hell they call it when he speaks ex cathedra—the rules were changed. All Reserve officers on active duty have to do another year, and resignations will also not be accepted from Regulars for a year.’’
‘‘I hadn’t heard about that,’’ Bitter said.
‘‘Me either,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘But it probably explains Commander Whatsisname’s icy attitude. I thought that sonofabitch was treating us as if we had been caught pissing on the flag.’’
‘‘Who?’’ Whittaker asked.
‘‘The guy who’s processing our discharges,’’ Canidy explained. ‘‘I’m sorry you got caught, Jim.’’
‘‘You’re sorry?’’ Whittaker snorted.
‘‘Well, when you see your uncle Franklin,’’ Bitter said, ‘‘you can tell him what a stinking thing that was for him to do.’’
‘‘I’m tempted, I’ll tell you that,’’ Whittaker said seriously.
Bitter looked at him in surprise, and then decided his leg was being pulled again.
‘‘Have you got the Rolls, or are we going to have to call a cab?’’ Canidy asked, moving his suitcases to the door.
‘‘I told you, I came here from the airport,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘And anyway, the Rolls is in Jersey.’’
Bitter decided that settled it. His leg was being pulled.
‘‘We can call for a cab downstairs,’’ he said.
2
‘‘Why the wall?’’ Ed
Bitter asked when the cab dropped them in front of the house on Q Street.
‘‘My uncle Chesty built it when Roosevelt got elected,’’ Whittaker said, ‘‘to preserve civilization as we know it from the barbarian Democrats.’’
Ed Bitter laughed. ‘‘That wall’s at least fifty years old.’’ And then he made the connection. ‘‘Chesty? Chesty Whittaker? Chesley Haywood Whittaker?’’
‘‘One and the same,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘You know the name?’’
‘‘He and my uncle Brandon are friends,’’ Bitter said. ‘‘My father, too, I think.’’
‘‘Brandon what?’’
‘‘Brandon Chambers,’’ Bitter said.
‘‘Newspapers, right?’’ Whittaker asked, and waited for Bitter to acknowledge the association. When Bitter nodded, Whittaker unlocked the heavy wooden door in the wall, pushed it open, and waved Canidy and Bitter through.
Paul, the butler, opened the door as they approached. ‘‘Good afternoon, sir,’’ he said to Whittaker, and then looked at Canidy. ‘‘Nice to see you again, Mr. Canidy. Just set those bags down. I’ll take care of them.’’
‘‘How are you, Paul?’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘Is my uncle here?’’
‘‘I just sent the car to fetch Mr. Whittaker, sir,’’ Paul said. ‘‘Miss Chenowith is in the library.’’
‘‘Then that’s where we’ll go,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘Would you please bring some beer to the library, Paul? Unless you’d rather have something stronger, Ed?’’
‘‘Beer is fine,’’ Bitter said.
‘‘Yes, sir,’’ Paul said.
Canidy and Bitter followed Whittaker across the wide foyer, where he slid open the double doors. Cynthia Chenowith, her shoulder-length brown hair parted simply in the middle, was sitting sidewards on a couch, with a newspaper laid open next to her. She looked up when the door slid open.
‘‘I’m glad you’re here,’’ she said. ‘‘Your uncle was worried. ’’
‘‘Edwin Bitter, officer and gentleman, USN, say hello to Miss Cynthia Chenowith,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘But don’t get your hopes up. Not only is Canidy smitten with her, but I have been in love with her since she was eight and I was four.’’
Cynthia smiled at Bitter.
‘‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you you are judged by the company you keep?’’ she asked. ‘‘Hello, Canidy.’’
‘‘Miss Cynthia, ma’am,’’ Canidy said, in a mock Southern accent, and bowed deeply.
‘‘You could have called,’’ Cynthia said to Whittaker. ‘‘We weren’t even sure you were on the train. It was damned inconsiderate of you. Aren’t you ever going to grow up?’’
‘‘That time of the month again, is it?’’ Whittaker asked, without thinking.
‘‘You can go to hell, Jim,’’ she said. With her face flushing with embarrassment and anger, she stormed out of the room.
‘‘Why the hell did you say that?’’ Canidy asked Whittaker as soon as she was gone.
‘‘Who the hell does she think she is, talking to me that way, my mother?’’ Whittaker replied. ‘‘And since when do you take her side? What happened between you when you were here before?’’
‘‘I didn’t make a pass at her, Jimmy,’’ Canidy said, ‘‘if that’s what you are asking, though I confess the possibility entered my mind.’’
‘‘Then what?’’
‘‘Could it be a case of mutual loathing, Jimmy?’’ Canidy said, with an angelically innocent smile. ‘‘In my experience, that’s the reason a man and a woman are at each other’s throats every time they see one another.’’
‘‘I think Dick is right,’’ Ed Bitter said, trying to keep a straight face. ‘‘It couldn’t be that you two actually like each other, could it?’’
‘‘Oh, fuck it,’’ Whittaker said, wanting to stop the conversation before he was really stuck on the hook.
A few moments later a young black woman in a maid’s apron and cap came into the room and set a tray with three bottles of beer and three glasses on the coffee table before the couch.
As she left, Cynthia Chenowith returned.
‘‘Can I get you something, Miss Chenowith?’’ the maid asked.
‘‘Nothing, thank you,’’ Cynthia Chenowith said, and then looked at Canidy.
‘‘Jim is sorry,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Tell her you’re sorry, jack-ass! ’’
‘‘To the extent an apology is required, I apologize,’’ Whittaker said.
‘‘Accepted,’’ she said. ‘‘I don’t know why I thought I had a right to give you hell, and I’m sorry.’’
‘‘Truce?’’ Canidy said.
