The Edge of Honor (28 page)

“I hear you, Chief,” he said finally. “I can’t quarrel with the right and wrong of it, and I like the thought of the dopers getting their asses kicked. I just guess I’m not used to gun-deck justice taking the place of the regulation Navy way of doing things. Maybe it’s the difference between PACFLEET and LANTFLEET.”

“I’ll bet you had jist’s much drugs in the LANT FLEET’s we got out here in WESTPAC, boss. Way I see it, regulation Navy, that’s the way to go.

Long as it works. Us bosun mates, we do our unreps, we handle ammunition, drive the boats, clean the heads ‘n compartments, chip paint, and tie the fuckin’ knots regulation Navy, every day. But this here drug shit, the regulation Navy way ain’t doin’ us no good. This drug shit, it’s underground shit. Takes underground medicine to git aholt of it. Tell you what, you don’t want to know about it, that’s okay. You don’t gotta know about it.”

Brian laughed. “No way, Chief, I want to be a player in this ship. I’m not going to sit on the sidelines, pretend there isn’t a problem. I just have this feeling that this isn’t the right way to go, no matter how logical it sounds and how satisfying it is to see guys like Gallagher with a big hand. The Hood way leaves us all exposed to what the druggies do. We ought to be beating the bushes, uncovering the distributors, finding the kingpin, and breaking up the druggie organization. I guess I’m going to have to think about it some more.”

“Yes, sir, I hear that. Officers’re supposed to think.

But like I said, you can always let the chiefs take care a this shit.

That’s kinda our job, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Martinez stood up to his full height, put his hands together, and cracked his knuckles. The movement made his huge shoulders and biceps swell and the buttons on his shirt strain. The nearest clump of deckhands looked nervous and chipped harder. Martinez grinned down at Brian. “They didn’t make me a bosun chief ‘cause I pass the tests real good, you know what I mean?”

Brian grinned back. “They made you chief because they were afraid not to, in all probability.”

“Yes, sir, boss, so well, that’s gotta be part of my job, right?

Officers won’t go wrong, you let the chiefs handle the potheads. Tell you what, you wanta go diggin’, and you go findin’ out who’s the kingpin, who’s the guy bringin’ all this shit aboard, who’s makin’ the money, there’s some chiefs’d like to know what you find out, okay? Talk to Jackson, I think he’s thinkin’ the same way’s you are. But then, you better get the fucker off a here real quick like.”

“Why’s that?”

” ‘Cause I find him first, I’ll jist naturally hafta kill his ass. Now, I don’t mind doin’ that, but you betcher ass there’d be a buncha paperwork, they go findin’ some guy in the main engine reduction gears fuckin’ up the monkey mates’ lube oil.”

“Got the picture, Chief.”

San Diego Maddy slipped a TV dinner into the oven and headed for the bathroom, where she stripped off her tennis outfit and took a quick shower. She ached all over, the result of a challenge set with this innocent-looking little old lady who had run her all over the court for an hour and a half. Maddy was an avid tennis player. She tried for a daily match at the public courts in the park across the street. Today, she had encountered a genuine ringer. She wasn’t strong enough to beat a male player of better than-average expertise, but she could usually hold her own and often defeat other women players. Not this afternoon, though. Damn woman had simply stood there waving that dinky racket like a flyswatter and putting every shot right on the line or in a corner.

Six-love, straight games. Yuk. Back to the backboard.

The tennis game had come on top of her first day in the Accounting Department at Bank of America. As a management intern, she was being cycled through all the departments at the San Diego headquarters, and there was, of course, no avoiding Accounting in a bank. But the Accounting manager was sixty-one and fancied himself a ladies’ man. He had bad teeth, bad breath, a cheap hairpiece, a potbelly, and an incredibly good opinion of himself. She had spent a good part of the afternoon fending off not-so-subtle passes. She foresaw that she was going to have to pitch a little fit sometime in the next few days to put a stop to it. Stupid damn man.

But the job was too good a deal to just stomp out. They paid eight hundred dollars a month, which was precisely ten dollars a month more than Brian made in his Navy base pay. By wardroom standards, the Holcombs were very nearly rich.

