"You know," Douglas said, thoughtful, "there is the old Tup 'n' Baa."
"What's that?" Boyce wanted to know.
"Submariner's bar," Jablonski said. "It's really the Ram and Ewe. They have it decorated like a submarine supply officer's wet dream!"
"Are there girls?" Benson wanted to know.
"Oh, there's girls," Scobey said. "But no grass skirts and no palm trees…. "
They found the Ram and Ewe, but Benson had an unpleasant feeling about the place as soon as they walked up to the door. Now it was Macy's Ram and Ewe, a seedy-looking and run-down place, badly in need of paint. A dozen big, gleaming motorcycles were parked in the lot beside the building, overlooking Mare Island Channel. A pair of too-thin women with harsh makeup, tight clothing, and flashy handbags leaned against the wall nearby.
"Doesn't look quite like I remember it," Douglas said, frowning.
"You've been here before?" Boyce asked.
"Oh, sure. Lots of times. The first was when I was shipping out on my first patrol, back in '79."
"Hey, sailor boys!" one of the women called. She was silver-blond, but with bright green streaks dyed in her crisply molded hair. "Lookin' for a date?"
"Maybe later, baby," Scobey called back.
"Maybe you'll buy us a drink?" the other said hopefully. Her hair was a more conservative flaming orange, which did interesting things to her purple lipstick and mascara.
"Sure," Boyce said. "Come on!"
"There's a nice place down the street," the green-blond offered.
"I'd kind of like to check this place out, guys," Douglas said. The redhead started forward, but the green-blond stopped her. "Shit, Liz. Not if they're goin' in there!" She eyed the sailors again. "Maybe we'll catch ya later, honey." They turned and walked off down the sidewalk, heels clicking on the pavement.
"What's with them?" Boyce asked.
"Ah, forget 'em," Scobey said. "C'mon. They've got food here and they've got booze. Let's get us some."
It was dark inside, smoky and not particularly clean. A number of bikers lounged at tables in the back, or stalked about the two pool tables with cues grasped in meaty hands like spears, steel and leather agleam in the weak light. The bikers weren't the only customers in the bar, but it felt like they were the ones who were in charge. Benson had the feeling that every eye in the place was on the quintet of sailors as they walked inside.
"They've done some new decorating, I see," Jablonski said, looking around. Pictures of motorcycles graced the walls, some shown off by bikini-clad girls. A forlorn-looking moose head hung above the bar. "Early biker punk, it looks like."
"Under new management, I imagine," Douglas added. "Damn! They had some really great stuff here!"
"Like what?" Benson wanted to know.
Douglas pointed. "They had a couple of old torpedo casings hanging from the overhead right there. Lots of submarine spare parts. Hull fittings. A commode lid from a sub's head. Battle lanterns. There was so much cast-off sub junk on the walls here that they said that an old World War II boat, the USS Shellfish, hadn't gone missing after all. She was hanging right here, in pieces, with so much other junk the Navy investigators never saw her."
"Shellfish?" Boyce said. "Never heard of that one."
"She wasn't real. But she makes for a good story."
They walked toward the bar, where the bartender watched with something less than open enthusiasm. Several bikers at the far end of the bar talked in low tones with one another, shooting hard, hooded glances at the sailors from time to time.
"One drink, fellas," the bartender said, his voice low and on the verge of pleading. "Just one. Then you'd better shove off, okay? This ain't your turf no more."
"It's a free country, ain't it?" Scobey growled.
"Take it easy, Big C," Boyce said. "We don't want trouble. C'mon. There's a table."
They sat down at a free table not far from the front door and a large window looking out onto the street. "Not real friendly here, are they?" Benson said. He watched the bikers in the back of the room return his casual glance with hard, cold stares.
"Gentlemen, we face an ethical dilemma," Douglas said thoughtfully. "If we were smart, we'd turn around and walk out that door right now, because we want to enjoy the rest of our liberty and not end up in a Shore Patrol brig because we got into a barroom brawl. But if we leave now, we let down the honor of our shipmates, the 'Burgh, and the Navy."
"If you think I'm gonna let a bunch of fuzz-faced delinquents scare me off," Scobey said, "you got another think coming!"
"I don't know," Jablonski said. "They look like trouble with a capital T. These aren't your usual delinquents."
A waitress came up to their table. She was young, blond, and looked nervous. Her skirt was short and so tight she could hardly walk, and twice she stole quick glances toward the back of the bar, as though aware of all of those cold, dark stares. "H-hi. What'll it be?"
"Gimme a beer," Douglas said. "Stoneybrook, if you got it. Hey, what the hell happened here?"
"What … what do you mean?" she asked.
"This used to be a submariner's bar," Jablonski said. "Memorabilia all over the walls. Serviceman's place. What gives?"
The waitress shrugged her shoulders. "The old owner got bought out a couple years ago. New bunch came in. Times change, y'know?" She glanced toward the back of the bar again and swallowed hard. "Anything for the rest of you?"
"Hell of a change," Benson said. His eyes narrowed. The woman was scared. "Are you okay, miss? Do you need us to get the police?"
"I'm… fine. Thanks." She managed a smile. "You boys off the sub that just came in this morning?"
"That's right," Boyce said. "Fleet's in! Lock up the women and kids!"
She smiled again. "It can't be that bad!"
"This looks like a pretty tough neighborhood," Douglas told her. "Didn't used to be. Do you like working here?"
"Hey, times are tough. A girl does what she has to, and cocktailing and waitressing ain't so bad." She glanced back at the bartender, who was watching them closely and with obvious concern. "Look, you guys wanna order, or what?"
"I'll have a Bud," Jablonski said.
"Coke for me," Boyce said.
"I'll have—" Scobey began.
"Awwww, look it the fairies in their cute little sailor suits," a big voice boomed from nearby. "Hey, guys! Get a load of the pansies!"
Scobey turned in his seat. "You want to turn the volume down, mister? I'm trying to order here."
"Fuck you, faggot!" the biker growled. He stood at least six feet tall and must have weighed 250, with a belly that hung over the waistband of too-tight leather jeans. His hairy chest and arms were bare under a leather vest, and a tattoo of a naked woman seated with her legs spread wide wiggled on his biceps when he flexed his arm. His beard, unkempt and wiry, reached to the top of his breastbone. Leather armbands, a black kerchief over his head, and wraparound sunglasses completed the unappetizing picture.
"What's the problem?" Douglas asked in a carefully reasonable tone. "We're not bothering you…. "
"Yeah? How do you know that, squid? You bother me just by existin'! And you're bothering the little lady, here!" He reached out with one thick arm and gathered in the waitress in a tight embrace. "Whassamatter, Sweet Cakes?" he asked.
"These sailor boys bothering you? Don't you worry! They ain't shit! I'll be real happy to protect you!.. "
"Hey!" She elbowed him in the side hard, but without visible effect. "Lemme go, you pig!"
"You ever been loved by a real man, Sweetie? We can fix that!"