Dress Gray

by Lucian K. Truscott

  Wednesday afternoon, November 6, 1968, at 3:20, the message was waiting for Slaight, taped to his door by the CQ.

  SLAIGHT—CALL SGT MAJ ELDRIDGE ASAP

  Slaight dropped a dime, dialed the 505 area code, and the local number for the sergeant major’s house.

  “Sarenmager, sir.” It was the way sergeant majors always referred to themselves and to each other—Sarenmager, a wedding of the two words.

  “Sergeant Major, it’s Ry Slaight. What have you got for me?”

  “You on a clean phone?”

  “I’m in another company area, in a phone booth. That heavy, huh?”

  “You better believe it. Slaight. I had to put my soul in hock to the supply sergeant for this poop.”

  The sergeant major chuckled to himself at his old army lingo. Slaight chuckled, too. It was impossible not to love a good army sergeant major. If they had them in civilian life, John Lugar once said, executives would have to hire consultants, who’d have to go to linguistics experts to try to come up with something to call them. The attempt would be an expensive failure, Lugar said, because there just wasn’t a civilian word to describe the function and worth of a good sergeant major.

  “Shoot. I’m taking notes,” said Slaight, leaning against the wood side of the phone booth.

  “That guy Beatty—William Beatty—he flew up to West Point this morning on a special Department of the Army plane. I couldn’t get a complete line on what he’s up to, but he was scheduled to meet with Hedges first thing this morning. And word is, he’ll be up there for a week, maybe a week and a half.”

  “So what do you figure is going on?”

  “I can’t tell you much, Slaight. My sources are not the best, and my information is incomplete. But I know this. More than one of my buddies down in the Pentagon told me our boy Beatty has been cranking up something big for the past couple of weeks. Something so big, he imported a special staff of typists and clerks to do his work for him. Everybody was told they were free-lance office workers, like Kelly Girls. But one guy looked into it, and the clerks and typists all came from Associated Electronics, one of those new computer/weapons R & D companies with their fingers in every defense pie but hairpie.” Again the chuckle. Slaight stifled a laugh.

  “Fast as they were there, they were gone. The clerks and jerks from outside, I mean. Then Beatty schedules this visit to West Point. Your man Bassett was right. Something’s going on. I got a line on the Pentagon switchboard. Him and Hedges have been on the phone, five, maybe six times a day for the past couple of weeks. And that guy Thompson, he’s been talking to Beatty every day, too. I don’t know what’s happening, Slaight, but you touched a nerve with this thing. One of my guys down there says this is the hottest he’s ever seen it. Ever. He said not even the Tet Offensive generated this much heat. I don’t know how this kid David Hand plugs into the action, but he does. One of my guys put an eyeball on some poop in Beatty’s outer office one day, and it was stuff on Hand. He couldn’t tell what it was, but he saw the name. You touched a fuckin’ nerve, Slaight.”

  “Jesus. Sounds like it.”

  “You want some advice from an old retired sergeant major?”

  “That’s why I’m talking to you, Sergeant Major. You know that.”

  “It’s time you had a one-on-one with this guy Beatty. He’s your man. If I was you, I’d get him alone. Bluff him. Sprinkle David Hand’s name all over the damn place. Let him know that you’re onto his involvement in the David Hand thing. Watch him close. If he starts to squirm, push him. Make him think you’re right on the verge of doing something really rash, like going to the papers. But don’t be specific. Just let him believe you’re cracking, and you’re making your move this weekend. When you’ve got him really sweating, walk out without saying a word, like you’re heading off to do whatever it is he thinks you’re going to do. If I’m not wrong, this guy Beatty’s the kind who believes in ghosts. He’s got to, sitting where he’s sitting. Give that SOB something to be afraid of, and he’ll pull every string there is, he’ll do anything to protect his anonymity. He’s a back-room fucker. He’ll want to stay that way. You get him to think you’re gonna expose him, and it’ll be all over. That’s the way I figure it, anyways.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant Major.”

  “Don’t mention it. Hey. Ry. Lemme know how things go, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  Slaight hung up and dialed Bassett, relaying his notes from the conversation with Sergeant Major Eldridge.

  “Do it,” was all Bassett said. “Do it.”

