Back to Conclusion One, Sergeant Asshole, you 're an asshole.
"May I help you, Sir?" the porter asked, barring his access to the Union League.
"I'm meeting Mr. Marston," John said. "William Marston."
"Mr. Marston is in the bar, Sir," the porter said, pointing.
William Dawson Marston IV, forty-six, a tall and angular man in a nicely tailored glen plaid suit, was sitting in a leather upholstered captain's chair by a small table, his long legs stretched straight in front of him and crossed near his ankles.
He smiled and waved when he saw his nephew, then made a half gesture to get up.
"Sit you down, Johnny my boy, and have a drink."
"Hello, Uncle Bill."
"Christ, you even look like a Marine," Marston said.
"Thank you."
"What will you have to drink?"
"Rye and ginger."
"Ginger ale will give you a hangover," Marston said. "I'm surprised you haven't learned that yet. Or are you that impossible contradiction, a teetotal Marine?"
"What would you suggest?" John asked.
A waiter had appeared.
"Bring us two of these, will you please, Charley?" Marston said.
"What is it?" John asked.
"Scotch and water. Very good scotch, and thus with very little water. They call it 'Famous Grouse.' "
That will not be Uncle Bill's second drink. More likely his fifth or sixth.
"I have been here some time," Marston said, as if he had read Moore's mind. "Absorbing some liquid courage. That would annoy your father, but if you report on our conversation, you may feel free to tell him that yes indeed, Uncle Bill was at the bottle."
"Why should I report on our conversation?"
"When you learn the topic, you will understand," Marston said.
He looked around impatiently for the waiter, then turned back to John.
"When are you leaving, John?"
"Thursday."
"Where are you going? Did they tell you?"
"Not specifically. Somewhere in the Pacific, obviously. From here to San Diego, and then to Hawaii."
The waiter appeared. Marston picked up his glass immediately and took a swallow.
"Not surprisingly, when I spoke with him, your father was rather vague about your status," he said. "How is it you're not an officer?"
"I can't talk about that," John said.
"You in some sort of trouble?"
"No. I've been led to believe the commission will come along later."
John sipped his scotch. He would have preferred rye and ginger ale.
But he's probably right about the ginger ale giving me a hangover.
"Getting right to the point," Marston said. "There are those, including your father, who would hold that this is absolutely none of my business, but I have chosen to make it my business: Has your father discussed your trust fund, funds, with you?"
"No," John replied, and then asked, "Is there any reason he should have?"
"That sonofabitch," Marston said, bitterly.
"Excuse me?"
"I shouldn't have said that," Marston said. "I beg your pardon. I really hope you can forget I said that."
"What about my trust fund?"
"Funds, plural. Three of them. Together, two comma trust funds."
"Two comma?"
"Think about it."
What the hell does "two comma" mean? Then he understood. When figures in excess of $999,999.00 are used, for example, $1,500,000.00, there are two commas.
"What about my trust funds?"
"There are three," William Dawson Marston said. "The first is payable on your achieving your majority-how long have you been twenty-one, Johnny?"
"I'm twenty-two," John said.
"Then you should have had the first one turned over to you. You say that hasn't happened?"
"No. I don't know what you're talking about."