‘‘Truce,’’ she said.
‘‘That’s better,’’ Canidy said. He made the sign of the cross. ‘‘Bless you, my children. Go and sin no more!’’
Cynthia Chenowith smiled and shook her head.
‘‘Why do I suspect that isn’t your first of the day?’’ she asked Jim.
Canidy was afraid that would start it all over again, but Whittaker just grinned.
‘‘To counterbalance your breathtaking beauty and overwhelming desirability,’’ he said, ‘‘God has given you a nasty, suspicious nature. And it isn’t. I had a couple of beers at Anacostia waiting for Dick.’’
‘‘What brings you back to Washington, Dick?’’ Cynthia asked.
‘‘We’re on our way to New York,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Tomorrow. ’’
‘‘They’re on their way to China,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘The damned fools joined that American Volunteer Group.’’
‘‘Have you really?’’ she asked.
Bitter was surprised to see that Cynthia Chenowith seemed to know about the American Volunteer Group.
‘‘So,’’ Whittaker said lightly, ‘‘it seems to me the least you can do before these brave boys go off to China is feed them, and otherwise let them know how much the home front appreciates their sacrifice.’’
Before she could reply, the door from the foyer slid open again, and Chesty Whittaker came into the room.
‘‘Dick!’’ Chesty Whittaker said. ‘‘You’re back. How nice!’’
‘‘You won’t think so when you hear why,’’ Jim said.
‘‘My name is Chesty Whittaker,’’ he said, putting out his hand to Bitter.
‘‘Ed Bitter,’’ Bitter said.
‘‘He’s Brandon Chambers’s nephew,’’ Jim said.
‘‘Then you’re twice welcome,’’ Chesty said.
‘‘My father is Chandler Bitter, Mr. Whittaker,’’ Bitter said. ‘‘Aren’t you acquainted?’’
‘‘What is Chan Bitter’s son doing with these thugs?’’ Whittaker asked.
‘‘Being embarrassed by this one,’’ Jim said. ‘‘And going to China with the other one.’’
Chesty Whittaker looked quickly at Canidy.
‘‘You went to the AVG, Dick?’’
Canidy nodded.
‘‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’’ Whittaker said.
‘‘It has something to do with saving the world for democracy, and a lot more to do with six hundred a month,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘You heard Jim’s going to the Philippines?’’ Chesty Whittaker asked.
Canidy nodded.
Chesty Whittaker gave his hand to Cynthia Chenowith.
‘‘It’s good to see you, my dear,’’ he said. ‘‘And thank you.’’
‘‘I’m happy to be asked,’’ she said.
‘‘Could I impose even further and ask you to amuse these two while Jim and I are off to see the king?’’
‘‘I’d be happy to,’’ she said. ‘‘We were just talking about it.’’
No one who hadn’t seen Chesty Whittaker sneaking out of her apartment in the wee hours would ever suspect they were lovers, Canidy thought.
Another man entered. Chesty turned and greeted him, and then he introduced the newcomer to the others.
‘‘I want you to meet my lawyer friend, Mr. Stanley Fine
.’’
Fine shook hands with Cynthia, Canidy, and Bitter.
As their eyes met, Canidy knew who Fine was.
‘‘We’ve met,’’ he said. ‘‘Professionally.’’
There was no recognition in Fine’s eyes.
‘‘The charge was arson,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘My God,’’ Fine said after a moment. ‘‘Reverend Canidy’s son, right?’’
‘‘Right,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘Arson?’’ Jim said, absolutely fascinated.
‘‘Arson and inflicting grievous bodily harm with an explosive device,’’ Canidy, smiling broadly, explained. ‘‘A kid named Fulmar and I stood accused of trying to burn down Cedar Rapids, and of trying to blow up a teacher. We were in jail about to undergo ‘rehabilitation’ for what a fat lady in charge called our ‘societal problem,’ when out of the west, on his white horse, comes Mr. Fine, who got us out. I stand forever in your debt, sir.’’
‘‘My pleasure, Mr. Canidy,’’ Fine said, smiling at the memory.
‘‘How did he get you out?’’ Jim asked. ‘‘How come I don’t know this story?’’
‘‘It was a painful memory,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘You should have seen the fat lady. It wasn’t the sort of thing one talked about.’’
‘‘It wasn’t all that difficult,’’ Fine said, laughing. ‘‘All it took was a new Studebaker.’’
He and Canidy laughed aloud.
‘‘A new Studebaker?’’ Chesty asked, confused.
‘‘To replace the one he and Fulmar blew up,’’ Fine said.
‘‘I want to hear about this in some detail, of course,’’ Chesty Whittaker said, chuckling. ‘‘But right now there’s not the time. Save it for later.’’
‘‘How is Dr. Canidy?’’ Fine asked.
‘‘Very well, thank you,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘Everybody’s staying here tonight, right?’’ Chesty said. ‘‘So we won’t have the problem of moving people around?’’
Everybody nodded.
"Then all Jim and I have to do is get dressed," Whittaker said.
The Mayflower Club Washington, D.C. 10:20 P.M., June 16, 1941
Stanley S. Fine, vice president, legal, Continental Studios, Inc., swung his gaze in some surprise around the dining room of the Mayflower Club. The club was not nearly as elegant as Fine would have imagined. Tables had uneven legs, and the wallpaper was peeling in spots. There were indeed far more elegant places in California, with food at least as good. But there was an ambience here that the more elegant places he knew simply did not have—an ambience born of white Anglo-Saxon money and power, an ambience that practically screamed at Stanley Fine: ‘‘You have no right to be here. You are to us an outsider forever.’’ But Stanley was equally aware that here he damned well was, and he was also certain that he was absolutely right about doing it.
The Last Heroes Page 11
