“Where was Daniels going? The time you followed him to the railroad station?”
“Oh. Wilmington, sir.”
“Wilmington,” Masters repeated.
“Yeah, he’s got a nice little shack-up there, I’ll bet,” Caldroni said.
“Had,” Masters said, and Caldroni eyed him quizzically.
A tall radarman with his white cap tilted back on his head sauntered down the aisle and sat in the seat next to the redhead.
“My name’s Fred Singer,” he said, smiling. “What’s yours?”
Twelve
It was early morning at N.O.B., Norfolk, Virginia.
The mist that had clung to the front lawns of the base, spreading down from the barracks to the wide, winding concrete streets, had risen slowly, like a specter being called back to the grave at dawn, leaving the brick and the concrete drenched with a wintry sunlight. The men on the base lined up for chow, or made their sacks, or brushed their teeth. The four-to-eight watch relieved, and on the ships tied up alongside the docks or moored in the bay the men lined up for muster.
In the hospital, a pharmacist’s mate named Greg Barter brought breakfast to the man in 107. He wheeled the food in on a cart, and he put the glass of orange juice, the steaming bowl of cereal, the soft-boiled eggs, the slices of toast, the glass of milk onto a tray methodically and then shifted the tray to his patient’s lap.
“Good morning, sir,” he said cheerily, imitating the manner and friendliness of a hotel bellhop. “Is everything all right this morning, sir?”
“Everything’s fine, thank you.”
“Fever coming along nicely?” Greg asked.
“Very nicely, thank you.”
“Does that mean it’s going down, or steady as she goes?”
He looked at Greg warily. There was something about this bastard, something that needed watching. It was just his luck to have a character like this one rung in on him. Greg’s eyebrows were raised in mild anticipation now, his face smug and wisely apprehensive.
“Steady as she goes, sir?” Greg asked.
“I think it’s going down some,” he answered.
“Ah, good, good. Nothing I like better than to see a man getting well. That’s our job, you know. That’s what all we poor hospital lackeys get paid for, isn’t it? We’re essentially pan handlers, but we like to see our dear little patients get on their feet again. Humanitarians, we are.”
“I’ll bet,” he said.
“Ah, but we are,” Greg answered. “Say, mate, would you like to hear an occupational joke? Sort of brighten up your morning, eh, speed you on the way to recovery?”
“If you like.” He drank the orange juice and looked over at Greg.
“Where’d you go through boots?” Greg asked.
“What’s it to you?”
“You don’t like answering questions, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, no matter,” Greg said. “I went to Great Lakes. You familiar with Section Eight?”
“Yes.”
“The nut-house unit, you know? Where they keep the psychos. Well, this story takes place in Section Eight. You listening?”
“I’m listening.” He put some salt on his eggs and picked up a spoon.
“Want to eat that cereal, mate,” Greg said kindly. “Give you your strength back.”
“My eggs’ll get cold.”
“Sure, but eat your cereal, anyway.”
He shrugged and picked up a tablespoon instead, digging into the cereal.
“Good, ain’t it?” Greg asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, this story. It’s really a sort of a riddle. You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“This pharmacist’s mate,” Greg said, “is making the rounds in Section Eight, carrying the pan around, you see.”
“Yeah?”
“So, what did the pharmacist’s mate say to one of the psychos?”
“I don’t know. What did the pharmacist’s mate say to one of the psychos?”
“Wanna peanut?”
“Huh?”
“Wanna peanut? Don’t you get it? He’s carrying around the pan, you see, and—”
“I get it,” he said.
Greg shrugged. “Where’s your sense of humor?”
“Listen, don’t you have any other stops to make?”
“You’re my last stop, Lover. Ain’t you glad?”
“I’m tickled.”
“You ever get a breakfast like that on your ship?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Nah, not like this one. There’s nothing like hospital duty, is there, mate?”
“My ship’s a good one,” he said.
“Which ship is that?” Greg asked.
He hesitated. “The Sykes,” he said at last.
“The Sykes. What’s that, a DE?”
“A DD.”
“Oh, a D... The Sykes, did you say?” Greg’s eyes narrowed. “You off the Sykes, huh?”
“Yeah. What’s the matter with that?”
“Nothing.” Greg paused, thinking. “You boys had a lot of trouble there recently, didn’t you?”
“No trouble at all,” he answered.
“I’m talking about Miss Cole,” Greg said, his eyes squinched up tightly now.
“Oh, yeah. That.” He shoved his cereal bowl aside and started on his eggs.
“FBI and everything, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“What was this guy’s name who did it?”
“Schaefer.” he answered, his eyes on the egg.
“Schaefer. Sounds familiar. He ever pull duty here?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Yeoman, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Mmmm.”
“What’s wrong with being a yeoman? Listen, ain’t you got anyplace else to go? What’s this? The local hangout?”
“I think I remember Schaefer. Yeah, I think so,” Greg said. “He was here about when you were, wasn’t he?”
“Who said I was here?”
“I said. I checked your records.”
“What for?”
“I like to know my patients.”
“Since when did you become a medic?”
“What are you getting riled about, mate?” Greg asked, his eyes studious and alert now.
“Who’s getting riled? I just like to eat my breakfast without having to listen to a lot of crap.”
“Did you know Miss Cole?”
“No,” he snapped.
“Nice girl. You’da liked her, mate. The hot-pantsed type, but a nice girl.”
“Too bad I didn’t know her,” he said warily.
“Yeah, too bad,” Greg answered. “And you’ll never get to know her now, will you? I mean, Schaefer killing her like that. Too bad.”
“You gonna read a mass, or what?”
“What’s the matter, mate?” Greg asked sweetly. “Don’t you like me?”
“Not particularly,” he answered. “Why the hell don’t you shove off?”
“Sure.” Greg said, and then his voice turned hard. “You’d better start looking sick again, pal. The doc’ll be around any minute.”
He turned his back and walked out of the room.
She came into 107 like a burst of sunlight. He had been waiting for her all afternoon, and now that she was here, he was truly excited. She was a damn good-looking girl, with good legs, better maybe than Claire’s, and a nice innocent face that made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. She looked vulnerable, vulnerable as hell, and she was swallowing his line, he could see that. She didn’t wear much lipstick, and her lips were ripe and perfectly formed, and he wanted to kiss those lips until they were bruised and red.
“Hi,” she said from the doorway. “How’s the sick man today?”