The Captains (47 page)

“We are fully equipped here to render general hospital treatment. We provide such treatment.”

“But you just told me they could save his leg at San Diego,” General Black said.

“I said they might be able to, sir,” the captain said. “If he were there. But he's not there. He's here and it's against policy to transfer patients between facilities of equal capability.”

“I have never, in twenty-nine years of military service,” General Black said, “heard such unmitigated bullshit.” His aide winced. MacMillan smiled. Both had been treated before to an E. Z. Black rage.

“General, there is no cause for…”

“Shut your mouth, Captain,” E. Z. Black said. “If I want any more bullshit out of you, I'll squeeze your head like a pimple.” He turned to the aide-de-camp.

“Give your pistol to MacMillan,” he said. The aide did as he was ordered.

“If any of these butchers get within fifteen feet of Felter, Mac, shoot them,” Black ordered. He turned to the aide. “You get back in this jackass's Pirates of Penzance rowboat,” he said, “and go ashore, and get on the telephone to United Nations Command, and you tell them I have two officers aboard this floating abattoir that I want transferred immediately by air to the U.S. Army General Hospital in Hawaii. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then you come back out here, and you make personally sure, at pistol point if necessary, that they put Felter and MacMillan on the plane.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I intend to make a formal report of this encounter, General Black,” the captain without a sword said.

“So do I,” Black said. “And when I'm through with you, you pasty-faced sonofabitch, you won't be allowed to put a Band-Aid on a soldier's pimple. You'll be back in the VD ward of Charity Hospital in Havana, treating syphilitic whores. Where, goddamnit, you obviously belong.”

He turned to MacMillan.

“I presume you know where I can find Felter, Mac?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take me there.”

“I'll be happy to escort the general,” the hospital ship commander said. He had regained control of his temper after remembering that that morning's
Stars & Stripes
had reported that the President had recommended Black for his fourth star.

“You keep out of my sight!” General Black snarled. “Lead the way, Mac.”

“Right this way, General,” Major MacMillan said.

(One)
Los Angeles, California
2 January 1952

The bellman at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel set the two Valv-Paks immediately inside the revolving door, where they would be out of the way and convenient to carry back outside. It was the bellman's professional judgment that the man in the somewhat rumpled clothing would not be staying. He admitted to not having a reservation.

On the other hand, the desk would try to fit him in. Whenever possible, the hotel tried to do what it could for servicemen. The bellman knew the tall, rather good-looking man was a serviceman, because the Valv-Paks were stenciled in black with his name and rank.

He could see where “CAPT” had been obliterated with black paint, and “MAJ” added. MAJ XXXX C W Lowell 0-495302.

“May I have the pleasure of serving you, sir?” the desk clerk asked. He thought that the young man before him was rather interesting. His clothing, a tweed jacket and gray flannel trousers, was mussed, as if he had slept in it, or it had been stored or something, but it wasn't cheap clothing. And the man himself looked a bit
worn
, as if he had been drinking, or gone without sleep. But he was beautiful.

“Can you put me up?”

“You don't have a reservation?” It was more a statement of fact than a question.

“No,” he said. “I'd like a suite. For a day at least. Possibly longer.”

“I'm afraid there's very little available, without a reservation, Mr….”

“Lowell,” he said. “C. W. Lowell. Major C. W. Lowell.”

“Yes, of course.
Major
. Forgive me.” He didn't look old enough to be a major. But he probably looked marvelous in a uniform. “Let me see what I can do for you,” the desk clerk said, with a warm smile. He checked his file. “I do have a cancellation. A nice room on the fourth floor, front.”

“If that's the best you can do,” Lowell said. Good God, did they have a union rule? That you had to be a faggot, have a phony English accent, and smell like a flower shop to get a job as a desk clerk?

“Front!” the desk clerk called, and told the bellman to take Major Lowell to 407. Then he checked the registration card to see where Major Lowell was from. It told him hardly anything at all.

“C. W. Lowell, Maj USAR, c/o The Adj Gen, The Pentagon, Wash DC,” it said, and his purpose for being in Los Angeles was “personal.”

The bellman was pleasantly surprised with the newest guest of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. He had expected two dollars, a dollar a bag. He got instead, a twenty dollar bill, from a thick wad of twenties (the bellman had been in the service and guessed, correctly, that Major Lowell had just been paid; the army paid in twenty dollar bills).

