«Stick your head in a toilet, toupee and all, civilian. You can’t fire me. You can relieve me, and I hope to Christ you do, but you can’t fire me. It’s in my contract. Good-bye and have a rotten fucking day!» The general slammed down the red telephone and returned to the UTF radio connection. «You still there, Hoot?»
«I’m here and I heard you, Private Richards. You ready for latrine duty?»
«Is that son of a bitch ready for my press conference?»
«Good point, Corporal… I gather we’re coming back.»
«Everybody. We resume normal operations as of now.»
«Call my wife, will you?»
«No, I’ll call your daughter; her head’s on tighter. Your wife thinks you were shot down over Mongolia and she’s enshrined a plate of roast beef hash.»
«You’re right, talk to the kid. And tell her to wear longer skirts.»
«Over and out, Colonel.» General Owen Richards hung up the UTF receiver and pushed his chair back, pleased with himself. Career be damned, he should have done what he did a long time ago. Retirement wouldn’t be so awful, although he had to admit it would not be all that easy to put his uniform in a cedar chest. He and his wife could live wherever they wanted—one of his pilots told him that American Samoa was a terrific place. Still, it was going to be rough sledding leaving the one thing he loved best outside of the wife and children. The air force was his life—to hell with it!
And, naturally, the red telephone erupted. Richards picked it up, his temper in flames. «What is it, you fucking skinhead?»
«Golly, gosh, and gee whillikers, General, is that any way to answer a friendly telephone call?»
«What?» The voice was familiar but Richards couldn’t place it. «Who the hell is this?»
«I think I’m called your Commander in Chief, General.»
«The President?»
«You can bet your socks on it, sky jock.»
«Sky jock?»
«Different uniform but pretty much the same equipment, General, except for the high-tech jet stuff.»
«Equipment?»
«Ease off, pilot. I was there when you were in diapers.»
«My God, you are him!»
«‘He’ is better grammar, Owen. I only know that because my secretary tells me.»
«I’m sorry, sir!»
«Don’t be, General. I’m the one who’s apologizing. I just got off the horn with our Secretary of Defense—»
«I understand, sir. I’m relieved of my command.»
«No, Owen, he is. Well, not actually, but he’s not making any more decisions where you’re concerned without checking with me. He told me what you said, and I couldn’t have put it better with my best speech writers. You have any more problems, you call me direct, got it?»
«Got it, Mr. President… Hey, you’re okay!»
«Let’s just say I kicked a little ass—but for God’s sake, don’t quote me.»
Sam Devereaux paid ten dollars for the doorman to shriek his whistle at all points of the compass so as to find him a taxi. For three minutes none were to be had, although two swiftly passed a frustrated Sam in the middle of the street, the drivers’ eyes focused on his trousers. He rejoined the doorman as a couple arrived at the Four Seasons’ curb, said couple somewhat flustered as Sam threw their luggage out of the trunk and ignored their objections, opting only to leap into the cab and scream the address of his own residence in Weston.
«What the hell are you stopping for?» yelled Devereaux after several blocks.
«Because if I don’t, I’ll hit the jerk in front of me,» replied the driver.
It was an early-morning traffic jam in Boston, as always, extended by the insane one-way streets that forced unfamiliar drivers to travel eleven miles to reach an address fifty feet away. «I know a shortcut to the Weston road,» said Sam, leaning far forward and embracing the rim of the front seat.
«So does everybody else in Massachusetts, buddy, and unless you got a gun, get the hell away from me.»
«No gun, no threat. I’m just a nice person in a terrible hurry.»
«I figured you took care of that ‘hurry’ by what I seen of your pants. If you got another ‘hurry,’ get outta here!»
«No—no, that’s coffee! I spilled a cup of coffee!»
«Who am I to argue? Would you mind sitting back in the seat—it’s in our insurance?»
«Sure,» said Sam, moving back but still on the edge of the rear seat. «Look, I’m just trying to impress upon you that this is an emergency, a real one! A lady whose name I don’t know is heading out to my house and I’ve got to get there before she does. She left a few minutes ago from the hotel in another cab.»
«Naturally,» said the driver with philosophical resignation. «She got your address from your wallet during the night and now she figures she can pick up a little extra mattress money by dropping in on the missus. When will you fishtails learn?… Hey, we got a break up ahead. I’ll swing down Church Street and up to the Weston road.»
«That’s the shortcut I was talking about.»
«With any luck, not too many of the summer crowds know about it.»
«Just get me home as fast as you can.»
«Listen, mister, the law says that without indications of harmful intent or abusive language or unsanitary appearance, I gotta take you where you tell me. Now, you are close to the line on all three counts—over it on one, in my opinion—so don’t push, okay? Nobody wants you home and out of this cab faster than me.»
«Of course it’s the law,» rejoined a slightly bewildered Devereaux. «You think I don’t know that? I’m an attorney.»
«Yeah, and me, I’m a ballet dancer.»
Finally, at last, the cab swung into Devereaux’s street. Checking the meter, Sam dropped the amount of the fare over the front seat along with a generous tip. He opened the door, leaped out on the pavement, and saw that there was no other taxi in sight.
He had done it and, boy, was that woman in for the surprise of her life! Just because a female using minimal language of the law was outrageously gorgeous, with a face and body created by a straight Botticelli, she had no right to give his address to a cabdriver and imply some vague legal threat without being properly introduced! No, sir, Samuel Lansing Devereaux, attorney of high regard, was made of sterner stuff… Maybe he should change his trousers. He started toward the path that led to his private entrance when the front door opened, revealing Cousin Cora beckoning him rather wildly, even for her.
«What is it?» he asked, instantly vaulting over the white picket fence and rushing up to the steps, with a slight inkling of impending doom.
«What is it?» repeated Cora in high dudgeon. «Maybe you’d better tell me what it is you’ve done, other than the obvious,» she added, glancing at his trousers.
«Oh, oh.» It was all Sam could think to say.
«I guess that’s a start—»
«What happened?» interrupted Devereaux.
«A little while ago, this long-legged sunburned dish who musta stepped out of one of them California beach commercials came to the door inquiring about a certain unmentionable person. Well, Sammy, I thought your mother was goin’ to have a stroke, but the leggy lady with a face you could kill for calmed her down and now they’re both inside the living room with the doors closed.»