"Why?" Stecker asked.
"I grew up in the hotel business," Pickering said. "I worked for Foster Hotels. I know how to run a restaurant-bar operation."
"That would seem to be pretty good duty."
"I didn't join the Corps to run a bar for the brass," Pickering said.
"How'd you get out of it? And manage to get yourself sent here?"
"I had some influence," Pickering said. "With a general."
"Which general?" Stecker asked. Pickering sensed disapproval in Stecker; his eyes were no longer smiling.
"Mclnerney," Pickering said. "Brigadier General Mclnerney. You know who he is?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," Stecker said. "He and my father were in France together in the First World War. Belleau Wood."
"Then maybe my father knows your father," Pickering said. "That's where my father met Mclnerney. They were both corporals. Mclnerney got me assigned as his aide to keep me out of the Officers' Club, and then he sent me down here."
Stecker nodded absently, and Pickering sensed that he was making a decision.
"This is how I see it," Stecker said, finally. "They don't know what to do with us. The easiest thing is what they've done, nothing. Let us go to flight school, which is easier than writing letters to Headquarters, USMC, and asking what to do with us. And since there are probably just the two of us, and one of us is a regular, I don't think they're going to start up a series of 'don't piss in the potted palms' classes just for us. Because it's easier for them, they'll treat us as if we were officers sent here as first lieutenants or captains from the Fleet Marine Force."
"All of which means what?"
"Until somebody tells us we're restricted to post, as officers and gentlemen we can assume we're not restricted to the post. And I don't think they're going to appoint somebody to come all the way over here at midnight every night to see if we're in our bunks."
"You mean, we just go tell that corporal 'thanks but no thanks, you can keep your room'?"
"How are you fixed for money?" Stecker asked.
"All right," Pickering replied.
"If we try to check out of the BOQ," Stecker said, "Captain Mustache is likely to think it over and order us to stay here. And if he does that, it's also going to start him thinking about 'don't piss in the potted palms' lectures and sending the OD over to see if we're in bed. The whole Boy Scout routine. You follow my reasoning?"
"Yes," Pickering said.
"We'll just have to forget collecting the allowance in lieu of quarters," Stecker said.
"I understand," Pickering said.
"One other potential problem," Stecker said. "Have you got a car?"
Pickering nodded.
"Well, let's go hear what Captain Mustache has to say. He can blow this whole idea out of the water. But if he says what I think he'll say, I think we can pass the next six months in relative comfort. We started drawing flight pay the moment we reported in… why not spend it?"
On the walk back to the Marine detachment office, Stecker saw Pickering's Cadillac convertible.
"How'd you like to have that to use for pussy bait?" he asked.
Pickering smiled, but said nothing about the ownership of the car.
Captain Mustache put them at ease before his desk when they reported to him, but he did not offer them seats.
"I've been on the phone about you two," he said. "What you are are exceptions to the rule, pebbles that shouldn't have dropped through the sieve but did. Both of you should be running around in the boondocks at Quantico with a rifle platoon. But you're here, and it has been decided that it's easier to leave you here."
He's even using the same words that Sleeker did, Pickering thought.
"When you are addressed by a superior officer," Captain Mustache said, "it is the custom to acknowledge that by saying something like 'Yes, sir.' That lets the superior officer know you're alive."
"Yes, sir," Pickering and Stecker said.
"There was a price for my curiosity," Captain Mustache said. "I presume you are familiar with the term 'in addition to his other duties'?"
"Yes, sir," Pickering and Stecker said in chorus.
"My primary duty here is as a flight instructor," Captain Mustache said. "In addition to that duty, I am the Marine detachment commander. And as of about twenty minutes ago, in addition to that duty, I have been given the responsibility for you two. Someone has to be responsible for your well-being and to answer for it if you misbehave. For example, if you should disturb the peace and tranquility of Pensacola by getting drunk and having yourselves thrown into jail, I will be the officer who will get you out of jail, prepare court-martial charges, and arrange to have your asses shipped out of here. Do I make my point, or will a more detailed explanation be necessary?"
"Yes, sir," they chorused.
"Which, gentlemen? Do you understand me? Or would you like a more detailed explanation?"
"I understand you, sir," Stecker said.
"You make your point, sir," Pickering said.
"Splendid," Captain Mustache said. "Getting through this course is going to be hard," he went on. "A year ago it was thirteen months. We're going to try in six months to teach you everything that was taught in that course. And what that means is that you'll have to work your asses off. And what that means is that there will be very little time for you to carouse and make whoopee. Do I make my point?"
"Yes, sir," Pickering and Stecker said in chorus.
"Splendid! I will not belabor the point," Captain Mustache said. "Take the rest of the day getting settled. If you have personal automobiles, get them registered. Take a ride around the base and orient yourselves. Report at oh-six-thirty tomorrow at Aviation Reception; the uniform is greens."
"Yes, sir," they chorused.
"That will be all, gentlemen," Captain Mustache said.
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," the two of them said, did an about-face, and marched out of the room.
"We're home free," Stecker said. "And we have all day to find us someplace decent to live."
"I've already got a place," Pickering said, as he headed toward his car.
"Big enough for the both of us?" Stecker asked.
"Two bedrooms, a living room, a patio," Pickering said.
"On Pensacola's world-famous snow-white beaches, no doubt?"
"Actually, it's on the roof of the San Carlos Hotel," Pick said. "The penthouse."
Stacker's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. He walked to the Cadillac, bent over, and looked inside.
"And this, it would follow, is yours?"
"Yeah," Pickering said.
"I don't suppose that it's run through your mind that a second lieutenant driving a new Cadillac convertible and living in a penthouse is going to stand out like a syphilitic pecker at a short-arm inspection?" Stecker asked.
"Seven months from now, if I don't kill myself between now and then, I will be living in a tent on some Pacific Island. At that time some people will be trying to kill me. A phrase from classic literature occurs to me: 'Live today, for tomorrow we die.'"
"You're a man after my own heart, Pickering," Stecker said. "Let's go register our cars and then go have a look at our penthouse."
"I told you, I was in the hotel business," Pickering said.
"I've got a deal on the penthouse… a professional discount. It doesn't cost as much as you might think."
"I don't give a damn what it costs," Stecker said. "I recently came into some money."
Pickering didn't reply.
Stecker took out his wallet, and from it a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded the paper and handed it to Pickering. It was a short, typewritten note.
Dear Twerp,
If at some time in the future, you should get a large check from Uncle Sam, I would be highly pissed if you did anything foolish with it… like putting it in the bank. Drink all the whiskey and screw all the girls while you have the chance.
Love, Jack.
Pickering read the short note and then looked at Stecker.
"That's from my big brother," Stecker said. "Ensign Jack NMI Stecker, Jr. Annapolis '40. He went down with the Arizona."