The gunny then read the list of those who required extra training, and then the list of those to face the elimination board.
And then he did an about-face and saluted the company commander, who returned the salute, ordered him to dismiss the formation, and walked off.
The gunny barked, "Dis-miss!"
Pick Pickering punched McCoy's arm.
"See? I told you you weren't gonna get boarded!"
And neither, McCoy thought, did I hear my name called for extra training. And they didn't say anything about refiring for record, either.
What the fuck is going on?
He thought it was entirely likely that the gunny had "forgotten" to read his name, so that when he failed to show up to sand the deck, or to refire for record, or for the elimination board itself, they could add AWOL to everything else.
He saw Pleasant going behind the building to get into his Ford. He ran after him. Pleasant rolled down the window. "Something I can do for you, Mr. McCoy?" "What the fuck is going on, Pleasant? Why wasn't my name called for extra training and for the elimination board?" "Because you're not on extra training, Mr. McCoy, and because you're not going before the elimination board. You are on liberty, Mr. McCoy.
"You going to tell me what's going on?" "Very well, Mr. McCoy. It's very simple. In ten days they are going to pin a gold bar on your shoulder. Between now and then, the gunny and I will do whatever we can to make things as painless as possible for you."
"I thought you wanted to bust me out of here." "Oh, we do," Pleasant said. "Nothing would give us greater pleasure. But then, we know better than to fuck with a rabbi."
"What rabbi?"
"Is there anything else, Mr. McCoy?" Pleasant said. "If not, with your permission, sir, I would like to start my Thanksgiving liberty."
"Fuck you, Pleasant," McCoy said. Pleasant rolled up the window and drove off. Pick Pickering was waiting for McCoy in the barracks. "Well?"
"I'm on liberty like everybody else," McCoy said. "And no elimination board."
"Great!" Pickering said, and punched his arm. "Let's go find a cab and get the hell out of here." "Out of here, where?"
"In compliance with orders from the United States Marine Corps, I am going to buy some officer-type uniforms."
"What the hell are you talking about? We're not supposed to buy uniforms until Friday." "Right," Pickering said. "Well?"
"I'm learning," Pickering said. "You will recall that they didn't say anything about where we were to buy the uniforms. Just that we buy them on Friday." "So?"
"On Friday, I am going to buy uniforms. In Brooks Brothers in New York."
"What's Brooks Brothers?"
"It's a place where they sell clothing, including uniforms."
"Jesus!" McCoy said.
"And when we're not buying our uniforms, we can be lifting some skirts," Pickering said. "The only problem is finding a cab to get us off this fucking base to someplace we can catch a train to New York."
"We don't need a cab," McCoy said. "I've got a car."
"You have a car? Here?" Pickering asked, surprised.
McCoy nodded.
"Mr. McCoy," Pickering said. "The first time I laid eyes on you, I said, 'Now, there is a man of many talents, the sort of chap it would be wise to cultivate in the furtherance of my military career.' "
McCoy smiled.
"And will this car of yours make it to New York? Without what I have recently learned to call 'mechanical breakdown'?"
"It's a LaSalle," McCoy said.
"In that case, if you pay for the gas," Pickering said, "I will take care of the room. Fair?"
"Fair," McCoy agreed.
Chapter Twelve
(One)
The Foster Park Hotel
Central Park South
New York City, New York
2320 Hours 19 November 1941
Pick Pickering was at the wheel of the LaSalle when it pulled up in front of the marquee of the Foster Park Hotel. They had gassed up just past Baltimore and changed places
there.
McCoy had gone to sleep thinking about Ellen Feller, about her probably being somewhere in Baltimore, and about what had happened between them in China-memories that reminded him of the very long time since he'd had his ashes
hauled.
The doorman stepped off the curb, walked out to the driver's side, opened the door, and said, "Welcome to the Foster Park Hotel, sir," before he realized that the driver was some kind of a soldier, a Marine, and an enlisted man, not even an officer.
"May I help you, sir?"
Pickering got out of the car.
"Take care of the car, please," he said. "We'll need it sometime Sunday afternoon."
"You'll be checking in, sir?"
The question seemed to amuse the Marine.
"I hope so," he said. "The luggage is in the trunk."
He turned back to the car.
"Off your ass and on your feet, McCoy," he said. "We're here."
McCoy sat up, startled, looked around, and as almost a reflex action, opened his door and got out.
"Where are we?" he asked, groggily.
"My grandfather calls it Sodom-on-Hudson," Pickering said, and took McCoy's arm and propelled him toward the revolving door.
The desk clerk was busy with someone else as Pickering and McCoy approached registration. Pickering pulled the Register in front of him, took the pen, and filled out one of the cards.
When the desk clerk turned his attention toward Pickering, he thrust the Registration card at him.
"We'd like a small suite," he said.
"I'm not sure that we'll be able to accommodate you, sir," the clerk said.
The clerk didn't know what the OC insignia on the collar points of the uniforms meant, but he knew a Marine private when he saw one, and Marine privates couldn't afford the prices of the Foster Park Hotel.
"House is full, is it?" the Marine asked.
"What I mean to suggest, sir," the desk clerk said, as tactfully as he could, "is that our prices are, well, a little stiff."
"That's all right," the Marine said. "I won't be paying for it anyway. Something with a view of the park, if one is available."
The desk clerk looked down at the card in his hand.
He didn't recognize the name, but in the block "Special billing Instructions" the Marine had written: "Andrew Foster, S/F, Attn: Mrs. Delahanty."
"Just one moment, please, sir, I'll check," the desk clerk said.
He disappeared behind the rack of mail-and-key slots and handed the card to the night resident manager, who was having a cup of coffee and a Danish pastry at his desk. He handed him the registration card. The night resident manager glanced at it casually, and then jumped to his feet.
He approached the Marines standing at the desk with his hand extended.
"Welcome to the Park, Mr. Pickering," he said. "It's a pleasure to have you in the house."
"Thank you," Pick Pickering said, shaking his hand. "Is there some problem?"
"Absolutely no problem. Would Penthouse C be all right with you?"
"If you're sure we can't rent it," Pickering said. "Not at this hour, Mr. Pickering," the night resident manager said, laughing appreciatively.
"Well, if somebody wants it, move us," Pickering said. "But otherwise, that's fine. We'll be here until Sunday afternoon."
The night resident manager took a key from the rack and came from behind the marble counter.
"If we had only known you were coming, Mr. Pickering…" he said. "I'm afraid there's not even a basket of fruit in the penthouse."
"At half- past four this afternoon, it was even money that we would be spending the weekend with a brick and a pile of sand," Pick Pickering said. "I don't much care about fruit, but I wish you would send up some liquor, peanuts, that sort of thing."
"Immediately, Mr. Pickering," the night resident manager said, as he bowed them onto the elevator.