"I guess so," Hart said.
"You know what I wondered when I saw you, Hart?"
"Haven't the faintest fucking idea, Sergeant."
"I wondered where you got those chevrons on your sleeve.
"Oh, you wondered about that, huh?"
"Yeah, I mean, what the hell. I'm not normally a suspicious person, but what is it now, eight weeks since you went off to Parris Island?" Hart did the arithmetic in his head.
"Closer to ten, actually."
"OK, ten, then. You don't get to be a Sergeant in The Corps in ten fucking weeks." `Some people do." `You know what I think, Hart? And I'm really disappointed. I think you sewed those stripes on to impress broads."
"Well, I admit it works. Some girls think Marine sergeants are really hot shit."
"Yeah, well, assholes like you wearing stripes they haven't earned really piss me off. You better have some orders to go with them stripes." He held out his hand.
"No orders, Sergeant," Hart said. "Sorry.
He reached into the breast pocket of his tunic and took out his leather identification folder. He handed it to Wertz.
Wertz examined with great care the credentials of Special Agent George F. Hart of the Office of Naval Investigation.
"Go fuck yourself, Wertz," Hart said, taking them back.
"I'm not sure I believe that," Wertz said.
"Call me on it, you sonofabitch! Call the MPs and tell them you don't believe it. If I report that I showed you those credentials and told you to get out of my way, and you didn't, you'll be out of Saint Louis on your way to a rifle company so quick your asshole won't catch up with you for a month." Staff Sergeant Wertz made a decision.
"OK. So I'm sorry."
"Get the fuck out of my sight," Hart said. "I don't want to see you in here again as long as I'm in Saint Louis." Staff Sergeant Wertz slid off his stool and walked out of Mooney's bar.
"What the hell was that all about?" Jerry the bartender asked.
"Nothing," Hart said. "Forget it."
"You want another one of these?" Jerry asked, holding up the Haig and Haig.
"Yeah, Jerry, please." I don't feel good about Wertz. Why not?
"Why do I have this feeling that you liked it as well as I did?" Elizabeth "Beth" Lathrop asked, in his bedroom in the suite in the Andrew Foster. When she spoke, neither Beth Lathrop nor George Hart was wearing clothes. And they were both sprawled in more or less close proximity across his bed.
"Cut the bullshit, " he said, and swung his legs out of bed and went to the bottle of scotch on the dresser.
When Elizabeth "Beth " Lathrop came into the suite, she was wearing a blue cotton dress he would remember the rest of his life.
As he would remember the rest of her, the long blond hair parted in the middle and held in place with a bow in back. And the smell of her perfume. And her blue eyes (matching her dress) and her long delicate fingers.
And now her perfect, pink-tipped breasts and the delicate tuft of blond hair at her crotch and the incredible warm softness within.
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning you did what you were paid to do. Leave it at that, for Christ's sake. Skip the bullshit.
He watched her face in the mirror over the dresser. It tightened, and then she shrugged.
Don't tell me I hurt your feelings, honey. You didn't really expect me to believe that "it was good for me, too" bullshit, did you?
He poured scotch into a glass and glanced over at the bed. She pulled the sheet over her. He lifted the glass toward her and caught her eye.
" Yes, thank you, I will, " she said.
He walked to the bed.
"How did a nice girl like you get into this?" he asked. What a damn fool silly question for a vice cop to ask, he thought as he asked it.
"You know the rules, " she said. "That's one of the questions you're not supposed to ask. " She pushed herself up against the headboard, pulled the sheet over her chest, and then reached for the glass.
"Thank you, " she said, politely.
"Professional curiosity, " he said over his shoulder as he went to make himself a drink. "What was it? Your husband threw you out? There's a kid somewhere, and this is the only way you can feed it? I think you're too smart to get under a pimp. "
"No husband. No kid. No pimp. What did you mean, `professional curiosity'?"
"I've heard a lot of stories.
"I'll bet you have. I bet you ask all the girls, right?"
"I'm a cop. Or was. A vice squad detective.
"Oddly enough, I believe that, " she said. "You said `was'?"
"Now I'm in The Marine Corps. "
"I wondered about that, " she said. "Pick said you were an old pal from Saint Louis. "
"I'm from Saint Louis. "
"But you're not old pals?" He shook his head, no.
"I work for his father.
"Oh, that's right, his father is a captain in the Navy.