  Slaight dropped another dime and called a cadet in the First Regiment who he knew was close to Beatty. Unsuspecting, the cadet told him Beatty was staying in the Eisenhower Suite of the Hotel Thayer and would probably be there the rest of the afternoon. The cadet had just talked to him. He was to “escort” Beatty to supper in the mess hall that evening, at six.

  It was four o’clock. Slaight had two hours.

  36

  William Beatty was sitting behind a huge desk at the far end of the Eisenhower Suite. Slaight recognized him from photos in Assembly magazine, photos from awards ceremonies at the Pentagon, visits to various army posts, speeches at Founders Day Dinners.

  “Can I help you, young man?” he asked, smiling. He removed his glasses. Even from a distance. Slaight could see his face was unlined, smooth, fleshy like a baby’s. An extra chin dangled beneath a dim, five o’clock shadow. Slaight closed the door to the suite behind him. The room was a memorial to things West Point. Everywhere were the colors, black-gray-gold, the motto, “Duty, Honor, Country.” Slaight didn’t pause to examine the plaques, mementos, flags, and photographs of famous occupants of the suite. He walked straight for Beatty’s desk.

  “My name is Ry Slaight,” he announced as he reached the middle of the room.

  “I know who you are,” answered Beatty.

  “And I’ve come to talk about the murder of David Hand.”

  Slaight halted, hat gripped tightly in his left hand, the stiff collar of his Dress Gray coat rubbing his chin. Beatty’s smile dissolved into terminal weariness, arid, so dry and scaly you knew even his sweat glands were tired, tiny facial ducts and pores shriveled, empty, finished. Beatty fumbled in his jacket pocket, withdrew a vial of pills, and popped two in his mouth, swallowing.

  “I have this … condition …” he stuttered.

  “I don’t care what condition you have, Mr. Beatty. I’m here to talk about a young man, David Hand, who seems to have passed away quietly, with no official fanfare, and very, very little sympathy. And you two were such good friends.” Slaight enunciated slowly, watching Beatty. His face sagged, like a sponge, oozing up just a bit, then down, reacting to forces unseen beneath the surface.

  “Sit down, Mr. Slaight,” said Beatty weakly. Slaight remained standing.

  “I guess I’ve known this day would come for a long time now,” said Beatty, looking out the window, past the barren leafless trees, at the Hudson.

  “What are you going to say to me, Mr. Slaight? Go ahead. Say it.”

  Slaight started pacing, back and forth across the carpet in front of Beatty’s desk.

  “Look. This kid was murdered. I know it. The commandant, Hedges, he knows it. You know it. And we all know who killed him, don’t we, Mr. Beatty? Don’t we?”

  Beatty nodded, still staring out the window.

  “VanRiper. He was one of your boys, wasn’t he, Mr. Beatty? Wasn’t he one of the guys in your crowd last year, one of the guys you’re always taking down to the Pentagon and introducing around? Wasn’t VanRiper one of your sterling crew … a general-in-the-making? Wasn’t he?”

  Beatty nodded.

  “Well, goddammit, everybody knows he killed Hand, and nothing’s being done about it. Nothing. There has been no Article 32 investigation, no charges, no court-martial, no nothing. The guy who murdered Hand killed him in cold blood, grabbed the poor bastard and held him underwater till he drowned … he’s free as a bird right now. That wouldn’
t have anything to do with the fact he’s a homosexual, would it, Mr. Beatty?”

  Beatty turned and faced Slaight.

  “What about it, Mr. Beatty? Hand was a fag. VanRiper was a fag. A murder was committed, and nothing is happening. I want answers. I want to know why VanRiper is over in Vietnam right now, bopping around, a free man.”

  “You’re wrong there, Mr. Slaight. He was killed on patrol two days ago. I received word of his death yesterday.”

  “So that’s why you’re up here at the academy! You know who killed Hand, and now that he’s dead, too, you’ve got nothing left to investigate and all that’s left is tying off a few loose ends. Well! I’ve got a file on the David Hand murder that will choke the goddamn New York Times, as well as any congressional committee looking to throw its weight around. I’m one loose end you’re not going to tie off, Mr. Beatty. You’re in this thing up to your neck….”

  Beatty stood, and Slaight, startled, stopped pacing and faced him.

