"Relax, Colonel," Pickering said. "I won't tell El Supremo. Scotch all right?"
"Yes, sir," the colonel said. "Scotch would be fine."
Pick went behind the bar.
"Dad," he said, amused, "there's a note here. It says, `When the services of a bartender are required, please press the button.' Do I press the button?"
"No," Pickering said, flatly. "Is there any Famous Grouse?"
"Your reputation and tastes precede you, General, sir," Pick said, and held up a bottle of Famous Grouse Scots whiskey.
"That all right with you, Colonel?"
"That would be fine, sir. Thank you," the colonel said, and then remembered his mission. He took a squarish en-velope from his pocket and handed it to Pickering. "The compliments of the Supreme Commander, General."
Pickering took the envelope and opened it.
The Supreme Commander and Mrs. Douglas MacArthur
request the honor of the presence of
Brig. Gen. Fleming Pickering, USMCR
At
Lunch/Cocktails/Dinner
Whatever is my old Comrade-in-Arms' pleasure
At the Supreme Commander's Residence
At
Whenever you can find the time.
Jean and I welcome you to Japan, my dear Fleming!!!!!
Just tell the colonel what is your pleasure.
Douglas
Dress
Pickering handed the invitation to his son, who took it, shrugged, and pursed his lips in amusement.
"Like I said, your reputation precedes you, General, sir."
"Colonel," Pickering said. "Would you be good enough to present my compliments to General MacArthur, and tell him that as soon as I know my schedule, I'll be in touch?"
"Yes, sir," the colonel said. "General, I think that the Supreme Commander had cocktails and dinner tonight in mind, sir."
"How do you know that?" Pickering asked, as if the question amused him.
"Colonel Huff mentioned it, sir."
"Good ol' Sid," Pickering replied, his tone suggesting that he didn't think of Huff that way at all. There was im-mediate confirmation of this: "He's still El Supremo's head dog robber, I gather?"
Colonel Stanley's face-just for a moment-showed that the question both surprised him and was one he would rather not answer directly. He took a notebook from his tu-nic pocket, wrote a number on it, and handed it to Picker-ing.
"That's Colonel Huff's private number, sir. Perhaps you could call him?"
"I didn't mean to put you on a spot, Colonel," Pickering said. "I go a long way back with Colonel Huff."
"I understand, sir," Stanley said.
He took a token sip from his drink and set it down.
"With your permission, General?" he asked.
"You don't need my permission to do anything, Colonel. It's been a long time since I was a general. And I under-stand you must have a busy schedule."
Stanley offered his hand to Pick.
"A pleasure to meet you, sir," he said. "And congratula-tions on the speed record."
"The thing to keep in mind, Colonel," Pick said, smiling, "is that my dad's bite is worse than his bark."
Stanley smiled, offered Pickering his hand, and left the suite.
Father and son exchanged glances. "Something amuses you, Captain?" Pickering asked. "Something awes me," Pick said. "I just realized I'm in the presence of the only man in Japan who would dare to tell Douglas MacArthur's aide that he'll see if he can fit the general into his schedule."
"I like Douglas MacArthur," Pickering said. "And Jean. And I'll see them while I'm here, but I came here to see Ernie and Ken. Now, how do we do that?"
"Something wrong with the limo? Mom set that up, too. I'm reliably informed it's one of the two 1941 Cadillac limousines in Japan. And at this moment it's parked out-side waiting to take you to Ken's house." "You're not going with me?"
"Charley Ansley wants me to come to the Hotel Hokkaido-that's where the conference is-to make sure all the Ts are crossed and the Is dotted on the certification. Be-fore we rub our new speed record in Trans-Pacific's face. He said something about a press conference. I'll come out to Ken's place as soon as that's over." He paused. "Unless you want to go to the Hokkaido with me?"
Pickering considered that a moment. "I'm not going to show up at the Killer's door in a chauffeur-driven limousine. If you've got his address, I'll take a cab."
"Great. I'll take the limo to the Hokkaido. I laid on a Ford sedan for me. You can use that."
Pickering considered that a moment, then nodded. He had a fresh thought.
"I didn't think about bringing anything for them."
"There's a case of Famous Grouse in the trunk of the limo. You want me to have it moved to the Ford, or should I bring it when I come?"
"Put it in the Ford."
"You're going out there right now?"
"Just as soon as I shower and change my clothes."
"Pop, remember not to call him `Killer.'"
"He doesn't mind. I'm one of the privileged few."
"Ernie minds."
"I stand corrected. And you remember to try to look humble at the press conference."
"You know what Frank Lloyd Wright said about that: `It's hard to be humble when you're great.'"
"He is great. What you are is an aerial bus driver who caught a tailwind."
Pick smiled at his father.
"Wright designed this place, didn't he?" he asked, ges-turing around the suite.
"Yes, he did."
[FOUR]
NO. 7 SAKU-TUN
DENENCHOFU, TOKYO, JAPAN
1705 1 JUNE 1950
When the 1946 Ford Fordor pulled to the curb of a narrow, cobblestoned street before a stone wall bearing a wooden sign-"Captain K. R. McCoy USMC"-the driver practi-cally leapt from behind the wheel, dashed around the front of the car, pulled Pickering's door open, and, smiling broadly, bowed to his passenger.
Pickering smiled at him, then went to the trunk to get the case of Famous Grouse. The driver wrestled it away from him after a thirty-second tug-of-war, and Pickering went to the steel door in the fence, where he finally found a wire loop that might be a doorbell.
When he pulled on it, there was a muted jangling. Sixty seconds later, a middle-aged Japanese woman in a black kimono opened the steel door and, first bowing, looked at him curiously.
"I'd like to see either Captain or Mrs. McCoy," Picker-ing said.
It was obvious that she didn't know a word of English.
"Captain McCoy," Pickering repeated very slowly.
Then there was the sound of a female voice. It was a young voice, and speaking Japanese, probably asking a question.
Pickering took a chance. He raised his voice.
"Ernie?"
There was no reply.
"Ernie! It's Hem Pickering!"
Now the female voice spoke English.
"Oh, my God!"
A moment later a strikingly beautiful young woman, her black hair cut in a pageboy, ran through the door and threw herself into his arms.
"Uncle Flem!" she cried.
Her voice sounded broken.
Jesus, I hope that's happiness!
A moment later, over Ernie's shoulder, Pickering saw her husband. He was a well-built-but lithe, rather than muscular-even-featured, fair-skinned crew-cutted man in Marine Corps khaki shirt and trousers.