"Nice to talk to you, Mother," Ernie said. "Call again sometime next year," and then she'd hung up.
But it had hurt, and she'd cried a little, and then she'd stopped that nonsense. But then she had been downtown, and she'd seen a half dozen real camp followers, the girls who- either professionally or otherwise-plied their trade in San Diego bars patronized by Marines. They had been wearing Marine Corps T-shirts, and Ernie had wondered if she was really like them, and then she'd decided it didn't matter whether she was or not, her mother thought she was.
And she'd gone into a store and bought the T-shirt.
"I'm glad that the steaks are enormous,, because so is my appetite," Banning said.
"Good," she said, smiling.
"Ernie, take these two with you, will you please?" Banning said. "I've got to have a quiet word with Jack Stecker."
When McCoy and Burnes had followed Ernie off the deck, Banning nodded after them.
"Very nice," he said.
"The hors d'ouevres, or McCoy's lady friend?" Stecker asked.
"Both," Banning said, "but especially her. She's all right, Jack."
"Yes, she is," Stecker said.
"I understand you've been greasing Evans Carlson's ways," Banning said.
"Oh, so that's what this all about," Stecker said.
Banning didn't reply directly.
"See a lot of him, do you?"
"Every other day," Stecker said.
"I've got a couple of questions I'd like to ask," Banning said.
"Let me save you some time, Major," Stecker said. "No, I don't think he's either crazy or a Communist."
"Why did you say that, Jack?" Banning asked.
"Isn't that what you wanted me to say? That he is? So they can relieve him and put these Raider battalions out of business?"
"No," Banning said. "As a matter of fact, it's not. I have it on the highest authority-relayed from General Holcomb himself-that Carlson is none of the unpleasant things he's being accused of."
Stecker met his eyes. "I'm really relieved to hear you say that," he said.
"There's some scuttlebutt that an officer has been sent out here to spy on Carlson," Banning said. "You pick up any of that?"
"Yeah, I've heard that," Stecker said.
"Do you think Carlson has?"
"Oh, I'm sure he has," Stecker said. "But I don't think he knows it's McCoy."
"McCoy?" Banning said.
"Come on, Ed, we've known each other too long to be cute," Stecker said.
"Please respond to the question," Banning said, formally. "What gave you the idea McCoy is in any way involved in this?"
"All right," Stecker said after a moment. "Because I happen to know that McCoy went from the Platoon Leader's Course at Quantico to work for Rickabee in Washington, and I took the trouble to find out that's not on his service record; his record says he was a platoon leader at Quantico until he came out here."
"You mention any of those theories of yours to Carlson?"
"No," Stecker said. "Frankly, I was tempted."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I have been around the Corps long enough to know the shits going to hit the fan sooner or later, and I didn't want to get splattered," Stecker said. "And also because I like McCoy, and I knew this wasn't his idea."
"The shit has already hit the fan," Banning said. "General Paul H. Lesterby was retired; Colonel Thomas C. Wesley's been assigned to the supply depot at Murdoch, while the Commandant makes up his mind whether or not to court-martial him."
Stecker's face grew thoughtful. His eyebrows rose, he pursed his lips, and he cocked his head to one side. "The scuttlebutt I got on out," he said, "was that Lesterby had a mild heart attack and that Wesley finally was recognized for the horse's ass he's always been."
"Do you think Carlson believes that?"
"I suppose he does," Stecker said. "Why that line of questions?"
"Although he will do so if necessary," Banning said, "which is to say if he thinks-which means I tell him-that Carlson knows about the officer Lesterby sent out here, the Commandant would really rather not come out and formally apologize to Carlson."
"Carlson? He better worry about having to apologize to the President," Stecker said.
"If he thought it would be the best thing for the Corps, I think the Commandant would resign in the morning," Banning said. "I don't think that would be good for the Corps."
"Neither do I," Stecker said. "How the hell did you get involved in this? You used to be a good, simple, honest Marine."
"Well, Jack, I didn't volunteer for it," Banning said, a little coldly.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," Stecker said. "I can't imagine why the hell I did. I'm sorry."
"Forget it," Banning said.
"To answer your question, Ed," Stecker said, "if Carlson is worried about having a spy in his outfit, he doesn't seem concerned. I think he would have said something to me if he did. Or, probably, now that I think about it, suspected that it was me. I don't think he thinks it's one of his officers, and I'm almost positive he doesn't suspect McCoy of anything."
Banning nodded.
"But if you want, I can ask him," Stecker said. "Discreetly, of course. I'm going to see him tomorrow at eleven hundred."
"No, this is it," Banning said. "I'm flying back to Washington at oh-nine-hundred. To report to the Commandant as soon as I get there."
"I really wish I could be more helpful," Stecker said.
"You've been very helpful," Banning said.
"So what happens to McCoy?" Stecker said.
"It would raise questions if he were suddenly relieved from the Raiders," Banning said.
"So who really pays for this idiocy is a nice young kid-a fine young officer," Stecker said bitterly. "Lesterby gets to draw his pension, and Wesley, too, and McCoy gets his ass blown away playing commando on some unimportant little island in the South Pacific."
"I thought you were all for Carlson and his Raiders," Banning said, surprised.
"I think the whole idea of Raiders is stupid from start to finish," Stecker said. "You didn't ask me that."
The smell of charring beef began to float up to the flying bridge.
Stecker sniffed. "Are we about finished?" he asked. "Oddly enough, after this conversation of ours, I still have an appetite."
Banning set his beer bottle down and stood up. "Thank you, Jack," he said.
When they went into the main cabin, they saw that the women had changed. Ernie Sage was now wearing a pale yellow cotton dress, which she wore with a single strand of pearls that Banning knew were real, and had cost what a Marine second lieutenant made in three months.
The table had been very elegantly set in the main lounge of the Last Tune. There was gold-rimmed bone china, crystal glasses, and heavy sterling. There were two bottles of wine on the table, and a reserve supply, plus a bottle of brandy, on a sideboard.
Banning reflected that Ernie Sage seemed to have grasped what was expected of the wife of a junior officer when entertaining in their quarters a field-grade officer. Except she wasn't married to Killer McCoy, and this yacht was not exactly what came to mind when you thought of the quarters of a second lieutenant living off the post. McCoy seemed to have read his mind. In Chinese, he asked, softly, "It's a long way from that one-room apartment of mine over the whorehouse in Shanghai, isn't it?"
Banning laughed. McCoy started to pour the wine. He did it naturally, Banning thought. He was perfectly at ease with it, and even with this elaborate arrangement of crystal, china, and silver. He wondered if McCoy himself knew how much he had changed since Shanghai.
"You know, I knew that Ken spoke Chinese-" Marty Burnes gushed.
"Two kinds, plus Japanese, and God only knows what else," Banning interrupted.
"But I didn't really believe it until I heard the two of you talking," Burnes concluded.
"The day I met him," Ernie said, "he took me to a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown in New York City. And spoke Chinese to them. I was awed."