And then he saw the money belt. It was on the little shelf over the wash basin in the bathroom. That figured. Just before she left, the whore had taken the money belt into the bathroom, just in case he should wake up and see her going through it. Once she'd emptied it, she hadn't given a damn where she left it.
He needed a glass of water, and desperately. Maybe, if he hadn't been rolled, too, he could borrow say, ten bucks, from Pickering. It wasn't the end of the fucking world. He had his pay record with him, and he had at least two months' back pay on the books. All he had to do was come up with enough money to get from here to the Philadelphia Navy Yard, and he could draw enough money to keep him going.
And he would go to some bank and ask them what you were supposed to do when you lost a 'Guaranteed Officer's Checque.' He would say he lost it. And since he hadn't signed it, they would have to sooner or later make it good.
He staggered across the room to the bathroom and saw that it was really a high-class place. There was a little button marked ICE WATER that operated a tiny little chrome water pipe. And when you pushed the button, it really produced ice water.
He drank one glass of ice water so quickly it made his teeth ache. He drank a second glass more slowly, from time to time looking at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. His eyes were bloodshot, and-he had to check twice to make sure what it was-his ears were red with lipstick.
He looked down at other parts of his body.
Well, I apparently had a very good time, even if I can't remember the details.
There was something under the empty money belt, making a bulge. Idly curious, he pushed the money belt off it. It was his watch.
"I'll be goddamned," McCoy said, then told himself that just because the whore hadn't stolen the watch, it didn't mean she hadn't helped herself to the cash and the "checque." It wasn't that good a watch, he knew. He had bought it primarily because it had a lot of radium paint on the hands, so that he could see them at night. He picked up the money belt and worked the zipper. There was money in it, $250, and the "checque."
"I'll be goddamned," he said again.
Now he had a cramp in his bladder, so he went to the toilet and relieved himself. He saw that the bathroom had two doors: one led in from his fancy bedroom, and one went out into some other room. When he was finished taking a leak (an incredibly long teak), he tried the knob. It was unlocked, and he pushed it open.
Malcolm Pickering (McCoy remembered at that moment that sometime during last night, Pickering had told him to call him " 'Pick") was on his back on a double bed, stark naked. His arms and legs were spread. And he was awake.
"Please piss a little more quietly," Pick Pickering said. "I woke up thinking our ship was going down."
"Shit." McCoy laughed.
"I have come to the conclusion, Corporal McCoy," Pick Pickering said, "that you are an evil character who rides on railroads leading innocent youth such as myself into sin."
"It looks like we had a good time," McCoy said.
"Yeah, doesn't it?" Pickering said. "What time is it?"
"A little after nine," McCoy said.
"I treat my hangovers with large breakfasts and a beer," Pickering said. "That sound all right to you?"
"I don't want to report smelling of beer," McCoy said.
"They have Sen-Sen," Pickering said, and suddenly sat up. "Jesus!" he said, and then he swung his feet to the floor and reached for the telephone. "Room service," he ordered, and then: "This is Malcolm Pickering, in 907. Large orange juice, breakfast steak, medium, corned-beef hash, eggs up, toast, two pots of coffee, and two bottles of Feigenspann ale. Do that twice, please, and the sooner the better."
Very classy, McCoy thought. That'll probably cost three, four, maybe five dollars. But what the hell, I've still got most of my money.
"What's this place costing us?" McCoy asked.
"I probably shouldn't tell you this. Killer," Pickering said. "It is only because I am an upstanding Christian that I do. We flipped for it last night, and you won. It's not costing you a dime, and I don't want to think about what it's costing me."
McCoy was surprised that Pickering called him "Killer." The only way he could have known that was if he had told him. And the only way he would have told him. as if he needed another proof, was that he was pretty drunk.
"I want to pay my share," McCoy said.
"Don't be a damned fool. If that quarter had landed on the other side, you would have paid," Pickering said. He got to his feet and walked across the room. "But since I am paying. I get first shot at the shower.
If anything, McCoy decided. Pickering's room was larger than his. And then he noticed that a door and not just the bathroom connected both rooms. He went back to his own room, found his seabags in a closet, and took out a clean uniform. It was clean but mussed. He hated to report in a mussed uniform, even if the first thing he was going to do when he reported in was ask for the buy-out papers.
"What the hell." he said aloud and picked up the telephone. He didn't give a damn what it cost, he was going to have it pressed. So far, he hadn't spent much money at all.
A waiter and a bellboy delivered the breakfast on a rolling table. By the time he'd eaten everything and put down both bottles of ale. he felt almost human again.
When he was dressed. Pick Pickering lifted up the telephone and told them to send up a boy for the luggage and to have a cab waiting.
The MP at the gate to the Navy Yard took one look at McCoy's campaign hat and went back in the guard shack for his pad of violation reports.
"Got to write you up. Corporal, sorry," the MP said. "Maybe they'll let it ride because you just got back."
The Officer Procurement Board was in a three-story red-brick building near the gate, and McCoy said good-bye to Pickering there.
"Well, maybe we'll bump into each other again." Pickering said.
"I hope by then I'm a civilian. Otherwise. I'll be standing at attention and calling you "sir.' " McCoy said.
"So what?" Pickering said.
"It doesn't work that way. Pick." McCoy said, giving him his hand. "As you are about to find out. this is the U. Fucking S. Fucking Marine Corps. But it was fun. and I'm glad the quarter landed the way it did."
"Good luck," Pickering said, and squeezed McCoy's hand a little harder, then got out of the cab and walked up the sidewalk to the big red-brick building.
The 47th Motor Transport Platoon was in a red-brick barracks building not far from the river. Two Marines were very slowly raking the small patch of carefully tended lawn between the sidewalk and the building.
McCoy paid the cab driver and then stood by the open truck.
"You guys want to give me a hand with my gear?" he called to the guys with the rakes.
He was still a corporal, a noncommissioned officer. Noncommissioned officers don't carry things if there are privates around to carry things. They looked at him curiously, not missing the out-of-uniform campaign hat and the illegal chevrons. Then they stepped over the chain guarding the lawn and shouldered his seabags and followed him into the barracks building.
The linoleum deck inside glistened, and the brass doorknobs and push plates were highly polished. This was the States, McCoy thought, where American Marines-not Chinese boys-waxed the decks and polished the brass. And Marine corporals watched them to make sure they did it right.
There was a sign on the orderly room door, KNOCK, REMOVE HEADGEAR. AND WAIT FOR PERMISSION TO ENTER
McCoy checked his uniform to make sure it was shipshape, removed his campaign hat, knocked, and waited for permission to enter.
"Come!" a voice called, and he pushed the door open and walked in.
There was a company clerk, a PFC, behind his desk, and a first sergeant, a squeaky-clean guy of about thirty-five behind his. Behind the first sergeant was a door marked LT A.J
FOGARTY, USMC, COMMANDING.
"You must be McCoy," the first sergeant said. "You was due in day before yesterday."