  “And so are you, Mr. Slaight. And so are you.” Beatty leaned forward, his hands resting on the green desk blotter before him. “We’ve got a file on you, too, Slaight. A nice fat file full of details about you and your … shall we say … relationship with the late Mr. Hand. We know all about you and your supposed ‘counseling’ sessions with Hand, those many hours he spent in your room, the two of you alone, behind closed doors. We know about the times you two were spotted together in the sinks, when you held Hand downstairs for ‘special inspection’ just before taps. Beast Barracks was, well, conducive to certain freedoms as well as discipline, was it not, Mr. Slaight?” Beatty stared at Slaight through squinty eyes.

  “You haven’t got jack-shit on me, Mr. Beatty,” said Slaight, staring levelly across the desk. “And this bluff you’re running is losing air so quick, I can hear it hiss.”

  “Oh, Mr. Slaight! Such bluster!”

  Slaight stuttered in anger.

  “Page after page, Mr. Slaight. An entire log, hour by hour, clocking the time you spent alone with Hand. Firsthand accounts. Affidavits from individuals in your squad, from your fellow squad leaders, from upper-classmen. An impressive collection, Mr. Slaight. Equal in every way to the circumstantial so-called evidence you have, I’d bet.”

  “And what does it add up to, Mr. Beatty? Tell me. Where in your Beast Barracks catalogue about Hand and me is the grenade you can pull the pin on? What are you trying to say? Me and Hand got it on? You got a tape of pillow-talk from sweet thing David, bragging that he fucked his squad leader during Beast? Come on, Beatty. The shit’s been deep too goddamn long, and I’m getting tired of the stink. Put up or shut up.”

  “We’ve got it, Mr. Slaight. Believe it.”

  Slaight paused. Beatty wasn’t just bluffing. He probably had a stack of affidavits. He might even have listened to Hand blowing smoke about Beast, making up a bunch of shit to counter the crippling breakdown he suffered when Slaight hit him with all that stuff about his sister. If Beatty was bluffing, it was at least formidable. He had obviously planned for a frontal assault by Slaight well in advance. Slaight considered his position. It wasn’t good. Beatty was calling him a fag, in effect; it was more than a bluff, it was a dare. Slaight felt quickly for his options and found only one: retaliate in force, but scout him, feel him out first.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it, Mr. Beatty. That’s what I’m here for. Haul out the shit and show it to me. So far, all I’ve seen is talk. You want me off this Hand thing, you’re going to have to scrape me off with data. Now give.”

  Beatty reached in the pocket of his suit jacket for a pair of glasses, and opening his briefcase, withdrew a thick manila envelope. He squeezed open a metal clasp and spilled its contents onto the blotter. Slaight glanced at the tier of paper work. A glance was enough. It had the aroma: official.

  “Let me see,” said Beatty, fitting his glasses over his slightly protruding ears. “There’s so much here….” He continued to flip through the papers. “And it’s all so … interesting.” He enunciated the word with the precision of a lawyer giving his final arguments to a friendly jury. Confidently. A smile passed his lips as he withdrew a legal-length document, at least twenty pages thick, holding it before him, Joe McCarthy-style, so Slaight could see only the blank side of its last page.

  “Here we have it, Mr. Slaight,” said Beatty, his smile widening into a darting grin, an odd rapid succession of twitches hovering somewhere this side of euphoria. He flipped through the pages of the document, saying nothing. After a moment reviewing its contents. Beatty closed the document, gripping its sides tightly. Slaight stood there, studying the man. Then he noticed. Beatty’s hand had formed fists. With an abrupt slam, Beatty brought the twenty-odd pages hard atop the desk, scattering the rest of the paper work. He looked up at Slaight, removing his glasses with his left hand. The smile was gone.

  “What we have here, my boy, is a simple case of adolescent obsession. Understandable. Ordinary. Even admirable, from at least one angle.”

  “And that angle, Mr. Beatty?” Slaight scouted.

  “Your … ah … interest in the death of David Hand …” Again Beatty spoke the word with spooky authority. “Your … interest, as you have made abundantly clear, has far exceeded normal bounds and reflects nothing but jealousy on your part, Mr. Slaight. Raw jealousy.”

  “Jealousy? Of what?”

  “You had your problems with his sister, Samantha—David said she could be quite the bitch—and you took out your hostility on David. And so, Mr. Slaight, you found yourself … your true self … but you lost David. He was a pretty boy, and his loss must have been expensive. For you.” Beatty smiled evenly, his squinty eyes opening slightly to take in Slaight’s barest reaction. All the cards were out now. The bluffing was over, and Beatty was calling.

