"Aye, aye, Sir."
"Unless you have a question, Stecker?"
"Sir, more on the order of a request."
"Shoot."
"If we're to have a couple of hours free, would there be time for me to go to 2nd of the Fifth?"
"Second Battalion, Fifth Marines?" Galloway asked. "Why do you want to go there? A buddy's with 2nd of the Fifth?"
"My father, Sir." There was silence for a moment.
"You don't happen to be Jack (NMI) Stecker's boy, do you, Mr. Stecker?"
"Yes, Sir." Well, that explains West Point. If they hang the Medal of Honor around your neck, your kids get to go to the Service Academy of their choice.
He then remembered hearing that Major Jack (NMI) Stecker's son, an Annapolis graduate, a Navy ensign, had been killed aboard the battleship Arizona at Pearl Harbor on December 7th.
Major Jack (NMI) Stecker is going to be something less than overjoyed to find his other son on this fucking goddamned island as a fighter pilot.
"Find somebody to drive him up there in my jeep, please, Bill," Galloway said.
"Aye, aye, Sir."
[Three]
THE FOSTER LAFAYETTE HOTEL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
0915 HOURS 22 SEPTEMBER 1942
A discreet knock at the door came shortly after a room service waiter rolled in a tray carrying ham and eggs, toast, coffee, a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, a copy of The Washington Star, and a rose in a tiny vase.
"Come in," Sergeant George Hart called cheerfully.
The door opened and a man in a paint-stained smock stuck his head in.
"Sorry to disturb you, Sir," he said. "If you'll tell me when it's convenient, I'll come back and finish painting the door." He pointed at the wall that separated the suite Hart shared with Moore from the one Senator Richmond F. Fowler shared with Brigadier General Fleming Pickering. A tarpaulin concealed the newly installed door.
"Come ahead," George said. "Watching other people work has never bothered me." The witticism was lost on the painter.
"I'll come back when you've left, Sir."
"I don't plan to leave. Come on in and paint the door."
"Yes, Sir." George turned his attention to The Washington Star.
According to Reuters News Service, there was heavy fighting between the Germans and the Russians on Mamayec Kurgan Hill, outside Stalingrad. Casualties on both sides were described as severe.
British troops had landed at Tamatave on the east coast of Madagascar, with the apparent intention of taking the capital, Tananarive. This was held by reportedly "very strong" Vichy French forces. There was a map, with arrows. George knew who the Vichy French were, they were the ones who'd made peace with the Germans. But he had no idea where Madagascar was. The map was no help.
In the Pacific, the Commander in Chief, Pacific, had announced that six transports, under heavy escort, had made it safely to Guadalcanal, where they successfully delivered the Seventh Marines (to reinforce the First Marine Division), and a "substantial amount" of supplies. There was a map here, too; and George studied this one with interest.
Until he'd seen Major Dillon's movies yesterday, he really hadn't been all that interested in Guadalcanal.
He was reading the comic strips when the telephone rang.
Not the one in his suite, one of the telephones in The General's.
He carefully squeezed past the painter working on the door and picked it up. It was The General's phone, not the Senator's. He knew the drill:
"General Pickering's quarters, Sergeant Hart speaking, Sir." He would then tell them The General was not available at the moment and could he take a message?
"George?" His heart jumped.
"Jesus Christ!"
"I called last night when I got here," Elizabeth Lathrop said.
"Some officer answered and said you would be late." He could feel her fingernails on his back, smell the soap in her hair, taste the skin of her neck.
"How the hell did you get this number?"
"Where else would Pick's father stay in Washington?"
"What do you want?" He could tell from her tone that the question hurt.
Jesus Christ, I didn't want to hurt her feelings!
"Well, I happened to be in the neighborhood," she said more coldly, "and I thought I would just call up and say hi."
"You're in Washington?"
"Yes," she said. "And I thought maybe you'd want to see me. He thought: I would kill to be inside you again, with your breasts soft and warm against my chest.
Detective George Hart of the Saint Louis Vice Squad answered for him without thinking: "Honey, I can't afford you." The telephone made a clicking noise, then hummed, and then after a moment, there came the dial tone.
"Shit!" Hart said, loudly and bitterly. He slammed the handset into the cradle and said "shit!" again.
The man painting the door looked at him with open curiosity. George glowered at him and the painter looked away.
How the hell can I find her? Call the local cops and ask them as a professional service to a brother vice detective if they have an address or known associates of a high-class whore named Lathrop, Elizabeth, white female, approximately five three, approximately twenty-two or twenty-three, approximately one hundred five pounds, blue eyes, blond hair, no distinguishing scars or bodily blemishes?
That's probably not even her fucking name. That's her professional name.