"So this is Spain," said Fogarty, staring into the darkness.
"They call this the Coast of Light," Sorensen said. "Light fingers, mostly."
"So where do we go from here, Sorensen?"
"Same old drill. Get drunk, get laid, get stoned, in that order."
"That's it?"
"So what are we, tourists? C'mon."
They strolled through the Avenida de Sevilla, passing bars, cafes and bodegas. A hundred yards from the gate they stopped in front of El Farolito, "the little lighthouse," and pushed through the door.
A blast of loud rock and roll greeted them inside. They stood for a moment on a small landing, looking down into the partially subterranean bar, while their eyes grew accustomed to the cherry glow of an old diesel sub "geared for red." A white hat flew through the air and landed on a table full of beer bottles. In the rear a pair of castanets danced above a ring of clapping sailors.
Machinist's Mate Barnes reclined on the steps that led down to the saloon, playing a drunken air-guitar in accompaniment to Jimi Hendrix. They stepped over him and picked their way through the crowd to the bar.
The bartender was a blotchy man of fifty.
"Das cervezas," said Sorensen.
"You can talk American here, Mac. A Bud okay?"
"Two cold ones."
Two bottles appeared on the bar. "You fellas off the Barracuda?"
They nodded.
"Hear you're in for repairs."
More nods.
"Hear you sank a Russian boat."
Sorensen did his best to look surprised. "That so? Where'd you hear that?"
The barkeep looked around the room as if he were searching the horizon for a ship. "The word gets around. Guys from your boat been comin' in here for a week. Seems like everybody knows what you don't."
"Well," said Sorensen, "that's news to me."
"Sure, the silent service. I served in subs for thirty years, Mac. I know the score."
"So let me buy you a beer, Chief. To your happy retirement in sunny Spain."
"I never made chief. If you want to get along in here, call me Buzz."
"Okay, Buzz. Have a beer."
Buzz's face cracked a cheerless smile. "Never touch it." He moved on down the bar.
Sorensen looked at Fogarty and laughed. "You want to tell the world about the collision? Seems the world already knows. So much for navy security. If an old alky lifer knows, then everybody knows. The Russians, everybody. Drink up, Fogarty. To freedom, truth, justice and the right to know."
Sorensen threw back his head and poured down half a bottle of beer.
Fogarty looked around. It was a large L-shaped room with sawdust on the floor and a high ceiling obscured by smoke. Several of his shipmates were lying in the sawdust, some in puddles. Others were dancing to the thumping tempo of Crosstown Traffic. Here and there in booths and tables clusters of Spanish men and women aloofly watched the action. Gypsies meandered through the crowd selling switchblades and watches.
Halfway down the bar a crowd of sailors broke into a cheer. Sorensen and Fogarty edged through the crowd A spring-loaded rat trap rested on the bar. Buzz cocked it and set it in front of Willie Joe.
"Place your bets."
"Double or nothin'," someone shouted.
"Ten he makes it."
"Five he don't."
"Place your bets, let's fade the main. Ten down and five to go."
The game was simple. All Willie Joe had to do was reach in, trip the spring bar and get his fingers out of the way before they were mangled and broken.
With no hesitation Willie Joe stuck in his fingers, touched the metal bar and jerked his hand away.
Buzz cocked the trap and put down ten dollars. "All right, who's next?"
Willie Joe looked around and spotted Fogarty. "Hey, sailor, let's see if you have any guts."
"You think it takes guts to do this, Willie Joe? All it takes is stupidity—"
"You chicken?"
In a flash Fogarty had reached into the trap with his hand turned palm up and tripped the lock, caught the guillotine bar in mid-air and crushed the trap to bits in his fist. He brushed the pieces of pine and steel onto the floor.
"Willie Joe," Fogarty said, "when you can do that, I'll teach you a few moves."
Buzz wailed, "Hey, hey, you can't do that. Where am I gonna get another trap like that? That was my big money maker."
Fogarty smiled and pushed the ten-dollar bill across the bar. "I'm sure you'll think of something."
Sorensen laughed so hard he spilled his beer. "Besides," he said to Buzz, "you should be ashamed of yourself. My people can't do their jobs with busted fingers."
Fogarty went in search of the head. Sorensen popped another pill, ordered another beer and scrutinized the whores, most of whom were frumpy Englishwomen from Gibraltar. There were also a few Scandinavians, Germans and Gypsies.
"Hey there. Ace."
From across the room Lopez waved his hat. A gaudy overstuffed Gypsy perched on his lap, and two torpedo-men slumped over his table, passed out. Lopez lifted one off his chair and dropped him in the sawdust. Sorensen sat down.
"I wanna buy you a drink, hero," Lopez said.
"Why aren't you in the CPO club, boozing it up with all the other old men?"
"Because that's what they are is a bunch of old men. Hey, baby…" He grabbed at a passing barmaid and ordered, "Dos cervezas."
"You gonna get a new bug. Chief?"
Lopez crossed himself and mournfully shook his head. In rapid Spanish he told the whore the tale of the lost scorpion. She made a face and stuck out her tongue.
"Chief, what do you know about Russian torpedoes?"
"They kill you dead."
"If it's a wire-guided fish and the wire breaks, what happens?"
"I dunno. With ours, the fish dies. Motor stops and she sinks. Can't have a torpedo run wild, no no no."
"You think theirs are the same?'
"The Russians aren't stupid."
"I dunno, Chief. We're alive, they're—"
"Yeah, they're dead."
The beers arrived. "Here's to all the suckers," Sorensen toasted, "on both sides of the curtain." He wouldn't correct Lopez about the Russian sub, not until he was one hundred percent certain. Why spoil his leave?…
"Oh, que guapo guerito," said the whore, flirting with Sorensen.
"You like?" Lopez said "Take her. I give her to you as a present. You saved the fucking ship. You deserve it."
"Thanks, Chief. Maybe later."
Lopez spotted Fogarty walking back through the bar, and asked, "That the kid who did the number on Davic?"
"That's him."
"You never reported it."
"I didn't see it. There was nothing to report. Seems like you found out anyway."
"I'm chief of the boat, Sorensen."
"Did you tell Pisaro?"
"No."
"All right."
"But I will next time."
Lopez buried his face in the whore's neck and spoke into her ear. Daintily, she climbed off his lap and Lopez stood up. "Time for business," he said.
Arm in arm, Lopez and the whore headed for the door.
Sorensen waved Fogarty over to the table and ordered another beer.
"Nice party, hey, kid?"
Fogarty nodded. "It's all right."
Sorensen laughed. "Relax, Fogarty. Throw all that heavy shit out of your mind and have yourself a time. Grab one of these Brits and fuck her brains out."
"I never did a whore before."
"Bully for you. You're not queer, are you?"
"I wasn't the last time I checked."
"You're not going to ease up, are you?"
Fogarty shrugged and drank some beer.
"Fogarty, you're a good boy, aren't you? All your life you've been a good boy. I'd bet anything that you've never been in trouble. I mean, real trouble. With the police, knock up a girl, burn down the house, like that."