"I know they're in the Federal Building," he said to the telephone. "Or maybe it's the Post Office Building. Would you keep trying? It's the West Coast, or Los Angeles, or something like that, Detachment of the Public Affairs Division of the Marine Corps. Thank you."
He put the handset in its cradle.
"Lieutenant Pickering, I'm Gerald Samson, the general manager. I'm so sorry about the mix-up. We just had no record of your reservation."
"No problem," Pick said. "All fixed." He gestured around the room. "This is very nice. Lieutenant Dunn and I feel right at home in here. There's only one thing missing."
"What's that?"
"Bare-breasted maidens in grass skirts," Pick said.
"And poisonous insects," Lieutenant Bill Dunn said, coming into the room. There was the sound of a toilet flushing. "Lots and lots of large poisonous insects."
Mr. Samson smiled uneasily. Thirty-five minutes previously, Paul Dester, the day manager, had telephoned him at home. Dester explained then that two Marine officers were in the lobby, insisting, they had a reservation made by the Andrew Foster in San Francisco. Though Dester found no record of such a reservation (it would have been in the name of a Lieutenant Pickering), he called the Andrew Foster to check. And the day manager there said he was quite positive that no reservation had been made for Lieutenant Pickering. He would have remembered; Lieutenant Pickering was Andrew Foster's grandson.
At that point Dester actually had to call to ask what he was supposed to do:
"Is there a cottage open?"
"Only B, and we're holding that for Spencer Tracy. For Mr. Tracy's friends. They'll be in tomorrow."
"Put Mr. Pickering in B, and send fruit and cheese and champagne. We'll worry about Mr. Tracy's friends later. I'll be right there."
When Mr. Samson came into the room, the fruit-and-cheese basket and champagne were untouched. The reason for that became almost immediately apparent when a bellman appeared with bottles of scotch and bourbon, glasses, and ice.
"How many bedrooms are there here?" Pick asked.
"There are three, Mr. Pickering."
"A guest of mine, and a guest of his, will be arriving sometime this afternoon. Captain Charles Galloway. They'll need the bigger bedroom."
"That would be the Palm Room," Samson said, indicating one of the doors with a nod of his head. "We'll be on the lookout for Captain Galloway, Sir."
"Thank you," Pick said, and then the telephone rang and he grabbed it.
"I've found a Marine Public Affairs Detachment, Sir. It's in the Post Office Building. Should I ring it?" the operator asked.
"Please," Pick said, and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "We're about to have a little nip to cut the dust of the trail, Mr. Samson. Can we ask you to join us?"
"Los Angeles Detachment, Marine Corps Public Relations, Lieutenant Macklin speaking."
"I'm trying to find Major Dillon," his caller said.
"May I ask who is calling?"
"My name is Pickering."
"Lieutenant Pickering?
"Right."
"Where are you, Lieutenant?"
"I asked first. Where's Dillon?"
"One moment, please," Macklin said, and covered the microphone with his hand. He'd recently read an extract of the service record of First Lieutenant Pickering, Malcolm S., USMCR; and Pickering hadn't been a first lieutenant long enough to wear the lacquer off his bars.
I outrank him, and I don't have to tolerate his being a wise-ass. But on the other hand, we're going to be together for the next two weeks, and it would be better if an amicable relationship existed.
"Major, it's Lieutenant Pickering," Macklin said.
"Let me have it," Jake Dillon said, and took the telephone from Macklin. "Hey, Pick, where are you?"
"In the Beverly Hills."
"Dunn with you?"
"Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."
"You're supposed to be in the Roosevelt."
"I don't like the Roosevelt," Pick said.
"Have you been at the sauce?"
"Not yet. They just brought it."
"Where in the Hills?"
"Cottage B. It has a charming South Pacific ambience. You ought to see it."
"I will. I'll be right there. And you will be there when I arrive. Both of you."
"Aye, aye, Sir. Whatever the Major desires, Sir."
"Let me add 'sober,' " Dillon said, and hung up. He looked at Macklin. "Well, that's two out of three. Or five out of six, counting the three we already have in the Roosevelt. I don't think we'll have a problem with Captain Galloway."
"They're not in the Hollywood Roosevelt, Sir?"
"No, they're in the Foster Beverly Hills."
"I don't understand, Sir."
The telephone rang, and again Lieutenant Macklin answered it in the prescribed military manner.
"Sir," his caller said, "may I speak with Major Dillon, please. My name is Corp-Lieutenant Easterbrook."
Macklin covered the microphone with his hand.
"It's Lieutenant Easterbrook, Sir," he said.
In Lieutenant Macklin's professional judgment, the commissioning of Corporal Easterbrook was an affront to every commissioned officer who'd earned his commission the hard way. The right way (and the hardest way) to earn a commission, of course, was to go through Annapolis, as he himself had. But failing that, you could take a course of instruction at an Officer Candidate School that would at least impart the absolute basic knowledge a commissioned officer needed and weed out those who were not qualified to be officers. Simply doing your duty as an enlisted man on Guadalcanal should not be enough to merit promotion to commissioned status.
These thoughts made Macklin wonder again about his own promotion. If he had been able to answer the telephone "Captain Macklin speaking, Sir," perhaps Pickering's tone would have been a little more respectful.
Dillon took the phone from him again.
"Hey, Easterbunny, where are you? How was the leave?"
"Just fine, Sir. I'm at the airport, Sir. You said to call when I got in."
"Great. Look, hop in a cab and tell him to take you... Wait a minute. In ten minutes, be out in front. Lieutenant Macklin will pick you up. You came on TWA, right?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Be out in front in ten minutes," Dillon said, and broke the connection with his finger. He dialed a number from memory.
"Jake Dillon," he said to whoever answered, as Macklin watched with curiosity. "Is Veronica Wood on the lot? Get her for me, will you?"
He turned to Macklin.
"The station wagon is here, right?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Go pick up the Easterbunny, and take him to the Foster Beverly Hills, Cottage B. I'll meet you there. It's about time you met Pickering and Dunn. And they probably know where Galloway is, too."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Macklin said.
"Hey, baby," Jake said to the telephone. "I'm glad I caught you. You want to meet me, as soon as you can, at the Hills?"
There was a pause.
"I don't want to sit around the goddamn Polo Lounge either. I want you to meet a couple of friends of mine, Marines. They're in B."