O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [66]
“You are really talking about Horace Kerr’s daughter.”
That called for a refill.
“That Kerr compound is crawling with Kerrs who envision themselves as the future of the America’s Cup. Amanda will be around all summer, and then some. Is there a chance we can lose him by bringing him to Newport? Maybe we should send him to sea duty?”
“How the hell should I know!” Storm defended.
“To hell you don’t know, Tobias. You wring out the crying towel for all your boys.”
“How well do you know Amanda Kerr?” Tobias asked.
“Between Washington and Newport, fairly well. She is stunning and she is as smart as they come.”
“And at this moment she is entering the Potomac Mansion House on the arm of Glen Constable, so put down your seabag and stand at ease. Zachary O’Hara and Amanda Kerr cannot have each other. Her old man is about as friendly to the Marine Corps as Attila the Hun. In addition, O’Hara is a Catholic and we are not exactly living in an age of enlightenment.”
“Tobias, she is formidable. She gets everything she has her mind set on.”
“Horace Kerr is even more formidable. Glen Constable represents a deliberate and serious announcement.”
“She’s still a girl,” Ben said.
“Ben, you and I cannot outwit those silky thugs. She may be innocent down there”—Tobias pointed to Ben’s legs—“but she also knows what Kerr and Constable mean together. Missy Kerr knows what a monopoly is.”
“I wish I knew you to be right,” Ben said.
“My educated guess,” Tobias went on, “is that Glen Constable is a thoroughly smitten slob over Amanda and hungry for the merger with Horace, even if it means Constable ends up as a minority stockholder.”
“Bunch of maggots,” Ben said. “Maybe we’d better send O’Hara to sea duty instead of torturing him. We’ve seen too many tortured boys . . . men . . .”
“You need him?” Tobias asked.
“Very much,” Ben said.
“Otherwise your life’s work may never see daylight?”
“Possible.”
“Then take him to Newport, for chrissake.”
They stared at each other until fireworks erupted outside with close-together pop-pop-pops, then whistling explosions. The Constitution Ball was under way.
“You’re going to have to trust O’Hara, Ben.”
“Can I?”
“He’s a Marine, you’ll have to trust him. That’s all we’ve got, Ben. That’s all we’ve ever had, trusting each other.”
The decision now made, time to mellow out, like Wart-Hogs. They sipped and reminisced and shored up each other’s courage. Ben pressed the buzzer for his orderly and Private Lamar Jones knocked, tucking in the last of his shirttail.
“Enter!”
“Sir!”
“Is Gunny Kunkle in the barracks?”
Jones hesitated just long enough and peeped an “Er, yes, sir.”
“Get him up here on the double.”
“Yes, sir.”
The old salt arrived three minutes and nineteen . . . twenty . . . twenty-one seconds later.
“Sirs.”
“At ease, it’s Wart-Hog time. You look like a mile of dirt road.”
“I’ve been attending a sick friend.”
Ben poured him a drink, and themselves as well. “To us Wart-Hogs. Gunny, we got news. We’re only getting three commissions out of AMP, for the present.”
“Shit.” Kunkle groaned low.
“Kirkendahl and Maynard, how’s that hit you?”
“Good, Major. Third man?”
“I’m taking somebody up to the War College with me.”
Kunkle looked over to Captain Storm and back to Ben Boone and back to Captain Storm.
“You mean . . .”
“Yeah,” Tobias and Ben said together.
“Is he on that royal guard detail at the Mansion House?”
“No, sir. He got it exchanged for mess duty.”
“Get his ass up here!” Storm bellowed as the full measure of the distilled stuff in him hit the gong.
“Sirs . . . fellow Wart-Hogs, sirs . . . he is fucked-up beyond comprehension. We placed him under the cold shower with a puke bucket,” the Gunny said.
By the time the Gunny got O’Hara put together, the two officers were singing a jolly chorus of “Dixie.” Boone observed Zach. “I’ve seen better-looking specimens in a slaughterhouse, after they’ve been decapitated.”
“Think we ought to execute him,” Storm said, “or maybe we ought to