Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [216]
“No, no! Honey, I’ll be through around three-when, Marty?-three-thirty, Willie-meet me in the Brill Building, can you do that?”
“What and where is the Brill Building?”
“Oh, Willie. The Brill Building. Hell, I keep forgetting you’re not a song plugger. Well, you know, across the street from the Rivoli-the big gray building-listen, it’s the Sono-phono Studios, can you remember that? Sono-phono.”
“Okay. Three-thirty. I’ll be there. Don’t you go to school anymore?”
“Oh.” May’s voice became apologetic. “That. I’m afraid I’ve been playing hooky. I’ll tell you all about it.”
“See you later.”
“Yes, honey.”
Willie slammed the receiver so hard that the telephone went clattering off the table to the floor. He took off his civilian clothes, leaving them in a rumpled heap on a chair, and dressed in his uniform. He had two caps, a fairly new one, and the cap he always wore at sea, the gold trim of which was tarnished dull green. He selected the old cap and put a fresh white cover on it, which set off more strikingly the tarnish of the ornaments.
The glory of Manhattan which Willie had seen from the airplane was nowhere visible at Broadway and Fiftieth Street when he came up out of the subway. It was the same old dirty crowded corner: here a cigar store, there an orange-drink stand, yonder a flickering movie marquee, everywhere people with ugly tired faces hurrying in a bitter wind that whirled flapping newspapers and little spirals of dry snow along the gutters. It was all as familiar to Willie as his hand.
The reception room of the Sono-phono Studios, some seven feet square, consisted of plasterboard walls, a plasterboard door in back, a green metal desk, and a very ugly receptionist , with a plasterboard complexion, chewing a large wad of pink gum. “Yeah? What can I do for you?”
“I’m meeting May Wynn here.”
“She ain’t through. You can’t go in, they’re on mike.”
Willie sat in the single yellow chair, opening his muffler and bridge coat. The receptionist glanced at his ribbons, ‘counted the stars, and threw him an unsettling flirtatious leer. From behind the plasterboard he heard a man’s voice, “Okay. Let’s make this the master now.” A small orchestra struck up, and then Willie heard her voice: “Don’t Throw Bo-kays at me-”
At once the heat and shabbiness of the Caine wardroom, and the hopeless hatred of Queeg, rushed into his mind, most incongruously mingled with sweet stirrings of his early love for May. An immense black sadness overcame him as the song went on. When it ended Marty Rubin opened the door and said, “Hi, Willie! Great to see you! Come on in!”
He was fatter than ever. His green suit was ill-chosen for his yellowish skin, and his tinted glasses were so thick that his eyes were distorted behind them to dots. He shook the lieutenant’s hand. “You look marvelous, kid!”
May stood at the microphone, talking to two men in shirt sleeves. The musicians were packing their instruments. The studio was a bare room cluttered with cables and recording machines. Willie halted uncertainly inside the door. “He’s here, May!” the agent called. She turned, ran to Willie, put an arm around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek.
“We’ll get out of here in a few seconds, darling,” she whispered. Willie stood with his back to the doorway, getting hotter in his heavy coat, while the girl talked for ten minutes with the agent and the men in shirt sleeves.
“I want a drink,” May said, when they were alone at a table in the deserted upstairs room of Lindy’s, “and then I want some breakfast.”
“You’re keeping queer hours- What’s that?” he said as May popped a white pill into her mouth.
“Aspirin. Feel my forehead.” Her skin was hot. Willie looked at her with concern. She was haggard, her hair was carelessly pinned up on her head, and there were blue shadows under her eyes. She grinned sadly and a little defiantly. “I’m a mess, I know. You picked a great time to fall out of the sky, dear.”
“You ought to be in bed, May.”
“Bed is for those who can afford it- Well, tell me all about