Battle Cry - Leon Uris [78]
“That’s too bad, nice kid. Can’t predict them women. Well, just thought I’d ask. It seemed kind of funny. He picked up a liberty pass. Think that’s the first time he ever asked for one.”
“He’s going into Dago with that load,” I said. “He’ll get sharp-shooted for sure. Pucchi, you got to give me a pass tonight.”
“You got more crap than a Christmas turkey. I can’t give you a pass, you had one last night.”
“Listen, Pucchi, he’s going to get his ass in a sling with all that dough.”
“That’s a problem for Chaplain Peterson.”
“Be a buddy.”
“Christ, Mac, the way that Bryce watches me, I’d be up crap creek without a paddle if I gave you a pass, no dice.”
“Thanks, Pucchi,” I said, “that’s a real buddy. Somehow, I remember a time in Reykjavik when you beat the hell out of that Limey captain, and the Iceland police force and half the Limey army was closing in on you. You didn’t mind a favor from me then. I still got a scar on my scalp where I was hit with a beer bottle.”
“How many favors you going to ask for one little brawl? You been riding on that one for a year.”
“When did I ask you for a favor?”
“Aw, look, Mac, don’t be a wedgeass.”
“What would you do, Pucchi, if it was one of your boys?”
Pucchi reached in the drawer, pulled out a card and swung around to his typewriter. “Don’t forget this, you no good bastard. And for Chrisake don’t get picked up by the shore patrol or we’ll both be on cake and wine for a month.”
“While you’re at it,” I added, “you’d better make out passes for Sister Mary, Andy, and Danny, too. I might need help.”
We followed the Feathermerchant out of the main gate. Three buses lined up to take the first rush of liberty-bound Marines into Dago. Ski boarded the first one, we got into the second.
We landed in Dago forty-five minutes later, dropping anchor in front of the YMCA on Broadway. He lit out for the first slop shute he could find. We stayed a distance behind him. He was turned down at the door of the first three bars when they asked for his I.D. card. He was still under age and they refused him admittance.
He crossed the main drag to a side street. We held our breath as he headed straight for the Dragon’s Den. It was the worst clip joint in a city of clip joints. He had wised up; he passed a bill to the door checker and was granted admittance.
I called the boys about me for a quick conference.
“We’ll slip in there and take a booth,” I said.
“We won’t be able to get in,” Marion offered. “We’re all under twenty-one.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Well, I’ll go in and you guys stand fast. Keep a sharp eye, this joint has two or three exits.”
“Check, Mac.”
I crossed the street and entered the Dragon’s Den. It was a rowdy, smoke-filled bar, jammed with tough waterfront characters and stronger elements of the armed forces. There was a three-piece Negro combo slapping out cloud sixteen jazz on the bandstand at one end. I cut through the fog of smoke and saw Ski draped on a bar stool with a twenty-dollar bill laying on the counter in front of him. I edged into a seat at a table so I was partly turned away from Ski.
“Line ’em up as I squeeze them off, and when this twenty runs out, just whistle like a bird. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
The bartender, a wiry man with a scarred cheek, eyed him carefully, then looked at the door checker, who gave him the high sign that the little Marine was loaded.
“Sure, Marine,” he answered, putting a shot glass on the counter with a thud, “Drink up.”
I looked up a little to see what he was pouring. It was O.K. so far, just bar whisky.
The Feathermerchant was no drinker. If he ever was, he had been too long out of practice to last. I ordered a beer and nursed it as Ski downed three quick ones, shook his head and coughed. He slammed his fist on the counter for a survey. It was dished up quickly.
A drunken sailor fell across my table. I was about to push him to the deck when I thought better of it. I didn’t want to start anything then. I picked up my glass and moved to another table.
“Hey, bartender, come