THE CORPS VI - CLOSE COMBAT

by W. E. B Griffin

  So what was wrong with that? She'd been around Hollywood long enough to know all about the casting couch. And having Jake Dillon as a friend certainly wouldn't hurt her career any. And she certainly wouldn't be the only actress who was being nice to Dillon. Veronica Wood was screwing him.

  I wonder if she 'd be pissed if she found out I was doing it with him, too.

  She called, "Just a moment, please!" And then she went to the door and unfastened the chain and all the dead-bolt locks you needed in a dump like this to keep people from stealing you blind. As she was finishing with that, she had a final pleasant thought: Three weeks ago, I couldn't even get in an agent's office. And here I am about to do it with Mr. Jake Dillon and worrying if Veronica Wood will be pissed if she finds out!

  "Hello, Dawn, darling," Miss Veronica Wood greeted her. "I hope I didn't rip you out of bed or anything?"

  "Oh, no," Dawn said. "I'm really surprised to see you here, Miss Wood."

  "I had a hell of a time finding it, I'll tell you that," Veronica said. "Can I come in?"

  What the hell does she want?

  "Oh, of course. Excuse me," Dawn said. "Please come in. You'll have to excuse the appearance of the place...."

  "I've lived in worse," Veronica said, and walked to the card table and picked up one of the photographs.

  "Isn't that Mr. Dillon's car?"

  "Yeah. They finally got it fixed," Veronica said. Then, tossing the photograph back on the table, she said, "Not bad. Who did that, Roger Marshutz?"

  "Yes. Yes, he did."

  "He's a horny little bastard; keep your knees crossed when you're around him. But he's one hell of a photographer. He did a nice job with your boobs on this one."

  "I liked it," Dawn said.

  "You'll pass them out on the war bond tour, I suppose?"

  "Yes."

  "I thought so. I was over at Publicity just before I came here, and they were signing mine."

  What the hell does that mean?

  "Excuse me? I don't quite understand."

  Veronica looked at Dawn as if her suspicions that she was retarded were just confirmed.

  "The girls, the girls in Publicity, were signing my handouts."

  "Oh."

  Of course, Veronica Wood is a star. Stars don't autograph their own pictures. How the hell would the fans know if the real star had signed them or not? I am not a star-at least not yet. And that's why I'm signing my own photographs. What the hell, I sort of like signing them. But this will be the last time. Next time the girls in Publicity can sign "Warm regards, Dawn Morris" two thousand times. They probably have nicer handwriting than I do, anyway.

  "Can I offer you something to drink?"

  "Have you got any scotch?"

  "No, I'm sorry, I don't think I do."

  "Then I'll pass, thanks anyway."

  "I know I have gin."

  "Gin makes me horny, and then it gives me a headache," Veronica Wood said. "I don't like to get horny unless I can do something about it. Thanks anyway."

  "Is there something you wanted, Miss Wood?"

  "No, I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd pop in and say 'howdy,' " Veronica said, meeting her eyes. "I wanted to talk to you about Bobby."

  Bobby? Who the hell is Bobby? Oh.

  "Corporal Easterbrook, you mean? What about him?"

  "Actually, Lieutenant Easterbrook," Veronica said. "They gave him a commission. You didn't know?"

  Dawn shrugged helplessly. "What about him?"

  "Now you and I know why you were screwing him at Jake's place," Veronica said. "But I don't think he does."

  "I don't..." Dawn began.

  "Let me put it this way, Dawn darling," Veronica interrupted her. And then she changed the entire pitch and timbre of her voice, sounding as well bred and cultured as she did in her last film, where she played the Sarah Lawrence-educated daughter of a Detroit industrialist who fell in love with her father's chauffeur. It earned her an Academy Award nomination. "As you take your first steps toward what we all hope will be a distinguished motion picture career, the one thing you don't need is to have me pissed at you."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I like that kid," Veronica said, her diction and timbre returning to normal. "He's a good kid. He's been through stuff in the war you and I can't even imagine, and he's just dumb and sweet enough to think that you were screwing him because you liked him."

  "I don't know what you're driving at," Dawn said.

  "Yeah, you do. It's time for Bobby to get thrown out of your bed. And don't tell me you haven't thought about it. You couldn't keep it up if you wanted to. Even in his lieutenant's costume, he looks like a little boy. You can't afford a reputation for robbing the cradle, either."

  "He is young, isn't he," Dawn said. "And he's so sweet!"

  "So," Veronica said. "The question is how to let Bobby down gently. You want to be an actress, act. You figure out how to do it. Just keep in mind that if you don't do a really nice job of letting him down, you will not only break his heart, but you will really piss me off. You really don't want to do that."

  Dawn had her first rebellious thought, and it was not entirely unpleasant: Jesus, is it possible that she's looking at me as a threat to her? Of course it's possible. But I'm not as vulnerable as she thinks lam. The studio has plans for me-based on my screen test, and on the fact that Shirley Maxwell liked it. She may have an Academy Award nomination, and she may be screwing the ears off Jake Dillon, but she doesn't come close to having the influence Shirley Maxwell has on her husband. And he runs the studio!