“I've got a lot to do,” Major Lowell said to him. “And not much time to do it in. First order of business is to get me a bottle of scotch, either Johnny Walker Black, or Ambassador, something like that, and some soda. Will twenty take care of you and that?”

“That'll take care of it fine, sir,” the bellman said, snatching the twenty.

“I've got to commune with nature,” Lowell said, pointing to the bathroom. “If I'm still in there when you bring the scotch, stick around. I've got more for you to do.”

When he came out of the bathroom, the bellman had not yet returned. He emptied his trouser and jacket pockets, and then took off his clothing, down to his underwear, sat on the bed, and reached for the telephone. The bellman came in.

“Open that up and make me a light one,” Lowell said. To the telephone he said, “Please get me Mr. Porter Craig at Craig, Powell, Kenyon and Dawes at 22 Wall Street in New York City. I'll hold.”

The bellman opened the bottle of Ambassador 12-Year-Old and made the maior a drink and handed it to him. The major reached for the stack of twenty dollar bills tossed casually on the bed and came up with two more.

“Take that jacket and pants and have them pressed,” he ordered. “It's worth ten bucks to me to have that done immediately. How you split that with the valet is up to you. The rest of it is to get me a box of good cigars, Upmann Amatistas, if the tobacconist has them. If not, any good, large Cuban cigar. If they have them, get Ring Size 47. If not, the larger the better.”

“Upmann Amatistas,” the bellman said. “The larger the better. Yes, sir.”

Lowell turned his attention to the telephone. The number was ringing.

“Craig, Powell, Kenyon and Dawes, good afternoon.”

“Long distance is calling Mr. Porter Craig.”

“I'll connect you with his office.”

“Mr. Craig's office, good afternoon.”

“Long distance is calling Mr. Porter Craig.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Craig isn't in at the moment.”

“Find out where he is,” Craig Lowell said.

“May I ask who is calling?”

“Craig Lowell.”

“Sir, if you wish to speak to the party on the line, I'm required to charge you for the call.”

“OK. OK. Where is Mr. Craig?”

“I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Craig is in conference and cannot be disturbed.”

“Tell him I'm on the phone,” Craig Lowell said.

“I'm sorry, I can't disturb him, sir. He left specific word.”

“Goddamn it, woman, you tell him I'm on the line!”

“One moment, sir.”

“This is Mr. Lucas. I'm Mr. Porter Craig's administrative assistant. With whom am I speaking?”

“Craig Lowell. Get him on the line.”

“One moment, please, Mr. Lowell.”

There was a pause, and then a voice with the somewhat nasal, somewhat clipped intonations of a Wall Street investment banker out of St. Mark's School, Harvard College, and the Harvard School of Business Administration.

“Craig! How are you, boy?”

“Christ, you're harder to get on the phone than God.”

“The girl in the office is new, Craig. She didn't know who you were. You really didn't have to swear at her.”

“Porter, I've had enough bullshit in the last twelve hours to last me a lifetime. I don't need any more from you.”

“Where are you, Craig?”

“Los Angeles. In a six-by-six-foot cubicle in the Beverly Wilshire.”

“You're home then. Welcome home, boy!”

“I need some influence out here, Porter. Who do we have out here?”

“What kind of influence?”

“I need a movie star's unlisted telephone number for one thing,” Craig said.

“That can be arranged, I'm sure. Any movie star in particular? Have you been partaking of the cheering cup, Cousin?”

“Not yet. I asked you who we have out here.”

“I never know with you. Are you serious about the movie star's telephone number?”

“Dead serious.”

“Then Ted Osgood is your man. He's keeping an eye on our participation in
The Fall of Carthage
at Magnum.”

“How large is our participation?”

“If you had been reading the tons of paper I've been sending to you, you would know.”

“I've had other things to do.”

“Two point five million; thirty-seven point five percent.”

“That's the guy I want.”

“Well, he's right there in the Beverly Wilshire with you. Call him and tell him who you are, and I'm sure he'll get any telephone number for you that you might want.”

“He probably wouldn't answer his phone, either,” Lowell said. “You call him, and you tell him who I am. Tell him to speak to the management and get me out of this closet, and then tell him to arrange a car for me, and then to meet me. I'll either be in my room, the bar, or the barbershop.”

“I'll call him as soon as you get off the line. Anything else? When are you coming East?”

“When you opened our safety deposit box, did you find my passport?”

