The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [46]
Hie atmosphere around the table became more relaxed, the conversation of the officers more natural. The waiter was busy with the many shouted orders for drinks. The adjutant went over to the bar, sat on one of the stools until his glass was filled, tasted it, and thai called, “Mosca, come here for a minute.”
Mosca looked over his shoulder. Eddie Cassin already had the dice and it was his turn next “After my shot,” he said.
Eddie had a good roll, but Mosca sevened out quickly and then went over to the patiently waiting adjutant.
Hie adjutant looked him in the eye with a calm, level glance and said, “Where do you come off telling the colonel what the odds are?”
Mosca was surprised and a little confused. “Hell,” he said, “the guy wanted a bet Nobody'd bet him even money on a four.”
The adjutant, in a quiet voice, as if he were addressing a stupid child, said, “There were at least ten officers at the table. They didn't tell him the odds, and if they had they would have done so in a more courteous manner. Why do you think they didn't tell him?”
Mosca could feel himself flushing. For the first time he realized that there was no sound of dice, the men around the table were listening. He felt a familiar uneasiness that reminded him of his first months in the Army. He shrugged. “I figured he didn't know so I told him.”
The adjutant stood up. “You may think because you're a civilian you can get away with that sort of thing. You showed pretty plainly that the colonel was trying to use his rank to cheat you out of ten dollars. Now just remember one thing; we can ship you back to the States pretty damn quick if we really want to, and I understand you have reasons for not wanting that to happen. So watch yourself. If the colonel doesn't know something, his fellow officers can tell him. You insulted the commanding officer and every officer in this room. Don't let anything like that happen again.”
Unconsciously Mosca hung his head, the shame and anger washing over him. He could see Eddie Cassin watching him, and Eddie had a little smile of pleasure on his face. Mosca through the fog of anger heard the adjutant say in a contemptuous voice, “If I had my way I wouldn't let you civilians into an officers’ club. You don't know what Army means.”
Without thinking Mosca lifted his head. He saw the adjutant's face very distinctly, the gray candid eyes, the bland earnest face, stern now.
“How many battle stars you got, Captain?” Mosca asked. “How many landings you make?” The adjutant had sat down on his stool again, sipping his drink. Mosca almost raised his arm when the adjutant spoke.
“I don't mean that. Some of those officers there are bigger war heroes than I imagine you ever were and they didn't do what you did or take your attitude.” The adjutant's voice was dead calm, cold with reasonableness that was not conciliatory.
Mosca relinquished his anger and adopted the other's cold calm, as if imitating him as they imitated each other in age and height and bearing. “Okay,” he said, “I was wrong telling the colonel, I apologize. But don't you give me that civilian shit.”
The adjutant smiled, no personal insult reaching him, the priest suffering for his religion. “As long as you understand about the other thing,” he said.
Mosca said, “Okay, I understand.” And despite all he could do the words were a submission, and when he went back to the dice table he felt his face burning with shame. He saw Eddie Cassin suppressing another smile, winking at him to cheer him up. The officer rolling the dice, a big easy-going southerner, said in his soft drawling voice, loud enough for the adjutant to hear, “It's a good thing you didn't win another ten bucks; we'd have to take yuh out and shoot yuh.” The officers around the table laughed, but Mosca did not. Behind him he could hear the adjutant talking easily and occasionally