  "I have no intention of hurting Bob Easterbrook, Miss Wood," Dawn said. "I really like him. You didn't have to come here and threaten me."

  "It wasn't a threat, it was statement of fact."

  "Not that I think you could do a thing to harm me..."

  "Oh! I'll be goddamned! Darling, let me let you in on a little secret. The real power at Metro-Magnum is Shirley Maxwell. Don't ever forget that. And just for the record, Shirley and I go way back. She was under contract, too, you know. We were in the chorus of a swimming-pool epic with Esther Williams... and we were sharing a dump like this. Anyhow, she once confided in me back then that she really loved that porcine dwarf she finally married. And I confided in her that I really loved Jake Dillon, and I was going to catch him in a weak mood and get him to marry me. The consequence of that is that Shirley knows that I'm the only female on the lot who's not trying to get her husband's undersized dork out of his pants and into her mouth. And Shirley likes Jake, too... and not only because of me. When I heard that Shirley said nice things to the dwarf about your test, I knew it was because of Jake. You're not bad-looking, and you have a fine set of boobs, but so do five thousand other girls out here. How long do you think you'd last if I went to Shirley and told her to keep an eye on the dwarf, he's got the hots for Whatsername, Dawn something, the one with the sexy voice and the big teats?"

  They locked eyes for a moment.

  "I think we understand each other, Miss Wood," Dawn finally said.

  "Yeah, I think maybe we do," Veronica said, and then shifted back into the role of Pamela Hornsbury of Sarah Lawrence and Detroit. "And please call me Veronica. Now that you're going to be part of the Metro-Magnum family, it seems only appropriate, don't you think, darling?" Then she smiled and walked out of Dawn's apartment.

  [THREE]

  Cottage B

  The Foster Beverly Hills

  Beverly Hills, California

  1325 Hours 5 November 1942

  "May I come in?" the general manager of the Foster Beverly Hills said, inserting his head through the open door.

  First Lieutenant Malcolm S. Pickering, USMCR, waved him in, then held up his index finger, asking him to wait. Pick was sitting on a couch whose wildly floral upholstery and faux-bamboo wood manifested, he supposed, a South Pacific ambience. There was a telephone at his ear.

  "I know they're in the Federal Building," he said to the telephone. "O
r maybe it's the Post Office Building. Would you keep trying? It's the West Coast, or Los Angeles, or something like that, Detachment of the Public Affairs Division of the Marine Corps. Thank you."

  He put the handset in its cradle.

  "Lieutenant Pickering, I'm Gerald Samson, the general manager. I'm so sorry about the mix-up. We just had no record of your reservation."

  "No problem," Pick said. "All fixed." He gestured around the room. "This is very nice. Lieutenant Dunn and I feel right at home in here. There's only one thing missing."

  "What's that?"

  "Bare-breasted maidens in grass skirts," Pick said.

  "And poisonous insects," Lieutenant Bill Dunn said, coming into the room. There was the sound of a toilet flushing. "Lots and lots of large poisonous insects."

  Mr. Samson smiled uneasily. Thirty-five minutes previously, Paul Dester, the day manager, had telephoned him at home. Dester explained then that two Marine officers were in the lobby, insisting, they had a reservation made by the Andrew Foster in San Francisco. Though Dester found no record of such a reservation (it would have been in the name of a Lieutenant Pickering), he called the Andrew Foster to check. And the day manager there said he was quite positive that no reservation had been made for Lieutenant Pickering. He would have remembered; Lieutenant Pickering was Andrew Foster's grandson.

  At that point Dester actually had to call to ask what he was supposed to do:

  "Is there a cottage open?"

  "Only B, and we're holding that for Spencer Tracy. For Mr. Tracy's friends. They'll be in tomorrow."

  "Put Mr. Pickering in B, and send fruit and cheese and champagne. We'll worry about Mr. Tracy's friends later. I'll be right there."

  When Mr. Samson came into the room, the fruit-and-cheese basket and champagne were untouched. The reason for that became almost immediately apparent when a bellman appeared with bottles of scotch and bourbon, glasses, and ice.

  "How many bedrooms are there here?" Pick asked.

  "There are three, Mr. Pickering."

  "A guest of mine, and a guest of his, will be arriving sometime this afternoon. Captain Charles Galloway. They'll need the bigger bedroom."

  "That would be the Palm Room," Samson said, indicating one of the doors with a nod of his head. "We'll be on the lookout for Captain Galloway, Sir."

  "Thank you," Pick said, and then the telephone rang and he grabbed it.

  "I've found a Marine Public Affairs Detachment, Sir. It's in the Post Office Building. Should I ring it?" the operator asked.