As she rubbed the bar of soap on her skin, she thought of Brian. They often took showers together, and the soaping ritual had often led to better things, much better things. She remembered the first time they had tried to make love in the shower. It had ended in a major deflation of romantic egos, rescued only when they caught sight of one another in the bathroom mirror and laughed themselves to tears. She suddenly realized that life was just no fun without him. Oh, there was plenty of human interaction, the people at work, the wardroom wives, men she occasionally flirted with at the office, but the intimacy of that secret sense of being ridiculous together that they shared, that’s what was missing.

She sighed and got out of the shower, dried off, slipped into her bathrobe, and went into the kitchen to retrieve the atomic dinner. She took it into the living room on a tray. The living room was already dark, even though it was only six o’clock. The rose quartz streetlights bathed the park across the street. Winter cometh, but not like in Boston, she thought, as she drew the curtains. She turned on some lights and the television and went to fetch a glass of wine. She was watching the evening news and absently eating mystery meat in salt gravy when the phone rang.

“Yes? Hello?”

“Maddyholcomb?”

Oh my God, she thought, it’s him. It had been three weeks since her memorable trip to MCRD, and yet she recognized the voice instantly.

“Maddyholcomb?”

“Uh, yes?”

“This is Autrey. From MCRD of the evil memory. Do you remember me?”

She swallowed. “Uh, well, yes, of course, Mr. Autrey.

How could I not remember you, I mean, you—”

“Autrey, just Autrey. Yes, well. I was calling—I was calling to see if you might have dinner with me. There, said it.”

Oh Lord, I was afraid of this. Now what? You tell him you’re married and that dinner is out of the question, that’s what.

“I’m afraid I’ve already had dinner, Mr. Autrey.”

“Please, just Autrey. Mr. makes me edgy and other people look around for the cowboy.”

Maddy laughed nervously.

“And I didn’t mean tonight, of course. I meant … well, how about Friday? At the Grant Grill. It’s a really fancy restaurant, and they’re famous for prime rib. I’ll even wear a coat and tie. And shoes, if you insist.”

Maddy laughed>gain. “Mr. Autrey,” she began.

“Autrey, just Autrey.”

“Okay, Just Autrey. I really think I should just say thank you again for all you’ve done. I shouldn’t have been down there at MCRJD in the first place, and I don’t ever plan to go back. And I think—”

“But you owe me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, I guess you don’t really. But I was thinking, I did save you from great harm, and I would really like it if you would just have dinner with me. I want to see you again when you’re not scared to death and polluting the azaleas.”

“Autrey—”

“Yeah, I know. I’m pressing an unfair advantage. But that’s how bad I want to see you.”

“Well, yes, you are pressing an unfair advantage. I mean, how—”

“That’s because we’re sneaky.”

“What?”

“We Indians. We’re known for being a sneaky bunch.

Maybe if I just said please. Please? Just dinner? The lighting’s subdued, so you won’t be embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed? By what?”

“When someone yells, ‘Hey, handsome,’ I don’t usually turn around, you know?”

“Well, my goodness, Mr.—I mean, Autrey—you’re hardly ugly.”

“I know. That was a play for sympathy and a compliment.

I told you, we’re sneaky. I’m trying everything.”

“Yes, you certainly are.” She was weakening. The man was amusing. And she did sort of owe him, certainly more than a hasty thank-you over her shoulder as she bolted from his car. The only way she could kill the whole deal immediately was to admit to him that she was married. And even though he might already know that, as long as she did not admit it, her being at MCRD wasn’t quite so embarrassing, so maybe … Wow, you’re really working at this, girl.

“Autrey, okay. Dinner. Friday. Where is this Grant Grill?”

“I can pick you up …” She sighed quietly and waited.

“Right. You want to be in your own car. See, we’re sneaky, but we’re also a little dense sometimes. The Grant Grill—it’s in the U. S. Grant Hotel, downtown, on Third and Broadway. Main door’s on Broadway. Go in the main entrance, walk down the lobby, turn right.

How’s about seven?”

“Make it seven-thirty. I play tennis every day after work.”

“Right.

Damn. I’m so glad you said yes. I’ve been thinking about you for three weeks now. And it took that long to get up the courage to call you, Maddy Holcomb.”

Maddy smiled into the handset. “Enough. I’ll see you Friday, Autrey.”

“Yeah, great. That’s really great. Well, good night.”

“Goodnight.”

She hung up the phone and sat down on the couch.

Her heart was actually pounding just a little. What the hell was she doing? Going out on a date! It’s not a date.

