They would be inspected again, a few minutes later, by the company commander and gunnery sergeant, but Corporal Pleasant wanted to make sure they were all shipshape before that happened.
To McCoy's surprise, Pleasant not only found nothing wrong with his appearance, shave, or shine, he didn't even inspect his rifle when he stepped in front of him. He probably figures he doesn't have to bother anymore. The company commander and the gunnery sergeant made their appearance at the end of the company street, and one by one, the drill instructors of the four platoons of platoon leader candidates called their troops to order.
McCoy's company commander, a lieutenant, spoke to him as he inspected his rifle.
"I understand you had some trouble with this today, McCoy?" "Yes, sir."
"And I also understand the stoppage has been cleared?"
What the fuck is he talking about? Stoppage?
"Yes, sir."
The company commander moved on. The sergeant-major looked right into McCoy's face, but said nothing, and there was no particular expression on his face.
When the four platoons had been inspected, the officers took their positions, and the gunny read the orders of the day.
The next day was Thanksgiving (Until December 1941, Thanksgiving was celebrated on the third Thursday of November), the Gunny announced, as if no one had figured that out for himself. Liberty for all hands, with the exception of those individuals requiring extra training, would commence when the formation was dismissed. The next duty day, Friday, would be given over to the purchase of uniforms. Those individuals who were to appear before the elimination board would not, repeat, not, order any officer-type uniforms until the decisions of the elimination board were announced. Liberty would begin on Friday, until 0330 hours the following Monday, as soon as the platoon leader candidates had arranged for the purchase of officer-type uniforms. There would be no, repeat, no, liberty for anyone called before the elimination board.
The gunny then read the list of those who required extra training, and then the list of those to face the elimination board.
And then he did an about-face and saluted the company commander, who returned the salute, ordered him to dismiss the formation, and walked off.
The gunny barked, "Dis-miss!"
Pick Pickering punched McCoy's arm.
"See? I told you you weren't gonna get boarded!"
And neither, McCoy thought, did I hear my name called for extra training. And they didn't say anything about refiring for record, either.
What the fuck is going on?
He thought it was entirely likely that the gunny had "forgotten" to read his name, so that when he failed to show up to sand the deck, or to refire for record, or for the elimination board itself, they could add AWOL to everything else.
He saw Pleasant going behind the building to get into his Ford. He ran after him. Pleasant rolled down the window. "Something I can do for you, Mr. McCoy?" "What the fuck is going on, Pleasant? Why wasn't my name called for extra training and for the elimination board?" "Because you're not on extra training, Mr. McCoy, and because you're not going before the elimination board. You are on liberty, Mr. McCoy.
"You going to tell me what's going on?" "Very well, Mr. McCoy. It's very simple. In ten days they are going to pin a gold bar on your shoulder. Between now and then, the gunny and I will do whatever we can to make things as painless as possible for you."
"I thought you wanted to bust me out of here." "Oh, we do," Pleasant said. "Nothing would give us greater pleasure. But then, we know better than to fuck with a rabbi."
"What rabbi?"
"Is there anything else, Mr. McCoy?" Pleasant said. "If not, with your permission, sir, I would like to start my Thanksgiving liberty."
"Fuck you, Pleasant," McCoy said. Pleasant rolled up the window and drove off. Pick Pickering was waiting for McCoy in the barracks. "Well?"
"I'm on liberty like everybody else," McCoy said. "And no elimination board."
"Great!" Pickering said, and punched his arm. "Let's go find a cab and get the hell out of here." "Out of here, where?"
"In compliance with orders from the United States Marine Corps, I am going to buy some officer-type uniforms."
"What the hell are you talking about? We're not supposed to buy uniforms until Friday." "Right," Pickering said. "Well?"
"I'm learning," Pickering said. "You will recall that they didn't say anything about where we were to buy the uniforms. Just that we buy them on Friday." "So?"
"On Friday, I am going to buy uniforms. In Brooks Brothers in New York."
"What's Brooks Brothers?"
"It's a place where they sell clothing, including uniforms."
"Jesus!" McCoy said.
"And when we're not buying our uniforms, we can be lifting some skirts," Pickering said. "The only problem is finding a cab to get us off this fucking base to someplace we can catch a train to New York."
"We don't need a cab," McCoy said. "I've got a car."
"You have a car? Here?" Pickering asked, surprised.
McCoy nodded.
"Mr. McCoy," Pickering said. "The first time I laid eyes on you, I said, 'Now, there is a man of many talents, the sort of chap it would be wise to cultivate in the furtherance of my military career.' "
McCoy smiled.
"And will this car of yours make it to New York? Without what I have recently learned to call 'mechanical breakdown'?"
"It's a LaSalle," McCoy said.
