"Eight or ten-for that matter, two-Apaches coming in for a landing is a sight that will impress young officers. Some of these fledgling birdmen will even be bright enough to extrapolate from that that driving one such machine, and getting flight pay to do so, would seem to be a far smarter way to serve one's country than mucking about in the mud, etcetera, as they are doing. They then apply for flight training. This is called recruiting. Hence the term 'recruiting flights.'"
"I almost believe that."
"Miss Wilson, there is no limit to what terrible things certain people will do to further Army Aviation."
She looked at him for a moment before smiling again.
"Well, anyway," she said, "you don't have to worry about Randy bursting through your door. He called me from Fort Stewart about an hour ago."
"And suggested you come over here and say 'hi' if you were bored?"
"God, you just don't stop, do you?"
"Are we back to the apology, or have I said something that's changed your mind?"
"You're making it hard, but I haven't changed my mind."
"Are you familiar with Ed McMahon, the entertainer, Miss Wilson?"
"Can you call me 'Beth'?"
"Obviously, I can. The questions would seem to be Will I? and/or Why should I?"
"Because it would make things easier for me. And, yes, I know who McMahon is. Why?"
"Because, Beth-"
"Thank you."
"You're welcome, Beth. Mr. McMahon said that drink is God's payment for hard work. And as I've worked hard all day-"
"Doing what?"
"I spent three hours in an Apache and two-thirty in a Mohawk. Thank you for your interest. As I was saying, I worked hard all day, and in the shower I was planning to accept my just pay the moment I was dry. But then you started bonging at my door. So, what I am going to do now, while you rehearse your apology, is make myself a drink."
"All right."
He went to the wet bar, took out a silver set of martini-making necessities from the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, and very seriously set about constructing himself a martini in the manner practiced by and passed on to him by Brigadier General Bruce J. McNab.
This involved, among other things, rinsing out both the martini mixer and the martini glass with vermouth before adding a precisely measured hefty amount of Gilbey's gin to the ice in the mixer. He then stirred the mixture precisely one hundred times before pouring it into two large, long-stemmed martini glasses and adding two pickled onions on a toothpick to each.
He took one of the martinis, very carefully placed it in the freezer, and gently closed the freezer door. Then, carefully carrying the other martini, he walked to the couch and sat down as far away from Beth Wilson as the couch would permit.
He brought the glass to his lips, looked at her over the rim, and said, "You may begin the apology."
Then he took his first sip.
"Where's mine?" she said.
"You're kidding, right?"
"You are not going to offer me a drink? After that long Ed McMahon speech?"
"'What work did you do today?' is one question that pops to mind," Castillo said.
"I told you, I'm getting married on Sunday. I spent all day-with half a dozen giggling women-getting ready."
"I can see where that would be tiring," Castillo said. "The next question is a little delicate. Your father-"
"My father has a problem with alcohol," she said. "Something about his metabolism. My mother and I don't."
"And you want a martini?"
"If it wouldn't be too much trouble. I happened to notice you made two."
"There is a reason for that. You know what they say about martinis."
"I'll bet you're about to tell me."
"Martinis are like a woman's breasts," Castillo said, solemnly. "One is not enough, and three is too many."
"My God! That's disgusting! I can't believe you said that to me!"
She could not, however hard she tried, completely restrain the smile that came to her face.
"I made two because I planned to drink two," Castillo said. "The idea of making one for you never entered my mind."
"Well, now that it has, are you going to give me one?"
"I'm not sure that would be wise."
"Why not?"
"Well, if a couple of belts puts your father on a bicycle, there's no telling what one martini would do to you," Castillo said. And then his mouth went on autopilot: "You might, for example, tear off your clothes and throw yourself into my arms."
She looked at him incredulously for a moment, then got off the couch and walked to the refrigerator, commenting en route, "Don't hold your breath! My God! You're an absolute lunatic."
She took the second martini out of the freezer and carried it back to the couch. She extended it to him.
"Let's start over, okay?"
He shrugged. "Why not?"
They tapped glasses. Both took a sip.
"I came here, Castillo-"
"I call you Beth and you call me Castillo? Is that the way to commence an apology?"
"I came here, Charley…"
"Better," he said.
"…to apologize for my behavior at my house on Saturday…"
"And well you should. You nearly reduced poor Dick Miller to tears. He's very sensitive."
She shook her head, took another sip of the martini, and went doggedly on: "…and to ask a favor."
"Well, that certainly explains why you felt you needed a drink. Asking a favor-much less apologizing-to the likes of me has to be very difficult for someone like you."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You are a general's daughter. You are not the first general's daughter I…have encountered."
"Randy told me about her," Beth said.
"Well, I'm sure that was fascinating. Did he manage to suggest that my behavior was ungentlemanly?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"Well, my conscience is clear. From Day One I made it absolutely clear to Daphne that I had no intention of marching up the aisle of the cadet chapel with her the day after I graduated."
"Daphne? Randy said her name was Jennifer."
"Same story. Jennifer was before Daphne, but I made it perfectly clear to her, too, that if she was looking for a husband, she was looking in the wrong place."
"Oh, you're not only a sonofabitch, but you're proud of being a sonofabitch!"
"No. As I said before, I am a bastard, not a sonofabitch."
"I know why you and Randy don't get along."
"I don't think so, but what does it matter? I accept your apology. Now, what's the favor you want?"
"I can't believe you drank that already," she said.
"Here is the proof," he said, holding the martini glass upside down. "And now I am going to have to make myself another, having let chivalry get in the way of my common sense."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"I gave you my second martini," he said.
He got up and walked to the wet bar.
"You may ask me the favor," he said, as he went to the freezer for another frozen glass.
There were two glasses in the freezer. He looked at them a long moment, and then took both out.
That would seem to prove that I am indeed the sonofabitch that she thinks-and Dick knows-I am.
But not to worry. Virtue will triumph.
If I so much as lightly touch her shoulder, she will throw the martini in my face and then kick me with practiced skill in the scrotum.
He set about making a second duo of dry martini cocktails according to the famous recipe of Brigadier General Bruce J. McNab.
Beth came across the room to where he stood.
He looked at her and then away.
"You might as well go sit back down," he said, stirring the gin-and-ice mixture. "You have had your ration of martinis."
"My family likes, really likes, your family," Beth said. "That was all they talked about at breakfast."
"And my family likes your family. Since both families are extraordinarily nice people, why does that surprise you?"