"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."
"Boy," Second Lieutenant Robert F. Easterbrook, USMCR, said to First Lieutenant R. B. Macklin, USMC, as they drove up the palm-tree-lined drive to the entrance of the Foster Beverly Hills Hotel, "this is classy!"
Lieutenant Macklin ignored him and looked for a place to park the station wagon. Another of Major Dillon's odd notions was to decree that enlisted men could almost always be put to doing something more useful than chauffeuring officers around, and that henceforth the officers (meaning Macklin, of course; Dillon habitually drove his own car) would drive themselves.
He saw a spot and started to drive into it. A bellman held up his hand and stopped him.
"We'll take care of the car, Sir," the bellman said. "Are you checking in?"
"We're here to see Major Dillon," Macklin said. "I don't think it's permissible for a civilian to drive a military vehicle. I will park it myself, thank you, just the same."
The bellman considered that a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and stepped out of the way.
Macklin parked the station wagon and carefully locked it. And then, with Lieutenant Easterbrook at his side, he walked into the lobby.
"How would I find Cottage B?" he inquired of the doorman.
"May I ask whom you wish to see, Sir?"
"Major Homer Dillon, USMC."
"There must be some mistake, Sir. There is no Major Dillon in Cottage B."
"How about a Lieutenant Pickering?" Macklin snapped.
"One moment, Sir," the doorman said. "I'll see if Lieutenant Pickering is in. May I have your name, please?"
"Macklin," Macklin said. "Lieutenant R. B. Macklin."
The doorman picked up a telephone and dialed a number.
"Excuse me," he said to whoever answered. "There is a Lieutenant Mackeral at the door who wishes to see Lieutenant Pickering. May I pass him through?"
"He called you 'Mackeral,' " Lieutenant Easterbrook observed, chuckling... quite unnecessarily.
"Turn right at the reception desk, Lieutenant," the doorman said, pointing. "And then your first left. Cottage B is the second cottage."
"Thank you very much," Lieutenant Macklin said, somewhat icily. "Follow me, Easterbrook."
There was just time for Lieutenant Macklin to be introduced to Lieutenants Dunn and Pickering when Captain Charles M. Galloway and Mrs. Carolyn Ward Spencer walked into the cottage. They were trailed by a bellman carrying luggage.
"The temporary arrangements," Pick said, pointing to the door to the Palm Room, "are that you and Charley are in there. If you'd rather, we could find you some other..."
"This is marvelous," Carolyn said. "Thank you, Pick. I keep saying that, but you keep doing things..."
"Enjoy it while you can," Pick said. "I no longer have to polish the Skipper's apple; me or Dunn. We are all now Instructor Pilots."
"I heard about that," Charley said. "I think it makes sense."
"I can't believe you're saying that. You like the idea of being an IP?"
"He's not going to be an IP is why," Carolyn said. "Somebody blew a trumpet, and he's going back over there."
"How did you work that, Skipper?" Dunn asked.
"Clean living, Mr. Dunn," Galloway said. "You ought to try it sometime. Works miracles."
Clean living indeed, Lieutenant Macklin thought. What the Captain is up to with this woman is defined as illicit cohabitation. It's conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentlemen, de facto and de jure.
"Any chance we can go with you, Skipper?" Pick asked.
"No," Galloway said. "I asked, and the answer is no. Somebody decided clowns like you two are worth their weight in gold. But thanks, Pick. I wish it was otherwise."
"This must be the place," a female voice announced from the doorway. "I can smell Marines in rut."
That's Veronica Wood! Lieutenant Macklin realized in surprise. Did she actually say what I think I heard?
Veronica crossed the room and kissed Lieutenant Easterbrook wetly, then moved to Jake Dillon and kissed him with a little more enthusiasm.