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as he had ever held anybody. He didn't kiss her, he just clung to her, his face buried in her hair. And she
was hanging on to him, too, and she was weeping a little, and he realized he felt a little like crying too.
And then he became aware of the warmth of her legs against his, and the softness of her breasts against
him, and he grew erect. He pulled his middle away from her.
She pulled her head back and looked at him, and he was right, she had been crying; tears were making a
path down her cheeks through her makeup.
"It's all right," she said, sort of laughing. "I would have been disappointed..." She put her hand on his
cheek.
There was an imperious rapping at the door.
"Who's there?"
"Assistant manager, Miss Lathrop. Please open the door." She freed herself from George's arms.
Rubbing at her eyes with her knuckles, she went to the door and opened it.
A middle-aged man in a business suit entered without being invited.
Assistant manager, my ass. that's a house detective. I've seen enough of them to know one when I see
one.
"You're not allowed up here, Sergeant. The Washington is not that kind of hotel. And, Miss Lathrop, we
would appreciate it if you would check out as soon as possible." As he walked quickly to the
ruddy-faced house detective, George took his credentials from his tunic pocket.
"What's going on in here is none of your business," he said.
The house detective took a long look at the credentials and then looked at Hart.
"Take a walk," Hart said. "And don't come back. And the lady will not be checking out. Got it?" Without
a word, the house detective turned and pulled the door open and went through it.
What was that all about? Did he just add up a Marine sergeant going to hotel room as a guy about to pay
for a piece of ass?
Or did he take one look at Elizabeth and decide she was a whore?
Jesus, she doesn't look like a whore or act like one.
He turned and looked at her.
"Well," she said.
Hart shrugged.
"What was that you showed him?"
"I've got sort of a Marine Corps badge."
"I thought maybe you showed him your vice detective badge," Beth said.
There were tears in her eyes again.
"He's gone. He won't be back."
"Would you just put your arms around me again?" Beth asked softly, looking into his eyes. "And just hold
me?" He held his arms open and she took the few steps to him.
When he put his arms around her, she started to cry again. He ran his hands over her back and against
her hair and made soothing noises.
And then the warmth of her legs and the softness of her breasts got to him again; and the erection
returned. When he tried to pull away from her, she followed him. And then she tilted her head back again
and looked into his eyes for a moment. And then her mouth was on his, hungrily, and she dragged him
backward onto the bed.
[Four]
WALTER REED ARMY GENERAL HOSPITAL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
1145 HOURS 22 SEPTEMBER 1942
At quarter past ten, Technical Sergeant Harry N. Rutterman put his head in Colonel F. L. Rickabee's
office and told him that General Pickering was on the line.
The conversation was a short one: "There's something we have to talk about, Rickabee," General
Pickering said. "Is there some reason you can't come over here, say at quarter to twelve?"
"No, Sir," he said, though he was not telling the precise truth when he said it. His work schedule was a
god-awful mess. Adding a meeting with The General would only make it worse. On the other hand, a
general's wish was a colonel's command.... I "Thank you,' Pickering said, and hung up.
When Colonel F. L. Rickabee, at precisely the appointed hour, walked into the sitting room of Brigadier
General Fleming Pickering's VIP suite, he found a table set for two. And The General was dressed in
uniform -or part of one-and not in a bathrobe and pajamas. Though he wasn't wearing his blouse a field
scarf, there was a silver star on the collar points of his khaki shirt. Rickabee decided that Pickering had a
purpose when he pinned on the insignia of his rank.
Otherwise why bother? He's not going anyplace. On the other hand, maybe someone's coming to see
him-maybe General Forrest-and he's putting his uniform on for that. And wants some advice from me
before he meets him?
"Good morning, General."
"Sorry to drag you away from your office, but I suspect I would have made waves if I had come to you."
"My time is your time, General," Rickabee said. "And I thought you would be interested in this, Sir. It
was delivered by messenger yesterday afternoon." He took a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and
handed it to Pickering.
INTEROFFICE MEMORANDUM
DATE: 21 September 1942
FROM: Assistant Chief of Staff, Personnel
TO: Director Public Affairs Office Hq, USMC
HAND CARRY
SUBJECT: Office of Management Analysis Hq, USMC
1. Effective immediately, no, repeat no, public relations activity of any kind will
involve the Of f ice of management Analysis, or any personnel assigned thereto.
2. The Public Affairs Office is forbidden to contact the office of Management Analysis for
any purpose without the specific permission of the undersigned.
3. Discussion of this policy, or requests for waivers thereto, is not desired.
BY DIRECTION OF THE COMMANDANT:
Alfred J. Kennedy
Major General, USMC
Assistant Chief of Staff, G-1
Pickering read it and snorted, then handed it back.
"I suppose that will keep them off our backs. Being a general officer does seem to carry with it the means
to get things done, doesn't it?"
"Yes, Sir, it does seem to, General.
"I thought we could save time by having lunch," Pickering said. "I asked them to serve at twelve."
"Very kind of you, Sir."
"You better hold the thanks until you see what they give us.
Now that I think of it, I should have ordered some emergency rations."
"Sir?"
"I sometimes have the hotel send over a platter of hors d'oeuvres against the likelihood that lunch or
dinner will be inedible."
"I see."
"I am medically restricted to four drinks a day," Pickering said. "I am about to have my second. Would
you care to join me?"
You are medically restricted to no more than two drinks a day, General, not four. And somehow I
suspect that the drink you are about to have is going to be Number Three or Number Four, not Number
Two.
"Yes, Sir. I would. Thank you."
"Scotch all right?"
"Scotch is fine, Sir." Pickering went into the small room between the sitting room and the bedroom. He
returned in a moment with a nearly empty bottle of Famous Grouse.
"My supply of this is running a little low," he said. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]