"Beth said she was on vacation," McCoy said. "Don't you think she'd like a day or two on the beach in Florida? And a romantic dinner on a train? I know damned well Ernie will."
"Who's Beth?" Moore asked.
"Hart's girlfriend," McCoy said. "She came to Washington to see him."
"That was the mysterious telephone call?" Moore asked.
Hart nodded.
Jesus, what the hell will happen if they find out what Beth does for a living? Hart asked himself.
It took Hart a moment to decide that McCoy was perfectly serious.
McCoy saw the look on his face, and on Moore's.
"Would you two like a few words of wisdom from an old Marine?" he asked, and went on without waiting for a reply "In case you haven't figured this out yet, we're about to get shipped out. The way Pickering is pushing Rickabee, we're going just as soon as they can cut orders. When Pickering said he wanted me to find out about landing an R4D on sand, the first thing I thought was that I would call this Air Corps guy, tell him the problem, then send Hart down there to get the gimmicks to test the sand. Then I thought that if I hung around here waiting for him to come back, Rickabee and Sessions would find things for me to do. Then I decided that I would have to go myself, even though that's a sacrifice. Then I decided that it would not be fair to a wounded hero-such as yourself, Lieutenant Moore-to leave you behind to run errands while Sergeant Hart and myself and our girlfriends are riding on a luxury train and lying on a Florida beach. Am I getting through to you two?"
Moore laughed. "It sounds like we'll be busy!" he said.
"As General Pickering said to me just this morning," McCoy said, " `Take what you can, when you can get it." Who am I to argue with a general?" Then he saw the look on Hart's face.
"What's the matter with you? Don't you think Beth will want to, go?"
"I'm sure she'll want to go," Hart said.
I'm not sure I should take her. Jesus, why did she have to be a whore?
"Then you better get your ass over to Union Station and get tickets for the girls on the Seacoast Airline Limited or whatever the hell they call it. You got any money?" he asked, as he took a sheaf of bills from his pocket.
"Pity you don't have a girl, Moore," McCoy said. "But maybe you'll get lucky in the club car."
When Major Jake Dillon walked into the Metro-Magnum Studios suite in the Willard Hotel, Veronica Wood was preparing herself for her day's work: Her long blond hair was pulled tightly back against her head, and she had converted the coffee table in the sitting room to a makeup table. She was wearing a really ugly brown cotton bathrobe.
"Where the hell have you been?" she asked, looking up at him. The bathrobe was hanging open.
Fantastic teats!
"I had work to do," Jake said.
"You think those cheap bastards would put a decent goddamned dressing room in here," Veronica said. "I've got an interview with that bitch from the Post at noon. I'm going to look like shit."
"This is Seymour's apartment," Dillon said, referring to the Chairman of the Board and Chief Executive Officer of Metro-Magnum Studios. "He doesn't like to look at himself in mirrors." She chuckled and smiled at him.
"You had a telephone call," she said. "Couple of them.
Same guy. Name of Stewart. He's pissed at something."
"Did he say he was `General' Stewart?" Veronica thought about that a moment, and then nodded.
"Yeah. He did."
"Oh, shit."
"He said you were supposed to call him the minute you got I in."
"OK, thank you, sweetheart."
"You're going to be with me at lunch, right?"
"I don't think that's possible, honey."
"Goddamn, Jake, you know I can't deal with that goddamned dyke!"
"Bobby O'Hara will be there," Jake said. "I'll call him."
"I want you there, goddamn it, Jake!"
"Bobby is very good with her," Dillon said. "They're both Irish." He picked up the telephone and made two calls. The first was to Mr. Robert T. O'Hara, of the Washington office of Metro-Magnum Studios, Inc., to remind him he had a luncheon engagement with Miss Veronica Wood. The call lasted about sixty seconds.
The second, to Colonel F. L. Rickabee of the Office of Management Analysis, was even more brief.
"Colonel, Jake Dillon. General Stewart has been looking for me. I'm supposed to call him."
"Don't call him. Don't go near him. I'll take care of it," Rickabee said, and then the line went dead.
"Please, Jake!" Veronica Wood asked. "Come with me'." I was nice to you. "
"That was last night. What have you done for me today?"
"You sonofabitch!" Veronica said delightedly. "That's why I love you. You're a prick but you admit it."
"If I go to lunch with you, will you promise not to say `prick'? I don't think Whatsername from the Post likes that word." The telephone rang again. Dillon picked it up. As he spoke his name, he realized that was pretty dumb. It was probably General Stewart, shitting a brick about something.
"Hey, Jake. Charley Stevens. How the hell are you?" Charley Stevens was a screenwriter.
"How are you, Charley?"
"Got a question, Jake. I'm doing the first rewrite of the Wake Island script. Got a question, figured you were a Marine and could answer it. Need some love interest. Please tell me, there were nurses on Wake Island?"
"No nurses on Wake Island, Charley, sorry."
"Shit!" Charley Stevens said.
"You'll think of something, Charley," Jake said and hung up.
[Two]