The man sitting across the table from Catman pushed his glasses up on his nose. He withdrew a wallet and flashed an official looking identification card that read defense investigation service and had the man’s picture on the bottom.
“Lieutenant Holstrom …”
“Catman.”
The man pressed his lips together. “All right. Catman. I’m conducting interviews to upgrade the security clearance for First Lieutenant Bruce Steele. You have been listed as a reference on his information sheet. Do you know him?”
“Sure.”
“Very well, how long have you known Lieutenant Steele?”
Catman stole another glance at his watch. “Assassin? Two years.”
“Assassin?” The man hesitated.
“Yeah.”
The investigator scribbled on his sheet.
“Now, Catman, have you ever known Lieutenant Steele to drink to excess?”
Catman thought for a moment. “Nope.” As the man started to write, Catman continued, “I’ve always passed out before he got drunk.”
The investigator’s mouth dropped open.
Catman smiled.
Chief Bosun’s Mate Joe Steele stood waiting by the car. Bruce felt as if his feet were embedded in cement, incapable of movement. Bruce had not spoken to his father for the last two years.
Until half an hour ago in the Chaplain’s office.
And now, not ten feet away, the man waited.
There was nothing he could do to avoid the confrontation. Years ago he had sworn that he would never display the same self-centered habits, never drink himself senseless almost every night of the year like his father. Bruce glanced down at his shirt and grimaced — the faint yellow stains of vomit still decorated his clothes. The sins of the father.…The very things he had abhorred had gotten him in this trouble. His face grew red; so much for learning a lesson.
Bruce swallowed and walked straight ahead to the car.
Joe Steele stuck out a hand and said gruffly, “Son.”
Bruce shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”
His father looked him over. “Some party.”
“Yeah.” Bruce was clearly ready to get going.
“So what happened?”
Bruce shrugged. “I got a little wild. Woke up this morning on a bus — didn’t know where I was, no wallet. Kind of a nightmare.”
“Was the party worth it?”
Bruce had a dim memory of the night before, but his father expected another answer. Bruce felt himself slipping back to the past.
“It was okay.”
His father roared and slapped Bruce on the back. “I knew those Air Force pilots had balls. That’s my boy.” He jerked his head to the car. “Come on. I was going to drop you off at the bus station and lend you a couple of bucks. But if you have time, I’ll take you by my place and show you around before you go.”
“Sure.” Bruce climbed into the Toyota. Even though the car was old, it was immaculate inside. Another memory rolled over Bruce, that of being jerked out of his bed as a teenager every Saturday morning to fulfill his father’s fetish of cleaning everything in sight — the car, the yard.
They remained quiet for much of the drive. Bruce looked out the window and spotted the fleet of ships out by Cubi Point, anchored away from the main part of Subic. They took a turn away from the base’s main road. Bruce frowned — they were headed off base. He spoke for the first time since entering the car.
“Where do you live?”
“The barrio.”
“I thought you had to live in the barracks.”
Joe hung his elbow out the window and drove with one hand. “Not enough room. That’s one of the perks of moving up in rank. Your old man is doing pretty good for himself, if you haven’t noticed.” He was quiet for a moment. “Have you heard from your mom lately?”
“Not since getting here.”
“When was that?”
“Last week. She’s looking forward to having you get home next year — eighteen months of remote duty is hard on her, but at least she knows it’s the last time.”
His father grunted. As they drove off base, they seemed to enter another world. The same seamy sights greeted Bruce, but along with the visual impact came a nauseating smell and incoherent sounds that had been masked by the air-conditioned bus.
His father waved a hand at the river below them. “That’s called the Shit River. The Beaks use it as a sewer.”
“Beaks?”
His father laughed. “You are new, aren’t you? Beaks, flips, Filipinos. Just another name.”
Just another name, thought Bruce. Black, colored, nigger. Like it doesn’t make a difference. He hadn’t changed a bit.
As they drove slowly down the street, scantily dressed girls walked up and tried to reach into the car. The girls laughed and waved as they drove on. Strange odors of burnt chicken and meat wafted through the window; loud music erupted, then diffused away as they drove past bars.
“Armpit of the world, Son,” said Joe, grinning. “But that’s the beauty of it — you can pick and choose whatever your taste. Like that — look at those tits!” He pointed out a buxom black woman.
Soon their surroundings grew more tranquil. They turned off the main drag and wove a path to a row of low-slung buildings. The streets were still paved, but potholes and pools of standing water dominated the black asphalt. Bruce’s father pulled up in front of one of the apartments.
“You said you need to get back to Clark by late afternoon?” Bruce responded with a nod. “The one o’clock bus will get you there by three — give you plenty of lead time. Come on in.”
The apartment was typical of his father — neat, though cluttered with tacky junk: miniature anchors, nautical rope, dozens of model boats, wispy ostrich feathers. His father seemed preoccupied, standing by the kitchen door.
“Bruce, ah …” Joe scowled and held a hand up to his bulging chin. Maybe that was another reason his father had never been able to acknowledge his athletic prowess; Bruce had been in tiptop physical shape since high school, never even a hint of a spare tire.
“What’s up, Dad?”
“Ah, shit. Sit down, Son.” He waved a hand at a wicker chair. “Beer?”
Bruce remembered last night, then answered slowly. “Sure.”
A minute later Bruce was sipping on a San Miguel while his father downed his own can. “You know, this really is going to be my last tour, Son. Too many times I’ve left your mother sitting back at home, all alone. You and Fred were the best things to happen to her. She loves you like crazy.”
They grew quiet at the mention of Fred’s name. Bruce didn’t know his younger brother well. He had been too involved in football to have spent much time with him … which made the pangs of guilt dig even deeper. Frail as a youth, Fred eventually filled out and took after his older brother by the time he was a senior in high school.
Fred differed from Bruce as much as Bruce differed from his father. But the younger brother had had a penchant to please, to be subservient to his father’s wishes. So much so that Fred had volunteered for the Navy fresh out of high school in the centuries-old Steele family tradition. As a junior at the Academy, Bruce had tried to talk his younger brother out of enlisting, but he’d been met with cold silence.
And the nail was firmly hammered in place during Fred’s going-away party, when their father had drunkenly presented Fred an ornately engraved plaque inscribed: IF YOU AIN’T A SAILOR, YOU AIN’T SHIT. Joe Steele had slurred through a speech that hinted that Bruce had been destined for the plaque, made twenty years before, but that it had taken a man like his youngest son to finally fulfill a father’s wish.
Fred’s death last year — washed overboard when a ninety-foot wave hit the U.S.S. Bella Wood — hit the family hard.