“Yes. I remember seeing it.”

“Well, get it out, and check it to see if it's still valid. If it's not, get it brought up to date.”

“Craig, I think you have to do that yourself.”

“Porter, arrange it. Call that goddamned senator of yours.”

“It'll take a couple of days, I'm sure,” Porter Craig said. “I gather you're going to Germany?”

“Of course, I am.”

“Then what, may I ask, are you doing in Los Angeles?”

“You may not ask,” Lowell said. “Porter, I really would like to see this Mr. Osgood within the hour.”

“I'll do my best,” Porter Craig said. “You'll stay with us, of course, when you're in New York.”

“I'll let you know when I get my feet on the ground.”

“Do you need any money?” Porter Craig asked.

“I probably will,” Lowell said. “I'm presuming your man Osgood can get a check cashed for me.”

“Of course.”

“So long, Porter.”

(Two)

Mr. J. Theodore Osgood, Senior Vice President, Entertainment & Recreation Division, Craig, Powell, Kenyon and Dawes, Inc., drove up to the Bevery Wilshire Hotel in a limousine arranged for him by his financial courterpart at Magnum Studios immediately after Mr. Porter Craig's telephone call. Mr. Osgood was not anxious that it get back to Mr. Craig that the car he had rented for his business use while in California was a red Chrysler LeBaron convertible.

He spoke first with Mr. Hernando Courtwright, the hotelier, and told him that it was very important that one of his guests, a Major Craig Lowell, be immediately provided with at least a suite, and preferably one of the better ones. He confided to Mr. Courtwright that Major Lowell, like Porter Craig, was a grandson of the founder of Craig, Powell, Kenyon and Dawes, whose estate had been equally divided between them.

Mr. Courtwright went with Mr. Osgood to the barber shop, where they waited patiently for Major Lowell to emerge from under a hot towel, and then introduced themselves. Mr. Courtwright apologized for the mix-up at the desk—they sometimes made monumental errors of judgment—and informed Major Lowell that his luggage had already been transferred to Penthouse Three.

Mr. Osgood said that an automobile was on its way to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, and that since Mr. Craig had relayed no preference, he had taken the liberty of ordering a Jaguar coupe.

That earned Mr. Osgood a very pained look, confirming Mr. Craig's announcement that, frankly, Craig Lowell was sometimes a very difficult sonofabitch, and had to be handled with the finest of kid gloves. He was sure for a moment that the Jaguar was going to be unsatisfactory. But, finally, Lowell had nodded his head and said, “Thank you.”

“I understand you may be running a little short of cash,” Osgood said next. “Now, while I'm sure the hotel will take your check…”

“Our privilege,” Mr. Courtwright said.

“No numbers were mentioned, so if you like,” Mr. Osgood went on, “I'll call our correspondent bank…actually, as you know, it's more of a subsidiary…and tell them you may be stopping by.”

“I'll just need some walking around money, thank you.”

“And then, I understand, there was the matter of an unlisted telephone number.”

“Georgia Paige,” Lowell said. He felt like a goddamned fool about that. He'd simply presumed her number would be in the book, and when he'd gotten off the airplane from Tokyo, he'd tried to call her, to tell her he was home. There was a number, but it was unlisted, and the operator would not give it. So he'd sent a telegram to the house in Beverly Hills, telling her he was home, and asking her to telephone him, any hour of the day or night, at the transient field-grade officer's BOQ at Fort Lewis. He included the number. There had been no call.

So he decided the next thing he would do would be to arrive in LA unannounced and simply take a cab to her house. She had already written, in some detail, what kind of a welcome home present he could expect when they were together again. He flew from Seattle to LA wallowing in that scenario. What she would we wearing. How quickly he would take it off of her, and where. And what they would do when he had her clothes off.

When he got to the house in Beverly Hills, there was no one there but a Mexican couple, about equal in size at 300 pounds, neither of whom spoke English. They were absolutely unable to comprehend his gestures that Georgia was his beloved and he wanted to speak to her on the telephone. He had already paid the cab off, so he had to walk away, carrying both goddamned bags. After about a mile, some cops came along, and after more or less politely insisting that he prove he was indeed a field-grade officer of the U.S. Army and not a burglar with two Valv-Paks full of somebody else's silver and jewelry, they found a cab for him.

“All you would have had to do is ask,” Mr. Courtwright said, picking up the telephone and asking to be connected with his secretary.