«And you want me to come over there?»
«No. I'll come there if you want. But what Jeanne wants is for you and Ernie to come over here. To the apartment, I mean. For dinner.»
«What is it?» Ernie asked.
«Jeanne wants us to come for dinner,» McCoy said.
«Great! I want to see the baby. Tell him yes.»
«Unless, of course, we'd be interrupting something important,» Sessions said. «I would understand that.»
«Screw you,» McCoy said.
«Jeanne wants to show Ernie the baby,» Sessions said.
«What time?»
«How soon could you come? We could have a couple of drinks.»
«How soon could you be ready?» McCoy asked Ernie.
«Just as soon as I put some clothes on.»
«Ernie says just as soon as she can get dressed,» McCoy said.
«Damn you!» Ernie said. «You didn't have to say that!»
«Give me the address, again,» McCoy said, and reached for the pencil and notepad beside the telephone.
Ernie removed the towel from around her waist, balled it up, and threw it at him. She waited long enough for him to dodge the towel and then turned back into the bathroom and closed the door after her. But not before offering him a good look at her fanny and hips.
And she did that on purpose, too!
What I really want to do is go in there after her, pick her up, and carry her back in here.
He thought about that for a moment, then stood up, walked to the bathroom and pulled open the door, and scooped her off her feet.
«What took you so long?» Ernie laughed. «I was beginning to wonder if you'd lost interest.»
note 23
There are two things wrong with babies
, Captain McCoy thought, as he watched Ernie making cooing noises to the Sessionses' infant.
One, they make me uncomfortable. Second, sure as Christ made little apples, it will start Ernie off again, wanting one of her own. Our own. Damn
!
«Cute kid,» he said to Captain Sessions.
«You ought to have one of your own,» Sessions said.
Thanks a lot, pal.
«Listen to the man, Ken,» Ernie said.
I'd like to break his fucking arm!
«You said you have a new ID for me?» McCoy said.
«Yeah, come on in the study. I've got a briefcase full of stuff for you,» Sessions said.
«Oh, you're
so precious
!» Ernie said to Edward F. Sessions, Jr.
Ed Sessions stopped in his living room long enough to make drinks for both of them, then led McCoy into his study, which was slightly larger than a closet, and motioned McCoy into its one upholstered chair.
He picked a briefcase up from the floor, set it on his small desk, and began taking things from it. «You really should, you know,» he said, looking at McCoy.
«I really should what?»
«Marry her. Have a baby. That's what's it's all about, Ken.»
«Oh, for Christ's sake! What do you think my chances are of coming through this war alive, in one piece? The one thing I don't want for Ernie is to be a widow with a baby. Or a loyal wife taking care of a one-legged, or vegetable, war veteran for the rest of her life.»
«You've got to take the chance, Ken.»
«Can we change the subject, please, before I punch you out?»
«That would be assault upon a superior officer, punishable by death, or such lesser punishment as a court-martial may decree,» Sessions said solemnly. «Besides, I'm larger, stronger, and smarter than you are, capable, in other words, of whipping
your
ass. You should take that into consideration.»
«Can we get on with this?» McCoy said, with a glance in the direction of the briefcase.
«Okay. Except that I have to say that with the exception, of course, of Jeanne, they don't come any better than the one you walked in here with just now.»
«Yeah, I know. That's
why
I can't marry her. What's all that stuff?»
Sessions flipped him a plastic card.
«New identity card, to reflect the new railroad tracks on your shoulders. Incidentally, congratulations, Captain McCoy.»
«Sometimes I wonder if the Corps knew what it was doing,» McCoy said. «I don't think I'm qualified to be a captain.»
«That's horseshit. You're better qualified to be a captain than ninety percent of the people walking around with captain's bars.»
«Captains command companies. Do you really think I'm qualified to command a company?»
«Maybe the advanced officer course would do you some good,» Sessions said after a moment, and very seriously. «But you already have a more important qualification they can't teach you at Quantico.»
«Oh, yeah? What?»
«You know how to give orders,» Sessions said. «When you tell people to do something, they just do it, and think about whether it's smart later. Most people, most captains, including me, don't have that ability.»
McCoy met his eyes for a moment. «What other goodies have you got for me?» he asked.
Sessions handed him a stack of mimeographed orders. «That's your leave orders. Fifteen days. Administrative leave. It doesn't get charged against your accrued leave. DP.»
«DP? What's that?»
«Direction of the President. Your pal Major Roosevelt called the Colonel and said his father ordered that personally.»
«He's not my pal. I was a second lieutenant on the Makin Raid. Specs was the skipper, and a captain.»
«Tell
him
that.
He
thinks he's a pal of yours.»
«Anything else?»
«Gasoline ration coupons, two hundred gallons' worth.»
«My car's up on blocks at Ernie's parents' place in New Jersey.»
«Take it off the blocks. Or aren't you planning to spend your leave with her?»
«What I meant was that it probably doesn't have plates on it.»
«If I were Ernie, I would have paid for plates. That would get her gasoline coupons for her own car.»
«And I'm sure my driver's license has expired.»
«It's good for the duration plus six months,» Sessions said. «Is there some reason you don't want to drive your car?»
«No, of course not,» McCoy said. «You know, aside from my uniforms, things like that, that car is the only thing I own. I bought it when I came back from China. It's a 1939 LaSalle convertible. Silver.»
«Really?
«I paid five hundred twenty-five dollars for it,» McCoy said. «It was the first decent car I ever owned, and I didn't want to sell it when I went overseas, and Ernie said I could leave it at the farm, so I did.»
«So now you have a car. Enjoy it.»
«Yeah,» McCoy said thoughtfully. «I'll ask Ernie how much trouble it would be to get it off the blocks.»
Sessions tossed him a small leather folder.
«New credentials. That was the Colonel's idea. He said the photograph on your old ones made you look like a high school cheerleader.»
McCoy opened the folder. It contained a badge and a card sealed in plastic identifying McCoy, Kenneth R., as a Special Agent of the Office of Naval Intelligence.