Part 76 (1/2)
The wrist.w.a.tch, a battered pilot's chronometer, had a new alligator strap. It had been a strange experience watching the salesgirl in the s.h.i.+p's Store replace the old one, which had surprisingly held up all the way in Korea. He had remembered sometimes pa.s.sing the time at night watching the radium-tipped sweep second hand gradually losing its luminescence, and when it had-it had usually taken about forty minutes-holding the watch to his ear for the sound of its ticking. It had been comforting, proof that there was more to the world than human-feces-fertilized rice paddies, dirt roads, and thatch-roofed stone hootches. And unpleasant people trying to kill you.
He heard what McGrory said.
”What do you mean, she's not coming?”
”She called and said she was sorry, but coming here was impossible, and would you mind taking a cab? I guess you were in the shower. You didn't answer your phone.”
”So what happens now? I thought I had to be placed in the care of a responsible person?”
So I don't have to go to the funeral. Great. I didn't want to go anyway, and McGrory probably told her he was sorry, but the policy is that nutcakes can't be released except in the company of a responsible person, so I'm off the hook.
So why am I so disappointed?
McGrory took out his pocket notebook, tore off a sheet, and handed it to Pick.
”You get in a taxi and go to Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l's apartment. That's the address.”
”All by myself?”
”Yeah, against my better judgment, all by yourself.”
”Why against your better judgment? What do you think I'm going to do?”
”I have already told you what I'm worried about,” McGrory said. ”In my experience, putting together two people-especially two people of different s.e.xes-who are both suffering from an emotional trauma is a prescription for disaster.”
”But you don't want to play G.o.d?”
”I hope I'm wrong.”
”I think you can relax, Doc,” Pick said. ”The last thing I'm going to do is f.u.c.k up a nice lady like that.”
”Good,” McGrory said. ”I was going to say, 'Have a nice time,' but you're going to a funeral, aren't you?”
[SIX].
APARTMENT 12-D, ”OCEAN VIEW” 1005 OCEAN DRIVE SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA 0955 2 NOVEMBER 1950 The Ocean View apartment building was a large, curved structure overlooking the Pacific Ocean. When Pick got out of the taxi, he saw a Marine Corps staff car and a Cadillac limousine parked in the curving driveway, and a black wreath hanging from the nameplate on the right side of the double doors. That surprised him.
Maybe the owner's patriotic. Or maybe just a nice guy. Or maybe he knew Mitch.e.l.l.
When he had walked down the hospital corridor to the elevator, and then out through the lobby, he had felt what, for lack of a better term, he thought of as ”funny in the feet.” He felt that way now, but he understood what it was. He had figured it out in the taxi. He was wearing shoes for the first time since he'd put on flight boots the morning he'd flown off the Badoeng Strait Badoeng Strait for the last time. for the last time.
Even after he had been promoted to Category II and permitted to take his meals in the Officers' Club, he'd worn slippers.
The doorman was a short, plump Mexican who directed him to the bank of elevators on the right of the lobby.
He walked down the corridor to 12-D, which also had a black wreath on the door, pushed the b.u.t.ton, and heard chimes.
A young woman in a black dress and wearing a veiled hat opened the door to him and smiled a little uneasily.
”My name is Pickering. Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l expects me.”
”I'm Dianne Welch,” the young woman said. ”Al's wife.”
Okay. Now I know who you are. I don't know an Al Welch, but you expect me to. That makes you a Marine officer's wife. The sorority has gathered to do good for a member of the sisterhood now a widow.
I really don't want to be here. I really don't belong here.
”Babs is in the living room with the family,” Dianne Welch said. ”Down the corridor and straight ahead.”
I wish there was some way I could turn around and get out of here.
What did she say, ”with the family”? What family? I thought Babs . . . Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l . . . said both their families were in Kansas? No, Arkansas. . . . said both their families were in Kansas? No, Arkansas.
s.h.i.+t!
At the threshold to the living room, whose windows overlooked the Pacific, Pick was intercepted by a Marine captain, a pilot. He saw Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l standing with two middle-aged women and a middle-aged man by the window. The room wasn't very large, and it was crowded, mostly with young Marine officers' wives and a few Marine officers.
Not many.
Of course not. Their husbands are off on what the Crotch euphemistically calls a Far East Deployment.
”Major Pickering?” the captain asked.
”Right.”
”I was getting a little worried,” the captain said.
”About what?”
”We're about to leave for Saint Paul's, sir, and you-”
”I'm here.”
”Yes, sir. Sir, I'm Captain Kane. I'm the coordinating officer.”
”Okay.”
”Sir, you are to ride in the limousine with the widow, and at grave site, you are to sit next to Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l.”
”Who decided that?”
”Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l, sir.”
”Okay. Well, I suppose I had best pay my respects, hadn't I?”
”Yes, sir. She's over by the window with Captain Mitch.e.l.l's parents and-”
”I see her. Thank you,” Pick said.
He walked across the room toward Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l, who smiled faintly when she saw him. She was dressed very much like the officer's wife at the door, in a simple black dress with a veiled black hat.