"In that case, if you pay for the gas," Pickering said, "I will take care of the room. Fair?"
"Fair," McCoy agreed.
Chapter Twelve
(One)
The Foster Park Hotel
Central Park South
New York City, New York
2320 Hours 19 November 1941
Pick Pickering was at the wheel of the LaSalle when it pulled up in front of the marquee of the Foster Park Hotel. They had gassed up just past Baltimore and changed places
there.
McCoy had gone to sleep thinking about Ellen Feller, about her probably being somewhere in Baltimore, and about what had happened between them in China-memories that reminded him of the very long time since he'd had his ashes
hauled.
The doorman stepped off the curb, walked out to the driver's side, opened the door, and said, "Welcome to the Foster Park Hotel, sir," before he realized that the driver was some kind of a soldier, a Marine, and an enlisted man, not even an officer.
"May I help you, sir?"
Pickering got out of the car.
"Take care of the car, please," he said. "We'll need it sometime Sunday afternoon."
"You'll be checking in, sir?"
The question seemed to amuse the Marine.
"I hope so," he said. "The luggage is in the trunk."
He turned back to the car.
"Off your ass and on your feet, McCoy," he said. "We're here."
McCoy sat up, startled, looked around, and as almost a reflex action, opened his door and got out.
"Where are we?" he asked, groggily.
"My grandfather calls it Sodom-on-Hudson," Pickering said, and took McCoy's arm and propelled him toward the revolving door.
The desk clerk was busy with someone else as Pickering and McCoy approached registration. Pickering pulled the Register in front of him, took the pen, and filled out one of the cards.
When the desk clerk turned his attention toward Pickering, he thrust the Registration card at him.
"We'd like a small suite," he said.
"I'm not sure that we'll be able to accommodate you, sir," the clerk said.
The clerk didn't know what the OC insignia on the collar points of the uniforms meant, but he knew a Marine private when he saw one, and Marine privates couldn't afford the prices of the Foster Park Hotel.
"House is full, is it?" the Marine asked.
"What I mean to suggest, sir," the desk clerk said, as tactfully as he could, "is that our prices are, well, a li
ttle stiff."
"That's all right," the Marine said. "I won't be paying for it anyway. Something with a view of the park, if one is available."
The desk clerk looked down at the card in his hand.
He didn't recognize the name, but in the block "Special billing Instructions" the Marine had written: "Andrew Foster, S/F, Attn: Mrs. Delahanty."
"Just one moment, please, sir, I'll check," the desk clerk said.
He disappeared behind the rack of mail-and-key slots and handed the card to the night resident manager, who was having a cup of coffee and a Danish pastry at his desk. He handed him the registration card. The night resident manager glanced at it casually, and then jumped to his feet.
He approached the Marines standing at the desk with his hand extended.
"Welcome to the Park, Mr. Pickering," he said. "It's a pleasure to have you in the house."
"Thank you," Pick Pickering said, shaking his hand. "Is there some problem?"
"Absolutely no problem. Would Penthouse C be all right with you?"
"If you're sure we can't rent it," Pickering said. "Not at this hour, Mr. Pickering," the night resident manager said, laughing appreciatively.
"Well, if somebody wants it, move us," Pickering said. "But otherwise, that's fine. We'll be here until Sunday afternoon."
The night resident manager took a key from the rack and came from behind the marble counter.
"If we had only known you were coming, Mr. Pickering..." he said. "I'm afraid there's not even a basket of fruit in the penthouse."
"At half-past four this afternoon, it was even money that we would be spending the weekend with a brick and a pile of sand," Pick Pickering said. "I don't much care about fruit, but I wish you would send up some liquor, peanuts, that sort of thing."
"Immediately, Mr. Pickering," the night resident manager said, as he bowed them onto the elevator.
Penthouse C of the Foster Park Hotel consisted of a large sitting room opening onto a patio overlooking Fifty-ninth Street and Central Park. To the right and left were bedrooms, and there was a butler's pantry and a bar with four stools.
When he went directly to answer nature's call, McCoy found himself in the largest bathroom he had ever seen.
By the time he came out, there were two room service waiters and a bellboy in the room. The bellboy was arranging cut flowers in vases. One waiter was organizing on the rack behind the bar enough liquor bottles to stock a saloon, and the other was moving through the room filling silver bowls from a two-pound can of cashews.
Pick Pickering was sitting on a couch talking on the telephone. He saw McCoy and made a gesture indicating he was thirsty.
"Scotch," he called, putting his hand over the mouthpiece. By the time McCoy had crossed to the bar, the night resident manager had two drinks made.
"We're glad to have you with us, sir," the night resident manager said, as he put one drink in McCoy's hand and scurried across the room to deliver the other to Pickering.
