"Come on inside, Aubrey."
He swallowed the last bourbon down quickly and looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock — early yet.
"What's the matter? Do you have to go?"
"I really ought to get back to the fort."
"Ella. Ell-a! The Major's things!"
"Here you are, Mist' Quidley."
"I had a briefcase, too."
"Find his briefcase, Ella."
"Yes'm. Here it is."
"Well, good night."
"Good night, Aubrey. It was so nice. Tomorrow?"
"Depends on work. I'll try," he said, pressing her hand one last time.
He sat in the car for a long moment before he started it. He was as hard as a gun barrel. There was only one place to go. After a moment he decided that as long as he was going there he might as well swing by the club and see if Sawyer had gone into town yet.
"So this is the famous Chicken's," said Earl Sawyer, leaping out eagerly as Quidley steered the Traveller into a RESERVED space. "Even up at Castle Blunder we've heard of this place."
"I think you'll like it," said Quidley, joining him on the worn brick sidewalk. They looked up at the narrow building for a moment, each savoring his own anticipation of pleasure.
Bute Street was narrow, tree-lined, not far from the waterfront. The homes were brick, most of them over a century old, with leaded glass and intricate wrought-iron and shaved-brick lintels. This one was set back from the street a few feet and their boots echoed from the darkened houses as they mounted the steps. Sawyer glanced around uncertainly. "Say, Major — you sure this here is the place?"
"This is it, all right, sir," said Quidley. He pointed to a tiny brass plaque beside the door. It carried four letters in discreet continental script: CSAB. "The official officer's brothel for the Hampton Roads Military District."
The first floor was narrow but long, dimly lit, with patterned velvet wall hangings in shades of deep red and burgundy; but not, for all that, very different from the bar in the officers' clubs in every fort. Quidley checked his and Sawyer's hats, decided to keep his briefcase with him, and steered the colonel to the polished bar that ran the entire length of one wall.
"Major Quidley. How you doin' tonight, sir."
"Fine, George, fine. Colonel, they take bourbon down in Mississippi, don't they?"
"When they can afford it, Major, when they can afford it." Sawyer laughed short and hard. "Otherwise we make do with the mountain dew. But say, whyn't you call me Earl? Hey? No need to be so stiff-collar long's we're workin' together."
Quidley nodded, wincing as Sawyer tilted the double shot of straight bourbon up and set it down empty. Already he was sorry he'd brought him. He could have had a quiet drink, burned out his lust with one of the girls, gone home quietly… now he'd have to endure all kinds of drinking and poorwhite camaraderie. Well. That was what breeding meant: courtesy under pressure. And after all, through whatever oversight, the man was still a fellow Confederate officer.
"Sure, Earl," he said, and smiled. He raised his own glass, still nearly full, as Sawyer signaled for another. "Confusion to the damn Yankees."
"Damn Yankees," echoed Sawyer. The bartender smiled into the mirror. They drank, Sawyer swiftly, Quidley still sipping at his first. George had given him the house's best, but as he rolled it behind his tongue he had to admit that it wasn't quite as good as Old Man Hunt's.
"This is damned good liquor," said Sawyer, gesturing to George. "One good thing the planter class left us. Right, Aubrey?"
"I'm not sure I know what you mean, sir."
"Earl, man!"
"Earl."
"I mean our precious upper classes." Sawyer finished the third double bourbon and stared at Quidley, broad face flushed, eyes sparkling. "Say, where'd you go to school?"
"The Post."
"That so? Thought you was a ring-knocker from the way you dressed. Say, that reminds me of a story." The bartender paused with the drink and Sawyer threw a twenty-dollar piece on the bar. He took Quidley's elbow. "Say, you listening? Seems there was this Mississippi Guard officer — I came up through the Guard — who goes into the latrine with this VMI fella. They use the, you know, the john, and the VMI fella is standin' there washing his hands. Well, the other fella zips up and starts to leave and the Post officer says in this high-and-mighty tone, 'At VMI they teach us to wash our hands after we use the can.' And the guard officer says, 'Well, in the Guard they teach us not to piss on our hands.'" He threw back his head and laughed, spilling some of the fresh drink.
Their move to one of the round tables, away from the bar, was the signal for two of the girls to leave the long table where they sat together. Quidley looked around the room as they approached. It was a quiet night on Bute Street; the only other guests were four Navy types, ensigns and lieutenants, rolling the house dice.
"Hello, Colonel, Major. Looking for company?" Two women, one dark, one mulatto or quadroon, both in standard House long dresses. Quidley nodded to the tall dark one, but he felt the man beside him stiffen. "Something wrong, Earl?"
"I don't drink with niggers," said Sawyer loudly. The women's faces froze, and they turned to leave. "Wait, please," said Quidley. "Look, you" — he looked at the tall one — "you sit down over here, by me. Earl, you mind?"
"Do what you like. But I don't—"
"And please send over a free employee for the Colonel."
The woman who arrived was undoubtedly the fattest woman at the House. Quidley was hard put to keep from staring at her. But the fact that she was white seemed to satisfy Sawyer, and they were soon talking and drinking together like old friends. Relieved, he turned back to the woman beside him, and almost spilled his drink.
She was breathtaking. As tall as he was, even sitting down. Her neck was curved, long, inviting, with the velvety dark skin set off by small curved circlets of gold (a CE was permitted the use of jewelry during working hours at the CSAB).
It was her face that made him decide to start breathing again. Its lines were flawless and regular as a black cameo, with high cheekbones, a wide chin, and a long sensuous mouth. Her hair, thick, glossy black, and long, was piled high, as Sharon's had been.
"You're new here," he said.
"Not so new. I was working the weekends before."
"Yes — that's right, I'm usually in on weekdays." He cast about for something more to say, to make her talk; he liked her voice, low and purring, with a hint of reserve or pride or anger. She kept her eyes on the table and her hands in her lap. Beside them Sawyer and the fat woman chattered on.
"Would you like a drink?"
"No, thank you."
"You gentlemen satisfied? Oh, it's Mr. Quidley. Nice to see you, sir. Your regular night, isn't it?"
"Madame Chicken. Hello." It was the manager, a short wide motherly woman. "Yes, we're enjoying ourselves immensely. I'd like you to meet Colonel Sawyer, from Richmond. Earl, Mrs. Rosen, the housemother."
"Pleased," said Sawyer, not rising; nor did he take his hand from the large woman's breast. "You got a hell of a nice cathouse here, ma'am."
"You like her?" said Chicken to Quidley. "You take to her? Go upstairs with her. Do you both good. Use number ten."
"Shall we?" he said to the girl.
"That's what I'm here for."
He eyed her from the back as they moved between tables to the rear. Sawyer shouted a lewd suggestion after him; the naval men laughed. She had nice hips, narrow but well rounded under the dress. He yielded to temptation and put his hands on them.
"Not here," she said coldly. He dropped his hands, feeling shame, then a wave of anger. What right had a colored to tell an officer, and a gentleman, what to do? Still, he kept his hands in his uniform pockets till the elevator stopped and she led him down the hall.