  Slaight was just beginning to drift, that same … so this is the way it happens … drift, when the notion seized him. Thank God for Military Art, he muttered inwardly. Scouts in. Now. Retaliate. In force. No other choice. The instinct came from deep inside him, down there for Lord only knows how long … the streets back home, the old man and his way with horses, Ma, her poundcake wisdom uttered in her slow Kansas drawl after supper as she washed and he dried … retaliate. And Ma, she always had the same parting words, no matter the problem, or its solution.

  Take care, son.

  She was right, every time, Slaight recalled, his skidding memory racing across his past and coming to a halt right here, now, at West Point, Beatty standing in front of him waiting to see if he’d fold or move. Slaight smiled to himself. They even taught it in Tactics at West Point. The word was discretion, only he’d always like Ma’s better: take care. Nodding his head slowly up and down, as if to signal yes, Slaight slumped into an overstuffed chair at the side of the desk in mock resignation. He sighed audibly, folding his hands in his lap across the zipper of his Dress Gray jacket.

  “Christ, Mr. Beatty, this is really something,” said Slaight, staring at the spit-shined toes of his shoes. Beatty’s shoulders sagged, relaxing, and a smiled crossed his face. Slaight crossed his legs and tapped the toe of his right foot in the air soundlessly.

  “I mean, you’ve got this file, you’ve got this mystery document I still haven’t seen, I mean, all I’m hearing is words, and still …” Slaight lingered, as though he was uncertain as to what he should say next. Beatty eased himself onto his chair. Now the two faced each other across the pile of scattered documents, paper work, the connective tissue of organizations large and small, the blood of bureaucracy. Poop-sheets. They made Slaight feel comfortable. Words on paper. And he hadn’t been shown a single one.

  “What I’m trying to say, Mr. Beatty, is … it’s all so fuckin’ ordinary.” He let the word hang. Beatty didn’t react, waiting. Slaight looked up from the toe of his shoe and fixed Beatty with a stare.

  “So fuckin’ ordinary, man. Everything I’ve heard about you, I expected you’d come loaded to do some real business, and here you sit behind this pile of crap,
and all you’re doing is saying, Slaight, you’re either a closet queen or a faggot, you fell for Hand like the rest of us, and that’s what drove you to crank this thing until you’re sitting in a room with a deputy Secretary of Defense. Jealousy. For crying out loud, Beatty. Is that all you can come up with? Jealousy is the cheapest, two-bit human twist, man. The kind of jealousy you’re pushin’ could be satisfied with the back of my hand or a tongue-lashing over two martinis. Christ, man, your act is so full of shit I can hear your asshole puckering.” Slaight glared at Beatty, drilling him, not at all sure his ploy would work. Beatty stared back silently. Smart. The level was verbal, spoken words, and so long as it remained that way, Slaight figured Beatty had the upper hand. It frightened him, scared the shit out of him, but he knew he’d have to act, move, if he was going to nail Beatty.

  “What’s the matter with these poop-sheets? How come you haven’t handed me the piece that’s going to sen me back to the barracks with my thumb in my ear, looking for a place to hide?”

  “Unnecessary,” said Beatty. “You know the facts at least as well as I.”

  “THE FUCK I DO,” yelled Slaight, swinging his right foot across the top of the desk, scattering papers into Beatty’s lap, against the wall, carrying academy knick-knacks like army mules and replicas of Civil War cannons with them. Beatty leapt to his feet, his face crimson.

  “I’ll see you in Leavenworth for that, mister!” he screamed in a high-pitched whine. “That’s assault! I’ll have you court-martialed, you insubordinate little …” His voice sputtered off into a series of wheezes and gasps for air. Slaight remained sitting, recrossing his legs.

  “You haven’t got diddlyshit in that pile, Beatty. If you did, you would have tacked me one tack at a time to the top of this desk, poop-sheet by poop-sheet. You’re smart, Mr. Beatty. But you forgot something. If you’re gonna bring guns, you’d better be ready to use them. You didn’t. Elemental tactical error. They teach it plebe year. Feints don’t work when you got nothing to back them up with. Your shit is in the wind, Beatty. Sit down.”