Really, it’s not. The man had saved her from a rapist and now was asking, asking nicely, for the favor of her having dinner with him.

That’s all. Not to go back to his apartment, see the etchings, or to go to a party, or anything else. And would you listen to him: He was as scared and nervous as a farm boy, for crying out loud.

Three weeks to get up his courage to call her. The phone rang again. She grabbed at it.

“Yes?”

“Maddy, Tizzy here.”

“Oh, Tizzy.”

“Yeah, oh, Tizzy. Sorry to disappoint. Just calling to see if you wanted to double up on Friday?”

Maddy drew a mental blank. Friday?

“You know, the wives’ outing thing to the Del Mar racetrack? It’s almost an hour’s drive up there, and there’s no point in both of us driving, and I can’t stand the thought of going with Suzanne Kirschning, which right now is my other possibility.”

Maddy swallowed hard. “Uh, Tizzy, I think I’m going to take a pass on racetrack night. That’s not really my scene, and I’ve got something else to do that night.”

“Oh yeah? Who is he? What’s he look like?”

“Tizzy, for cryin” out loud. It’s nothing like that.”

“But you’re not going to tell me, are you, sweetie pie?”

Maddy felt an edge of irritation. “I didn’t think I was required to, Tizzy.”

“O-ooo-oh! A hit, a palpable hit! Now I know it’s a guy. Look, honey, this is Aunt Tizzy you’re talking to, okay? You know that Tizzy doesn’t give two hoots if you’re stepping out. Matter of fact, I think it’s the only way to present a sane wife when the Hood gang gets back. And you know I don’t give a damn what the rest of the wives think, either, mostly ‘cause the Hudsons are getting out. You’ve got a little different situation there, so you need to learn some things. Like about the cover story business. Now, what’s the cover?”

“Tizzy, I don’t need a cover story. I’ve got something else to do Friday night, and I do believe that’s all I have to tell those women.” Tizzy sighed audibly. ” ‘Ah do b’leeve.’ Listen to you, Maddy. No, listen to me. You are absolutely right. You don’t have to check in and check out with the rest of the wives. But life when the ship is deployed is so much simpler if you tell them something—anything. Hell, you work in a bank. Your office has a do of some kind that you have to go to. You tell the wives that it’s something you have to do. A command performance—Navy wives can relate to that, okay? But, Maddy, be cool.

Call Mrs. Huntington, tell her you won’t be coming along, and give her the story—that story or some other story. That way, when the kitties begin to scratch around in the litter, the captain’s wife can stop it with some authority. It’s as easy as that, honey.”

Maddy was nodding into the phone. “Yes, Momma Tizzy. That does make sense. I just didn’t feel that I had to report to someone, you know? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with the wardroom wives and all, but I—”

“Hey, kiddo, you don’t have to tell me. God knows what they think of me, but I simply don’t give a damn, my dear, as Mr. Rhett supposedly said.”

“Tizzy? That’s not even close to a southern accent.

Really, now!”

“I know, I know. But the sentiment is accurate. Gotta run, find another ride. Probably Suzanne, after all. Aarrgh.

Say hi to Mr. Autrey. Bye now.”

Mr. Autrey! Tizzy hung up before Maddy could think of something to say.

Damn that woman for seeing right through her. Am I that transparent? She made a mental note to call Mrs. Huntington, turned the TV back up, and finished her dinner. The national news followed the familiar nightly sequence, scenes of young men dying in the mud of Vietnam, followed by scenes of old men talking around a table of white linen and crystal decanters in Paris, followed by scenes of rabid-looking college students protesting in some city or another, all orchestrated by a smug-looking anchorman huffing and puffing about how the protests proved how awful the American government and its military were.

Autrey. She was going to go out to dinner with Autrey.

Okay, but just once. She was married and she was not going to travel down the heedless trail being blazed by the likes of Tizzy Hudson. In her mind, the Hudsons’ so called open lifestyle was nothing more than evidence of a very superficial commitment, two selfish people who wanted to be married when it was convenient and single when they got hot pants.

Maddy knew that she loved her husband. Love wasn’t the problem, damn it; it was all this damned separation. She loved her husband and he wasn’t here, and wouldn’t be here for another half a year. So what was Autrey?

A diversion. Something to do on a Friday night besides listen to the same old

“My car, it,”