Battle Cry - Leon Uris [70]
They found the establishment. Spanish Joe rapped softly on the door. About thirty seconds passed, it opened a crack. “Moe sent us,” Joe whispered. The door opened, they entered quickly into a dimly lit, drably furnished living room. They were ushered in by a prune-faced madam.
“There is only one girl working tonight, honey,” she rasped. “You’ll have to wait a few minutes. Who wants to go first?”
Marion had comforted himself by sitting in a deep chair by a lamp and was already concerning himself with Gibbons Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
“Just me tonight, momma,” Joe answered. The madam leaned over Marion, a set of triple-strand pearls flapping against his face. “How about it, honey? I’m sure you’ll like the girl.” Sister Mary answered her with a fierce grunt. The madam looked at Spanish Joe, who merely shrugged.
“He’s like that all the time, never seen anything like it,” he explained as she showed him into a bedroom down the hall.
Marion struggled through several pages of his book, looking often at his watch and trying to play deaf to the muffled noises of the place. A ray of light cracked, heralding an open door. He drew the book in front of his face, quickly turning an unread page and another one. Spanish Joe entered, his arm draped about the kimono-clad whore, gently slapping her buttocks. “Give the little lady a sawbuck, Marion.”
Marion reached into his wallet, withdrew ten dollars and stood up. His eyes met those of the prostitute. They were pale blue and sad-looking…he saw a flow of flaming red hair and a small trembling body. He clutched the lamp table for support, growing dizzy. A silence…so deathly he could hear the tick of a clock down the hall and the thump of Rae’s heart. He stumbled from the room.
A blast of cool night air stung his wet eyes. He staggered aimlessly for block after block until he became exhausted. Then he sat down on the curbstone and cried.
It was raining hard. I had the squad locked up in the radio shack, drilling on practice keys. “O.K., take ten.” They stood up from their benches, stretched and doffed their earphones.
“Mighty slick corncobs they have in this here outfit,” Seabags Brown, the Iowa farmer, mused looking out of the window. “Only trouble is you got to unroll so damned much paper to get to them.” He peered at the rain and let a wad of tobacco juice fly out the window. “My gawd, it’s raining harder than a cow pissin’ on a flat rock.”
“You ain’t just a whistling through your buckteeth, Spike,” Speedy commented.
“Come on, Mac, have a heart and let’s knock off. I’m going dit happy at this damned key,” L.Q. moaned.
“Highpockets has the red ass,” I said, “and I don’t blame him. You guys have been fouling up those field problems like a Chinese firedrill.”
“What you want, chief, eggs in your beer?” Lighttower grinned.
“Mac,” Forrester said, “I think you’re bucking for warrant officer.”
“I hear tell, cousins, he’s been playing drop the soap with Bryce,” Seabags said, banging his forefinger against his ear in a familiar gesture.
“Why you boots, you wouldn’t last ten minutes in the old Corps with this kind of operating.”
“Tell us about how good you guys were in the o-ould Corps,” Andy snickered.
“Why in the o-oould Corps,” Jones took up the rallying, “now let me tell you recruits something. I’ve worn out more seabags than you have socks.”
“I think Mac is going Asiatic on us.”
“Yep, pore old boy is cracking up bigger than hell. Survey him to field music.” Seabags let another spit fly out the window.
“Give me a coffin nail,” L.Q. asked Lighttower.
“You palefaces ever buy your own cigarettes?”
“Butts on that cigarette,” Andy called ahead of Gray.
Forrester took a bar of pogey bait and peeled off the wrapper. “What’s the matter with Sister Mary? He’s sure had a wild hair up his ass lately.”
“Yeah,” Andy said, “somebody better give him the word. He’s getting awful one way.”
“Is it true they’re going to survey him to artillery?” L.Q. asked.
Gomez sprang to his feet. “Knock it off.”
“Just scuttlebutt, old man. Freedom of speech, you know.