Chapter 5
"FORT MEADE," Pat answered the rugged-looking bartender's question. "Fort George frigging Meade. Wonderful place," he added. "I found me a home in the service. I'll have another double of that purple-label rum, old buddy. Have a drink yourself, and we'll make it a toast to good old General Meade. George F. Meade."
It was quite early, and it was Aniel's first pass off the post, and he was very, very drunk, although his speech remained quite flawless.
"Hittin' it a little hard, ain't you, soldier? Long day ahead of you, and Charles Street is already crawlin' with M.P.'s. This is the weekend, ya' know."
Pat nodded wisely. "Gonna be a long day. And it's already been a long three weeks. Couple of more months to go yet before I even finish the basic training bit."
The bartender looked properly sympathetic as he set Pat's drink before him. "Drafted, huh? That's tough."
"Drafted, hell. I enlisted." He didn't offer any additional information, sat moodily on the bar stool staring at the double shot of rum. The bartender shrugged, went back to cleaning the mirrors.
It was a small bar, open practically around the clock, and it was a clip joint. It was also posted as "Off Limits" for servicemen, but the sign was tacked to the door, and when the door was opened inward, you couldn't see the sign. Not that anyone paid a hell of a lot of attention to it anyway, except maybe on a Saturday night when the M. P. 's and S. P. 's made their regular rounds. Even then, when they caught a serviceman on the premises, they were more likely to turn him loose, after checking his pass and I. D., with nothing more than a stern warning. That is, unless the man was either sloppily or belligerently drunk. Things have changed since the Second World War.
The place smelled of stale urine and tobacco smoke, and had a generally indescribable mustiness to it, generated by its many years of operation.
Pat finished his drink, pointed meaningfully to his empty glass and went back to the mens' room, owlishly staring at the scrawled obscenities above the urinal. He wrinkled his nose at the odor. Whatever the joint was, whatever its virtues, he reflected, cleanliness certainly wasn't one of them.
The bartender took advantage of his absence to make a telephone call-to him, an important telephone call.
Pat returned for his drink. The rum, he realized, was finally getting to him, but not with the desired result. Instead of numbing his brain, it was stirring memories, some pleasant, some unpleasant-all painful. Deedee ... the feel of her cool, smooth body pressed tightly against him ... the sound of her laughter ... her face when he'd told her he'd "arrange" everything for an abortion. He squeezed his eyes tightly. Soldiers don't cry.
Me, Pat Aniel, and my big career! Some career I ended up with. A hitch in the service. Don't cry, boy. You brought it all on yourself. It's all your fault, no one else to blame. No one but Pat Aniel, boy genius, boy artist.
A young woman came into the bar, sat down a few stools away. "Hi, Charley," she greeted the bartender. "How's tricks?"
"Hey, lookie here," the bartender said jovially, winking and nodding toward Pat. "Good old Millie. Long time no see!"
"Too long, right?" she agreed. "Well, me and my boy friend, we broke up, so here I am, on the scene again and hot to trot. Who's your friend here, Charley? Hey, trooper, you're kinda cute. First pass, hey?" Her shrewd eyes took in the ill-fitting uniform, the not-yet-grown-out haircut, the lack of shoulder-patch or stripes.
"Yeah. How'd you guess? First pass," Pat replied, amused. She was so obvious, it had to be amusing.
The bartender set up a drink in front of the girl. "First drink's on the house, Millie," he exclaimed. "By God, let's lock up the front door and have us an orgy! What d'ya say to that, huh, soldier?"
"Pat. My name's Pat."
"Pat, meet Millie. Great little gal. Millie, meet good old Pat. Pat here, he's taking his basic out at Meade."
"I already figured it, Charley. Cheer up, Pat. It can't last forever. Nothin' does. Here, let me buy a little drinkie for good old Pat."
Pat shook his head, dazedly.
"No? Okay, I'll tell you what. You buy me a drink, lover. Hey, if this is really your first pass off the post I bet you'd be a hell of a lover at that! Right? Right! You think I'm pretty?"
Aniel looked at her critically, drunkenly. At that particular moment he felt very drunk.
"You have a certain charm," he said, nodding sagely. "Yes, a very certain charm."
"Charm? The hell with that stuff. Look at me. Look at my legs." She swung around on the bar stool, hiking her skirt so that a few inches of thigh showed above her gartered stockings. "That's nice, huh?"
Pat turned back to the bartender. "Set the bottle up on the bar," he ordered.
