"Done what again?"
"Kept his subordinates off balance. He's very good at that.
Marshall and King don't know what to think: Just what authority does Leahy have? Is he speaking as Admiral Leahy, who has a lot of rank but no legal authority? Or is Leahy speaking with the authority of the President?"
"So what exactly does he do?"
"Whatever the President tells him to do."
"Now that I have this explanation, I realize that not only doesn't it have anything to do with me, but that I really don't give a damn about White House or Army/Navy politics."
"You're in the Navy, you should be interested."
"I keep telling you that I'm getting out of the Navy," Pickering said.
"And I keep telling you," Fowler said, getting off his knees, "that I don't think Frank Knox is going to let you go. Can you get your pants on by yourself or will you need help with that, too?"
"If you've put the braces on my pants, I can handle putting them on."
[Two]
PENNSYLVANIA STATION
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
31 AUGUST 1942
"Thanks for the ride, Boats," Lieutenant Stecker said to the bosun's mate who had driven them to Manhattan from Lakehurst.
"Yes, Sir," the bosun said. "You go right through that door and you'll see where you turn in your travel vouchers for a ticket-the sign says `Rail Transportation Office."
"Thanks again," Stecker said and closed the station wagon door.
He picked up his small bag and stood there smiling and waving until the station wagon had driven away.
Lieutenant Pickering stepped off the curb, put his fingers to his lips, and whistled. The noise was startling. In a moment a taxi pulled to the curb.
Pickering bowed Stecker into the cab.
"Foster Park Hotel, please," Pickering said to the driver, and then turned to Stecker. "I don't understand why we didn't have the station wagon drop us at the hotel."
"Because that was not some seaman second class," Stecker explained, "who would not give a damn if you told him to drop you in the middle of the Holland Tunnel. That was a boatswain's mate second class. Boatswain's mates second class do not normally chauffeur people around."
"So?" Pickering asked.
"So he probably was driving us because nobody else could be found to drive us. He did not mind doing so, because he thought we really had to catch the train to Long Island. Still with me?"
"To repeat, so?"
"So now he is returning to Lakehurst thinking he has made a small contribution to the war effort by giving up an evening drinking beer and taking two Marine officers to catch a train.
On the other hand, if he dropped us at the hotel, bosun's mates being the clever fellows they are, he would have deduced that we were not bound for Long Island. He would have reported this fact to the chief who runs the motor pool. `Those two fucking jarhead flyboy second Johns didn't go anywhere near fucking Penn Station.' And the next time we asked for wheels at Lakehurst, we would be told, politely, of course, to go fuck ourselves."
Stecker looked at Pickering to judge his reaction to what he thought of as his Lesson 1103 in The Practical Aspects of Military Service. It was immediately apparent that Pickering hadn't heard at least half of what he had said. Pickering was looking out the window.
Then he leaned forward and slid open the panel between the backseat and the front.
"Where are we going?"
"Foster Park Hotel, Sir."
"By way of Greenwich Village? Jesus, do we look that stupid?"
"This is a shortcut I know, Sir."
"Stop at the next cop you see," Pickering said.
The taxi made the next right turn and then turned right again, now headed uptown toward Central Park.
"A guy's got to make a living," the cabdriver said,
"You picked the wrong sucker," Pickering said. "I used to live here."
"You sure don't sound like no New Yorker."
"Oh, shit," Pickering said, laughing, and then slid the window closed and moved back onto his seat. "Did you hear that?
That was a New York apology. Our driver is a mite pissed because I don't sound like a New Yorker; I made him waste his time trying to cheat us because I don't sound like a New Yorker."
"Did you hear what I said about why we're in this cab in the first place?"
"What does it matter?" Stecker shook his head in resignation and leaned back against the cushion.
Like the other forty-one hotels in the Foster chain, the Foster Park Hotel provided its guests quiet elegance and every reasonable amenity.
Andrew Foster learned early on in his career that a large number of people were willing to pay handsomely for hotel accommodations so long as the hotel was centrally located and offered first-class cuisine, well-appointed rooms and suites, and round-the-clock staffing. In every Foster hotel, for example, a room service waiter was on duty on every floor around the clock; a concierge was on duty in the lobby day and night; and complimentary limousine service was provided to and from railroad stations and airports.
Foster Hotels were not, in other words, the sort of places sought out by second lieutenants looking for a cheap place to rest their weary heads for a night.
A bellman, wearing a short red jacket, black trousers, and a pillbox cap tilted at the prescribed angle, rushed to open the door of the taxi when it pulled to the curb before the Foster Park Hotel marquee. As soon as he saw the two second lieutenants emerging from the car, his face showed that he was obviously aware that the Foster Park Hotel was doubtless beyond their limited means.
"May I help you, gentlemen?" he asked politely.
"We can manage, thank you," Pickering said.
"Are you checking in with us, Sir?" the bellman asked in a tone suggesting that this was highly unlikely. Even sharing a small double, a night at the Foster Park would cost these guys half their month's pay.