When they were all finally gone and Pickering finished his telephone call, McCoy sat down beside him.
"What the hell is all this?" he asked.
Pickering leaned back against the couch and took a swallow of his drink.
"Christ, that tastes good," he said. "Incidentally, I have located the quarry."
"What quarry?"
"The females with liftable skirts," Pickering said. "There's a covey of them in a saloon called El Borracho... which, appropriately, means 'The Kiss,' I think."
"I asked you what's going on around here," McCoy said.
"We all have our dark secrets," Pickering said. "I, for example, know far more than I really want to about your lady missionary."
"Come on, Pick," McCoy said.
"This is the Foster Park Hotel," Pickering said. "Along with forty-one others, it is owned by a man named Andrew Foster. Andrew Foster has one child, a daughter. She married a man who owns ships. A lot of ships, Ken. They have one child. Me."
"Jesus Christ!" McCoy said.
"It is not the sort of thing I would wish our beloved Corporal Pleasant, or our sainted gunny, to know. So keep your fucking mouth shut about it, McCoy."
"Jesus Christ!" McCoy repeated.
"Yes?" Pickering asked, benignly, as befitting the Saviour. "What is it you wish, my son?"
(Two)
They did not get laid. All the girls at the first night club had escorts. They smiled, especially at Pick Pickering, but it proved impossible to separate them from the young men they were with. The candy-asses were worried about leaving their girls alone with Pickering, McCoy thought, approvingly. He was sure they had learned from painful experience that if they blinked their eyes, Pickering and their girls would be gone.
Most of the time McCoy didn't know what the hell anyone was talking about. Only one of the girls showed any interest at all in him. She asked him if he had been at Harvard with "Malcolm." When he said no, she asked him where he had gone to school. When he said "Saint Rose of Lima," she gave him a funny smile and ignored him thereafter.
In the second place, which was called the "21" Club, McCoy thought they probably could have gotten laid: There were enough women around, but the son of the proprietor fucked that up. He wanted to hear all about the Platoon Leader's Course because he'd joined the Corps and was about to report for active duty.
Pick kept him fascinated with tales of Corporal Pleasant and slurping food from trays and doing the duck walk. When they left, he insisted on paying for their drinks and told McCoy that he was welcome any time. But that didn't get them laid either.
The third place McCoy remembered hearing about somewhere. It was called the "Stork Club." When they got there, he didn't think they were going to get in because there was a line of people waiting on the sidewalk. But Pick just walked to the head of the line, and a bouncer or whatever lowered a rope and called Pick "Mr. Pickering," and they walked in.
There was a table against the wall with a "reserved" sign on it, but a headwaiter snatched that away and sat them down there. Moments later a waiter with a bottle of champagne showed up, soon followed by the proprietor of the Stork Club. The proprietor asked about "Mr. Foster" and told Pick to make sure he carried his best regards to his parents.
Like the guy at "21," he picked up the bill. That meant they got a decent load on without spending a dime.
"Tomorrow, Ken, we will get laid," Pickering said as they got in a cab to return to the hotel. "Look on tonight as reconnaissance. The key to a successful assault, you will recall, is a good reconnaissance."
As they were having breakfast the next morning, Pick had an idea.
He called the Harvard Club and had the steward put a notice on the bulletin board: "Mr. Malcolm Pickering will entertain his friends and acquaintances at post-Thanksgiving Dinner cocktails from 2:30 P.M., Penthouse C, the Foster Park Hotel. Friends and acquaintances are expected to bring two girls."
McCoy had a good time in the morning. He made some remark about what a nice hotel it was, and Pickering then took him on a tour. This was fascinating to McCoy; and it was a complete tour, kitchens, laundry, even the little building up above the penthouses where the elevator machinery was.
McCoy saw that there was more to the tour than showing him around. Pickering looked inside garbage cans, even went into rooms with open doors. He was inspecting the place, looking for things that weren't as they were supposed to be. The other side of that was that he knew how things were supposed to be. He might be rich as shit, but he understood the hotel business.
He wondered if Pickering had learned that in school, and asked him. Pick laughed and told him that the first job he'd had in a Foster hotel was as a twelve-year-rold busboy, cleaning tables.
"I can do anything in the hotel except French pastry," Pickering said. "I've never been able to handle egg white properly."
About one o'clock, as they sat in the sitting room in their shirts and trousers drinking Feigenspann XXX Ale from the necks of the bottles, the hotel started se
tting up for the cocktail party. There was an enormous turkey, and a whole ham, and a piece of roast beef. And all kinds of other stuff. Thinking of how much it was costing made McCoy uncomfortable. No matter how nice Pick was being, McCoy was beginning to feel like a mooch.
W E B Griffin - Corp 01 - Semper Fi Page 31