  "Please," Pick said, and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "We're about to have a little nip to cut the dust of the trail, Mr. Samson. Can we ask you to join us?"

  "Los Angeles Detachment, Marine Corps Public Relations, Lieutenant Macklin speaking."

  "I'm trying to find Major Dillon," his caller said.

  "May I ask who is calling?"

  "My name is Pickering."

  "Lieutenant Pickering?

  "Right."

  "Where are you, Lieutenant?"

  "I asked first. Where's Dillon?"

  "One moment, please," Macklin said, and covered the microphone with his hand. He'd recently read an extract of the service record of First Lieutenant Pickering, Malcolm S., USMCR; and Pickering hadn't been a first lieutenant long enough to wear the lacquer off his bars.

  I outrank him, and I don't have to tolerate his being a wise-ass. But on the other hand, we're going to be together for the next two weeks, and it would be better if an amicable relationship existed.

  "Major, it's Lieutenant Pickering," Macklin said.

  "Let me have it," Jake Dillon said, and took the telephone from Macklin. "Hey, Pick, where are you?"

  "In the Beverly Hills."

  "Dunn with you?"

  "Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."

  "You're supposed to be in the Roosevelt."

  "I don't like the Roosevelt," Pick said.

  "Have you been at the sauce?"

  "Not yet. They just brought it."

  "Where in the Hills?"

  "Cottage B. It has a charming South Pacific ambience. You ought to see it."

  "I will. I'll be right there. And you will be there when I arrive. Both of you."

  "Aye, aye, Sir. Whatever the Major desires, Sir."

  "Let me add 'sober,' " Dillon said, and hung up. He looked at Macklin. "Well, that's two out of three. Or five out of six, counting the three we already have in the Roosevelt. I don't think we'll have a problem with Captain Galloway."

  "They're not in the Hollywood Roosevelt, Sir?"

  "No, they're in the Foster Beverly Hills."

  "I don't understand, Sir."

  The telephone rang, and again Lieutenant Macklin answered it in the prescribed military manner.

  "Sir," his caller said, "may I speak with Major Dillon, please. My name is Corp-Lieutenant Easterbrook."

  Macklin covered the microphone with his hand.

  "It's Lieutenant Easterbrook, Sir," he said.

  In Lieutenant Macklin's professional judgment, the commissioning of Corporal Easterbrook was an affront to every commissioned officer who'd earned his commission the hard way. The right way (and the hardest way) to earn a commission, of course, was to go through Annapolis, as he himself had. But failing that, you could take a course of instruction at an Officer Candidate School that would at least impart the absolute basic knowledge a commissioned officer needed and weed out those who were not qualified to be officers. Simply doing your duty as an enlisted man on Guadalcanal should not be enough to merit promotion to commissioned status.

  These thoughts made Macklin wonder again about his own promotion. If he had been able to answer the telephone "Captain Macklin speaking, Sir," perhaps Pickering's tone would have been a little more respectful.

  Dillon took the phone from him again.

  "Hey, Easterbunny, where are you? How was the leave?"

  "Just fine, Sir. I'm at the airport, Sir. You said to call when I got in."

  "Great. Look, hop in a cab and tell him to take you... Wait a minute. In ten minutes, be out in front. Lieutenant Macklin will pick you up. You came on TWA, right?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Be out in front in ten minutes," Dillon said, and broke the connection with his finger. He dialed a number from memory.

  "Jake Dillon," he said to whoever answered, as Macklin watched with curiosity. "Is Veronica Wood on the lot? Get her for me, will you?"

  He turned to Macklin.

  "The station wagon is here, right?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Go pick up the Easterbunny, and take him to the Foster Beverly Hills, Cottage B. I'll meet you there. It's about time you met Pickering and Dunn. And they probably know where Galloway is, too."

  "Aye, aye, Sir," Macklin said.

  "Hey, baby," Jake said to the telephone. "I'm glad I caught you. You want to meet me, as soon as you can, at the Hills?"

  There was a pause.

  "I don't want to sit around the goddamn Polo Lounge either. I want you to meet a couple of friends of mine, Marines. They're in B."

  "Boy," Second Lieutenant Robert F. Easterbrook, USMCR, said to First Lieutenant R. B. Macklin, USMC, as they drove up the palm-tree-lined drive to the entrance of the Foster Beverly Hills Hotel, "this is classy!"

  Lieutenant Macklin ignored him and looked for a place to park the station wagon. Another of Major Dillon's odd notions was to decree that enlisted men could almost always be put to doing something more useful than chauffeuring officers around, and that henceforth the officers (meaning Macklin, of course; Dillon habitually drove his own car) would drive themselves.

  He saw a spot and started to drive into it. A bellman held up his hand and stopped him.

  "We'll take care of the car, Sir," the bellman said. "Are you checking in?"

  "We're here to see Major Dillon," Macklin said. "I don't think it's permissible for a civilian to drive a military vehicle. I will park it myself, thank you, just the same."