"You didn't have to tell me that," Ernie said.
"You didn't have to call yourself a camp follower," Carolyn said. "Why did you?"
"Well, for one thing it's the truth," Ernie said. "He won't marry me. So I take what I can get. Whither he goest, there goeth I, as it says in the Good Book, more or less. Except that he doesn't often go someplace where I can follow him." She gave her head a little regretful shake. "I lived with him outside Camp Pendleton for a while."
"Why won't he marry you?"
"The Killer thinks he's going to get killed... or rather, that's his professional opinion. He has integrity, too, goddamn him; he doesn't want to leave a widow."
"Have you two got plans for tonight?" Carolyn asked.
"The office boy has a reputation for coming up with anything you want, for a price. I gave him twenty dollars and told him to find me some steaks. He couldn't get any steaks, but he came up with a rib roast. I am going to pretend I'm a housewife and make it for him."
"I'll give you thirty dollars for it," Carolyn said. "And invite the two of you to join us for dinner in the bargain."
"Deal," Ernie said. "And in the bargain, I will smile enchantingly at Gregory and charm him into letting me raid their wine cellar."
[THREE]
The Andrew Foster Hotel
San Francisco, California
1730 24 October 1942
Mrs. Carolyn Ward McNamara was by nature a very fastidious woman. Consequently, she was at the moment a very annoyed one. Not only had she not bathed in seventy-two hours, or changed her clothing (except underwear, once) during that time, but her skin felt gritty from the coal ash that blew through the window of the passenger car on the final, St. Louis-San Francisco leg of her journey. The last time she combed her hair-as they were coming into San Francisco-she could literally hear the scraping noise the ash made against her comb.
Before she actually entered Philadelphia's 30th Street Station (how long ago? it seems like weeks), she really had no idea how overloaded the railroads were. Even in the middle of the night, 30th Street Station was jammed. Still, she was able to buy a ticket to San Francisco, thank God!... even if she didn't have a seat for most of the way to Chicago. And the passenger car was old!-even older than the one that brought her from Chicago to here; it had probably been retired from service after the Civil War and resurrected for this one. Anyhow, she found a place at the rear of that ancient passenger car, behind the last seat, where she was able to crawl in and rest her back against the wall.
During the trip, she subsisted on cheese and baloney sandwiches, orangeade, and an infrequent piece of fruit. She'd sell her soul right now for five ounces of scalloped veal, some new potatoes, and a green salad.
At the station, she waited thirty minutes for a taxi, then had to share the cab with two people who apparently lived at opposite ends of San Francisco.
And now she was finally arriving at the Andrew Foster, but God only knew what she was going to find there. If she managed to connect with Charley at all, he'd probably be in the same shape that she was: tired, dirty, and with no place to go.
"Here we are, lady," the driver said as the cab pulled up in front of the hotel.
Coming here, she realized at that moment, was not the smartest idea she ever had. But when she heard Charley's voice, and he told her he was on his way to San Francisco, it seemed like an inspiration. They would meet where they had parted, in San Francisco's most elegant hotel.
The doorman opened the door (looking askance, Carolyn was sure, at the filthy lady with the coal ash in her hair). She glanced out. People were standing in line in front of the revolving door.
Not only is there going to be no room at this inn, but what made you think they would obligingly provide a message-forwarding service for you and Charley?
"Good afternoon, Madam," the doorman said. "Will Madam be checking in?"
Not goddamn likely. But if I tell him that, what ad I do?
"Yes, thank you."
She saw a Marine captain waiting in line for the revolving door, and her heart jumped. And then she saw he was shorter than Charley, and older, and not an aviator.
A bellman appeared and took her luggage. Mustering all the dignity she could, Carolyn marched after him. He passed through a swinging door next to the revolving door. But when she tried to follow him, another bellman smiled and waved his hand to tell her that was not permitted and pointed at the revolving door.
What the hell is the difference? But you 're certainly in no position to make a scene over it.
She took her place in line and eventually made it into the lobby. Which was jammed. Just about all the chairs were occupied, and mountains of luggage were stacked everywhere.
She found the REGISTRATION sign... and the line, of course- actually, two of them-of those waiting for the attention of the formally dressed desk clerks. As she worked her way up to the desk, she kept hearing what she expected: "I'm sorry, there's absolutely nothing, and I can't tell you when there will be a vacancy."
Finally, it was her turn.
"May I help you, Madam?"
For half a second she was tempted to try to brazen it out: to announce that she had a reservation, then to act highly indignant when he couldn't find it.
But that won't work. It's not the most original idea in the world anyway. And I certainly wouldn't be the first person in the world to try it.
"Are there any messages for me? My name is Mrs. Carolyn McNamara?"
"If you'll check with our concierge, Madam? He would have messages."
He pointed out the concierge's desk, before which, naturally, there was a line of people.
"Thank you," Carolyn said, and walked over to the end of that line.
"May I help you, Madam?" the concierge asked five minutes later. The man looked and sounded vastly overworked.
"I'm Mrs. Carolyn McNamara. Are there any messages for me? Or for Captain Charles Galloway of the Marine Corps?"
"I will check, Madam," he said.
He consulted a leather-bound folder.
"There seems to be a message, Madam," he said. "But I'm not sure if it's from Captain Galloway, or for the Captain."
Oh, thank God!
"I'll take it, whatever it is."
"Madam, as you can understand, I couldn't give you a message intended for Captain Galloway. But if Madam will have a seat, I'll look into this as quickly as I can."
He gestured rather grandly to a setting of chairs and couches around a coffee table. One of the chairs was not occupied.
She walked to the chair and sat down, then let her eyes quickly sweep the lobby. She saw at least a dozen Marine officers. None of these was Captain Charles M. Galloway.
She glanced back at the concierge. He was simultaneously talking on the telephone and dealing with a highly excited female.
He'll forget me.
Carolyn did not like to smoke in public. She was raised to consider this unladylike.
To hell with it, she decided. I'll have a cigarette and then I'll go back to the concierge and threaten to throw a scene unless he gives me Charley's message.