Battle Cry - Leon Uris [80]
“Very resourceful,” Marion mused.
“He be around to tip them off at the hotel?” Danny asked.
“Naw, he won’t be around for a while.”
“You didn’t kill him?”
“Naw, just worked him over. When he comes around he ain’t going to be able to get out of the room.” Andy flipped a key out of the window. “They’ll never hear him pounding over that band and the racket in that joint.”
Minutes later we stormed into the empty lobby of the third-rate hotel. The night clerk was caught off balance. I backed him up against the wall, holding him by the stacking swivel. “Real quick, friend—a little Marine and a brunette?”
Danny cocked his fist. The stunned man began shaking.
“What room, or do we start belting?”
“I ain’t looking for no trouble, Marines, I only work here.”
“You ain’t going to be living in about two minutes. Start whistling Dixie, Junior.”
“Room two-twenty, end of the hall on the right. Please, fellows, I got a family.”
I turned to Marion. “Sit here and keep this gentleman company, Mary. Sing out if anything comes through that lobby.”
Sister Mary placed a hand on the frightened clerk’s shoulder and sat him down. “Tell me, friend,” he said, “I would value your opinion in the eternal controversy on the relative merits of Brahms and Wagner. I’m a Brahms man myself, but I’m always ready to listen to a good argument.”
We dashed up the stairs, got oriented, and slipped the fair leather belts from about our waists. We rolled them around our fists, leaving about four inches of belt swinging free, with the heavy brass buckle at the end. We crept down the dimly lit hall and faced the door of Room 220.
Andy waved us aside. He took a run, leaped off his feet and hit the door, jumping Swede style, with the heels of his shoes. It buckled, then gave as Danny followed it up with a crash of his shoulder.
Ski lay prostrate over a bed. Standing over him, thumbing through his roll, stood a man, the whore’s pimp. The woman leaned against the dresser with a drink in her hand.
“Watch it!” A chair came down on Andy’s skull, dropping him to his knees. The woman made a dash for the door. Danny grabbed her and flung her down, hard. She started sobbing.
“Look out, Mac—he’s pulling a knife!”
I inched toward the man who had raised a knife in one hand while clutching Ski’s roll of bills in the other. The steel blade lashed out.
The man picked himself up, slowly. “Like I said, Danny, most people attack wrong with a knife.” I kicked him, lifted him, and polished him off quick, and took the money from his hand.
Andy was on his feet again. The woman crawled at our feet.
“Mercy, Marine!” she cried in a foreign accent.
“I’ll give you mercy!” Andy spat. “Stand up, bitch!”
We didn’t like the look on Andy’s face. It had kill written all over it. We calmed him down. “We’ve already had enough fun for one night, Swede…let’s hustle.”
I grabbed the woman and flung her against the wall. She collapsed to the deck. “If I see your face in this town again, sister, you won’t get off this easy.”
Marion burst into the room. “Shore Patrol coming up. You fellows are sure noisy.”
Andy threw Ski over his broad shoulder and we scuttled for the fire escape as the sound of whistles heralded the arrival of the law.
“Poor little bastard,” Andy said, as he passed Ski’s body through the window to me.
CHAPTER 6
THE PROGRESS of the battalion was slow, painful, and riddled with mistakes. Every now and then a ray of light broke through. Little by little the begrudging attitude of the old salts lessened.
What really snapped us up was the news that came through on August 7, 1942. The first step on the long road back had been taken. The First Marine Division and attached units had landed on an island called Guadalcanal, in the Solomons…wherever the hell that was. We were all mighty proud that the Marines had been chosen to make the first American offensive