‘You know how it is. The general never has gotten over his death. I guess he just wants to put it all in perspective.’
Hatcher’s eyes narrowed. Sloan was lying to him and he knew it. But it wasn’t Sloan’s tone of voice or expression that gave him away.
‘Don’t bullshit me, Harry. You didn’t track me down and then come all the way here to chat about Murph Cody. You think I got stupid since I saw you last?’
Sloan held up his hands in a gesture of apology. The smile got broader when he was in trouble. ‘Hey. Please. Stick with me for a couple of minutes more, okay?’
Hatcher relaxed. He was curious and had nothing to lose by going along with the game, whatever the game was.
‘Well, that’s a long time ago,’ Hatcher went on. ‘Annapolis was — 1963 to ‘67. I was in his wedding. That was...’
“Sixty-nine,’ Sloan said. He pointed to the records. ‘It’s in the file.’
‘Then I didn’t see him again after I joined the brigade.’
‘Why?’
Hatcher paused for a moment. ‘We had a falling-out,’ he said. ‘Anyway, Cody was tough at first. Big on hazing. It was — like paying dues to him. Cody was very big on paying dues. Maybe it had something to do with being Buffalo Bill’s son.’
‘How so?’ Sloan pressed on.
‘Well, you know, Polo had to measure up. As I remember, the general wouldn’t put up with any slack in the line.’
‘He played polo?’
‘Did I call him Polo?’ Hatcher replied, surprised. ‘Jesus. I didn’t even think about it just came out. Polo’s a nickname, short for Polaroid. Cody had a photographic memory, could remember anything — faces, names, math formulas, you name it. Everybody from the old gang at the academy called him that.’
He paused again as new images came back. ‘Look, he was a good guy, very loyal, liked to raise a little hell—’
Hatcher looked back down at the family Christmas photograph. Somehow the man in the Christmas picture seemed smaller and sadder than the Cody he remembered. And then Hatcher remembered the Christmas holidays that first year.
‘— and loved the ladies.’
Christmas, 1963. There was a light snow, just enough to call it a White Christmas and make being away from the Cirillos for the first time a painful experience. Hatcher was huddled against the wind, walking across the yard with his head down. Broke and with n place to go, he was spending the Christmas holidays at the academy along with perhaps a dozen other midshipmen. As he was crossing the chilly yard he heard yelling and what sounded like furniture being overturned.
My God, Hatcher thought, two of the guys are going at it. He ran into the sophomore dorm and up to the second floor. The furor was coming from Cody’s room.
The room was a shambles. Books, papers and clothes were strewn all over the floor. Cody was in a rage, stumbling around the room, yelling obscenities, tears in his eyes. He picked up his desk chair and, turning to the window, swung it back with both hands. Hatcher leaped into the room and grabbed the chair. Cody turned on him, his face red with drunken fury. ‘Wha’ the hell’re you doin’, maggot!’
‘Shit, sir, you’re going to be in a lot of trouble. The OD’s bound to hear you.’
‘Up the OD’s dick, maggot.’
Hatcher looked out the window. The OD was charging across the yard through the snow toward the dormitory.
‘Oh shit!’ Hatcher said.
He put the chair back and rushed around the room, straightening it up, stacking up papers and arranging them on the corner of the desk. He threw the clothes in the closet and closed the door.
‘What d’you think you’re doin’, maggot?’ Cody demanded.
‘The OD’s on his way over here,’ Hatcher said. ‘If he catches you drunk in your room, you’re gone, sir.’
‘S’be it,’ Cody replied drunkenly. ‘Teach ‘em all.’
‘All who, sir?’
‘Mm’ your own business.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hatcher heard the front door of the dorm open and close.
‘He’s on his way up here,’ Hatcher said in a panic.
‘Who’re we talkin ‘bout?’
‘The fucking OD, sir.’
‘Up the OD’s —‘ Hatcher grabbed Cody and steered him toward the bathroom. ‘What the hell’re --‘
Hatcher shoved him in the bathroom and turned on the shower. He went back in the room and pulled the door shut. Then he went to Cody’s closet and got out a pair of shoes and a shoeshine kit. He could hear the officer of the day approaching the room. He started frantically shining the shoes as the OD pounded on the door.
‘Mr. Cody?’
Hatcher opened the door.
‘What’re you doing in here, maggot?’ the OD demanded, staring at Hatcher.
Hatcher held up a shoe and a rag.
‘Doing Mr Cody’s shoes, sir.’
‘Where’s Cody?’ the OD demanded, brushing past Hatcher and entering the room. From behind him, Hatcher looked down at the foot of the bed. A. capped bottle of vodka was sitting on the floor. Hatcher moved as cautiously as he could to the foot of the bed and dropped the shoe, waiting until it hit the floor and at the same moment kicking the bottle under the bed.
The OD whirled and Hatcher popped to attention. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he stammered. ‘I dropped the shoe.’
At that moment the door opened and Cody’s dripping head peered around its edge. He had a towel wrapped around his shoulders.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked sternly.
‘Sounded like a riot in here, Cody,’ the OD answered.
‘The radio,’ Cody said. ‘I turned it off. Get back on those shoes, maggot.’ He slammed the bathroom door shut.
‘Yes, sir!’
The OD stalked out of the room. ‘Just keep it down,’ he said as he left.
Cody came out of the bathroom. The towel was still wrapped around his shoulders and his hair was dripping wet. Water had splashed on his tunic. He walked into the room and looked around, got down on his hands and knees and reached under the bed to get the bottle of vodka. He sat on the floor, leaning on the bed, uncapped the bottle and started to laugh.
‘That was very quick thinkin’, maggot, very resourceful, indeed. Have a drink.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘S’down and have a damn drink, maggot,’ Cody said with a flourish and held the bottle toward him. Hatcher sat beside him on the floor, took a swig, and shuddered.
‘You’re a real case, maggot,’ Cody said, almost sneering. ‘I been watching you. You got a funny kinda attitude. What d’you call that, street ethics?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You suppose so, what?’
‘Sir.’
‘Right.’ He took another swig and handed the bottle back to Hatcher. ‘M’old man’s a soldier’s soldier, maggot. E’body loves Buff’lo Bill Cody.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, shit,’ Cody said with a vague wave of his arm. He stared down at the vodka bottle. ‘Think I’ll ever make adm’ral, maggot?’
Hatcher took another swallow of vodka and handed it back to Cody. ‘Is that what you want to be, sir?’
‘Isn’t that what this’s all about? This is the U.S. Naval Academy, maggot. We’re all suppos’ t’be admirals before we retire, didn’t y’know that. Isn’t that why you’re here? You jus’ tryin’ to get recest — respect — respectable?’ He chuckled at the tongue twister and passed back the bottle.
Hatcher took another swig of the vodka. The room was beginning to tilt a little.
‘I like the ocean,’ he said finally, handing the bottle back to Cody.
‘I like the ocean,’ Cody repeated with a snicker. ‘Jesus, he came to Annapolis because he likes the friggin’ ocean. Well, maggot, which ocean d’you like best?’
Hatcher chuckled. ‘I like ‘em all, long’s they’re wet.’
Cody laughed. ‘Tha’s very funny. But ‘s indiscriminant. You’re indiscriminant, maggot. Got t’be discriminating‘s part of what we’re doing here, becoming elit — elit-isss.’