"Sorry, I can't do that. Against the house rules. Against the law, for that matter. I wouldn't dare do that."
Pat reached in his pocket, hauled out a sheaf of bills, riffled through them. Twenties and tens. The experienced eyes of both the bartender and Millie estimated the roll to be at least two hundred bucks, more like two fifty or three hundred.
"All right," the bartender said, breathing a little heavily and winking at the girl. "Because we're all friends, I'm gonna make an exception to the rule. But just for you! It comes off if somebody else walks in that door." He stooped over, brought up the bottle of rum, set it on the bar top between Millie and Aniel. "There y'are. Now what's the story?"
Pat jerked his head toward Millie. "Give her a shot glass. She drinks rum with me, or she don't drink with my bankroll. That should be simple enough to understand." He knew he was being set up, and he was amused at the thought. It didn't really matter, he thought, and drunk as he was it would be a godsend to get rolled, then go back to the post and sleep it off. But let 'em work for it!
Millie looked doubtfully at the bartender. He nodded his encouragement. Hell, he grinned inwardly, she had a hollow leg anyway, and this G. I. patsy of his was on the narrow edge of passing out.
Charley laid a sheet of paper on the bar, placing a stubby pencil beside it. "You kids go ahead and have fun," he said. "We'll keep score on this. Want me to hold some of that money for you until you get around to soberin' up, Pat?"
"No, thanks, buddy. I'll be all right." Thinking to himself: the hell you will.
"I only meant, you know-like when a guy gets too smashed and all, it's nice to have a little tucked away safe with a friend. But you know how it is."
"Yeah, I know how it is. But like I said, I'll be all right." Pat gravely measured a drink into his glass, then poured an equal amount into Millie's glass and set the bottle down. "Skoal," he gave the toast.
She picked up her shot glass, looked at it rather dubiously, then clicked it against his and they both chug-a-lugged. He picked up the bottle and refilled both of their glasses almost immediately.
"Hey, not so fast there, baby," she protested. "But man, you're a real swinger. You're my type of guy, know that? A guy who can hold his liquor. But how come you're hittin' it so hard, Pat? You got troubles?"
He didn't answer her question but raised his shot glass once again. "Skoal!" he cried.
"Skoal," she echoed with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. They drank. She looked doubtfully at the bartender, half hoping he'd call off the whole deal. He ignored her unspoken plea and winked at her encouragingly.
Pat noticed the wink and was again amused.
"Seriously, Pat," the girl said, "you in some kind of big trouble? AWOL or something like that? Jesus, I don't want to get in no jam with the M. P.'s. You can bet your sweet life on that."
"No," Pat answered her this time. "I'm in no trouble." As he spoke his brain whirled. Suddenly he was talking, not to the whore nor to the bartender, but he was talking to himself. "But I'm guilty of a hell of a worse thing than just going AWOL. Sweet Pat, boy-soldier and rum-drinker par excellence, is guilty of taking a girl's life and smashing it into tiny little pieces!"
"Knock it off, Pat," Millie cried, pretended an interest she was very far from feeling. "I don't believe it. A nice little fella like you? Knock it off!"
"I have ruined a girl's life," Pat continued as if there'd been no interruption. "A beautiful, wonderful girl's life." The rum was smoking his thought. "Wonderful girl," he repeated the words, licking his parched lips, staring unseeingly at the mirror. "When I realized what I'd done, I tried to find her. God, you'll never know how hard I tried to find her." The tears began to course down his cheeks. "But it was too late. Too frigging late. She'd disappeared. Gone-just like that!" He tried to snap his fingers, but the necessary co-ordination was lacking. "I wanted to marry her. I was going to make everything clean and good for us, like it should have been. But she'd disappeared-gone-just like that!" He sat at the bar brooding, lost.
The whore sighed, although it would be difficult to say why. "So, what did you do?" she asked.
He looked around at Millie, as if for the first time. "Do?" he asked. "What's to do?" He picked up the bottle of rum, poured each of them another drink. "Skoal!"
She sighed, and this time it was a sigh of resignation. "Skoal," she said wearily. But when she'd downed her drink, she suddenly began to feel much better. The hot rum was warming her stomach, and she felt a pleasant glow.
"Do?" he echoed. "I joined the frigging Army. Put in for overseas duty. Wanted to get as far away as I could get. So what happens? I'm taking my basic training at Fort George frigging Meade, that's what happens!" Suddenly his empty stomach revolted against the raw rum and he felt the churning and nausea grab him. He slipped from his bar stool, stumbling in his hurry to get back to the toilet. The pair at the bar watched him as he fell across the room. The door swung closed behind him, but not before they heard the beginning of his retching.
