"Let's go."
"Finish your champagne," Pick said.
"I don't want any damned champagne, thank you very much!"
"It's been a pleasure, Ma'am," Dunn said. "We hope to have the pleasure of your company soon again."
"Yeah," Carolyn said. "Right."
"This way, Madam," the man in the gray frock coat said.
He led her toward the bank of elevators, but ignored one that was waiting. Instead he put a key in what appeared to be an ordinary door. He opened it and gestured for her to precede him inside. She stepped through the door and realized it was a small elevator.
The man in the frock coat reached into the elevator, pushed a button (the only one Carolyn could see), then closed the door. As he did, an interior door closed automatically, and the elevator began to rise.
When the door opened, Captain Charles M. Galloway was standing in what looked like somebody's living room. He was wearing a perfectly fitting, perfectly pressed uniform; his gold wings were gleaming on his chest.
God, he's so good-looking!
God, and I look like the wrath of God!
And what's going on? What is this place?
"What is this place, Charley?"
"Pickering's mother's apartment. It's ours for as long as we need it."
"Pickering's mother? What are you talking about?"
"You remember the first time we were here? We had dinner with Mr. Foster and his daughter?"
"The one who had a son who was an aviator? Wanted to know about his training?"
"Right. Pickering. You just met him in the lobby, right?"
"What was that all about?"
"They went down to meet you while I came here. We were shooting pool in the Old Man's apartment."
"You were shooting pool in what old man's apartment?"
"Mr. Foster's."
And then Charley slipped his fingers inside his collar, reaching for something.
What the hell is he doing?
He removed his fingers from his collar, impatiently pulled his necktie down, jerked his collar open, reached inside, and came out with a some kind of chain.
"I've got it," he said.
Oh, my God! My Episcopal Serviceman's Cross. He actually wore it!
"So I see," she said.
Thank you, God, for bringing him back to me!
"Carolyn, I love you."
Nobody's here. You feel safe in saying so, right?
"I know, my darling."
"Aren't we... aren't we supposed to kiss each other? Are you sore at me or something?"
"Charley, you don't want be close to me right now, much less kiss me. I haven't been out of these clothes for three days."
"I don't give a damn," he said simply.
"Charley, I desperately need a bath."
"Not for me, you don't."
"For me, I do."
"Jesus!"
"Charley, give me ten minutes, please."
He had somehow managed to move very close to her. She didn't remember him doing it. But all of a sudden, there he was, with his hands on her upper arms.
"I have to kiss you," he said matter-of-factly. "I can't wait ten minutes."
He kissed her, but not the Johnny Weismuller "You-Jane-Me-Tarzan" squeezing-the-breath-out-of-her kiss she expected. He slowly moved his head to hers and, barely touching her, very gently kissed her forehead, and her eyebrows, and her cheeks, and even her nose. And then he found her lips.
By then, her knees seemed to have lost all their strength. She was sort of sagging against him.
"Oh, God, Charley," she said when he took his lips away.
"What I thought about," he said, "was taking your clothes off and then taking a shower with you. Like the last time. Remember?"
"What are you waiting for, Charley?" Carolyn asked.
[FOUR]
The Lobby Bar
The Andrew Foster Hotel
San Francisco, California
1735 Hours 24 October 1942
Lieutenants Pickering and Dunn shouldered their way through the crowd at the bar and finally caught the attention of the bartender.
"Gentlemen?" the bartender asked, then took a good look at Lieutenant Dunn. "Lieutenant, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to see your ID card."
"He's with me," Pick said.
"And I better have a look at yours, too," the bartender said. "They're really on us about serving minors."
Identity cards were produced.
"I'm sorry about that," the bartender said. "What can I fix you?"
"No problem," Pick said. "Famous Grouse and water. A lot of the former, just a little of the latter. Twice."
"Sir, I'm sorry, we're out of Famous Grouse."
"There's a couple of bottles in the cabinet under the cash register," Pick said.
The bartender stared at him for two or three beats, smiled uneasily, and walked down the bar for a quick word with a second bartender. He was a gray-haired man with a manner that said he'd been standing behind that bar from at least the time when the first was in kindergarten. He glanced up the bar, then quickly walked to Pickering and Dunn, pausing en route to take a quart bottle of Famous Grouse from the cabinet under the cash register.
"He didn't know who you were, Pick," he said, smiling. "And you were asking for the Boss's private stock."
"It looks as if the boss is making a lot of money," Pick said, indicating the crowd at the bar. "I thought he might be in here, checking the house."
"You just missed him," the bartender said. "But I'll tell you who is in here, and was asking about you." ,
"Female and attractive, I hope?" Bill Dunn asked.
"Paul, this is Bill Dunn," Pickering said. "Bill, Paul taught me everything I know about mixing drinks. And washing glasses. Are you aware that I am one of the world's best glass polishers?"
The two shook hands.
"No, he's not. He's a lousy glass polisher," Paul said. "But I did make him memorize the Bartender's Guide."