"Well," Millie remarked with some bitterness, "that tears it. The bastard'll sober up now. And after me drinkin' this lousy damned rum."
The bartender laughed grimly. "I'll fix it, baby. Don't you worry about that. One more drink for that tin soldier and we're in." He opened a drawer in the back bar, took out a small bottle filled with a colorless liquid. He carefully measured three drops into the soldier's glass, then filled both shot glasses with rum. "Wait until he knocks this back! We'll split the loot, Millie."
She smiled at him in pleased agreement.
In the mens' room, the last of the mm finally came up, accompanied by stomach bile. Panting, Pat washed his face with cold water, cupped a handful of the liquid and rinsed out his mouth with it. He felt weak and faintly silly as he leaned against the wall fishing into a shirt pocket and pulling out a cigarette.
You certainly proved a point that time, he laughed grimly to himself. What point, I don't know, but you must have proved something.
After a few drags on the cigarette he felt better. Of course, they'll know, he thought. They must have heard you, and they'll know you're rid of the package you were carrying. So this'll have to be the one they set you up on. The next drink will have the knockout drops in it. He laughed again, grimly. He was as certain of this fact as he was of his name, rank and serial number. So what? he asked himself. Don't be a jerk all your life. All you have to do, Aniel, is just walk out, pay your tab and take off. You don't have to have another drink here, do you? No, he answered his own question. Of course you don't.
But some perverse desire decided him to play out the comedy their way. It was almost like a burlesque blackout. He grinned, feeling quite sober and ready for the game in front of him. He washed his mouth once again and went back to the bar.
"Better, honey?" Millie asked, false concern etched upon her hard face.
He sat beside her, nodding. "Some." He noted the bartender walking to the other end of the bar, whistling elaborately. Very funny. Pat reached for the glass of water he'd been using as a chaser, leaned toward Millie. "Know something? You're a real swingin' chick. You and me, baby-let's do the town, huh? I got plenty of money. I'll bet we could have a ball."
Her eyes gazed into his with earnest insincerity. As she started to answer he carefully poured some of the water into her lap. She jumped to her feet as she felt the cold moisture seeping through her dress. She began to curse and brush her skirt furiously. Pat quickly switched their glasses. Just like a burlesque blackout, he told himself, gleefully.
"Christ, say I'm sorry," he apologized. "But it's just water. There's no harm done."
She started to make a snarling reply, then thought better of it. After all, she was just one short drink away from a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty dollars. She smiled at him. "Sure. No harm down. Let's drink to that," she went on in an eager rush of words, reaching for her glass.
"Let's, baby. Skoal."
"Skoal!" she cried happily, as they drank their drinks. She watched him covertly, unable to conceal the animal-like anticipation in her eyes. He watched her gravely. Charley stayed at the other end of the bar, supposedly absorbed in a racing form.
"Say," she exclaimed, "you and me ... we're going to have a real ball." A strange expression came over her face. "Yes, soldier, a real-" She crumpled to the floor.
Pat looked down at her for a moment, then turned on his bar stool and thoughtfully picked up the sheet of paper and pencil. He turned the paper over and, with a few deft strokes sketched the girl as she lay crumpled on the floor.
"Charley," Pat called the bartender, who hadn't noticed the action in his eagerness to play his role to the hilt. He came up behind the bar.
"Now what the hell-" The bartender was unable to conceal his amazement.
Pat smiled at him. "She can't hold her liquor very well, I guess. How much do I owe you?"
The bartender calculated swiftly, still trying to figure out what had happened. "Eighteen bucks, soldier."
Aniel peeled off a twenty, waited for his change. "Here," he said, sliding the sketch across the bar. "Hang on to that. It might be worth a small fortune some day. Later." He waved a quick good-bye and left, wondering what other delightful surprises the day held for him.
Charley looked at the drawing critically. Hell of a tip this was! Then he studied it more closely. Not bad. Not bad at all. By God, the guy was quite an artist! Whistling tunelessly, he taped the sketch up on the mirror behind the bar. Might be worth a couple of bucks from some drunk before the day was over. Hell, Millie might even buy it when she came to. That reminded him. He jumped over the bar, grasped the whore under her arms and dragged her back to a booth to sleep it off. She snored gently, and Charley went back to the bar. He leaned there, glancing from time to time at the sketch on the mirror.
It was the first thing Deedee saw when she reported to work that night.