“Back for good? Or just passing through?”
“Just passing through. I need a room.”
“Your old ‘room’ just happens to free, primarily because we don’t have much call for the Penthouse.”
Jesus, I don’t want to go up there. Dick and I lived there. It would be haunted.
“I think an ordinary room, Chet, thank you,” Pick said.
Gayfer turned to the key rack, took one, and then handed it to him.
“The Penthouse,” he said. “Take it.” When Pick reached for his wallet, he held his hands up, fingers spread. “My pleasure. I want you to comp me at the Andrew Foster.”
What the hell. The Penthouse at least doesn’t look like a hotel room- as in taking a girl to a hotel room.
“It’s done,” Pick said. “Thank you.”
“Where’s your luggage?”
“It will be coming.”
“Have a good time, Pick,” Gayfer said with a knowing smile. But then he asked, “How’s Dick Stecker? You ever see him?”
“Yeah, he’s in Hawaii.”
“Give him my regards if you see him,” Gayfer said.
“I will,” Pick said, and walked across the lobby to the bar.
Martha was sitting at the bar. She already had a drink, as well as the fascinated attention of a number of young men in Navy and Marine uniforms who were sitting to either side of her.
He walked up to her.
“I ordered you a scotch,” she said.
The bright smiles faded from the faces of quite a few young officers.
“Did you get a room?” she asked. “Let me have the key.”
The faces now registered gross surprise.
He handed Martha the key. She looked at it.
“There’s no number on it.”
“It’s the Penthouse,” he said.
“Maybe it would be a good idea if you bring something to drink with you when you come up,” she said.
Does she not know these clowns can hear her? Or doesn’t she give a damn?
She walked out of the bar and through the door to the lobby, carrying her drink with her.
“Give me a bottle of this,” Pick said to the bartender, “and let me pay for the drinks the lady ordered.”
“I can’t do that, Sir,” the bartender said. “Sorry.”
“Call Mr. Gayfer,” Pick said. “And tell him the bottle’s going to the Penthouse.” When he saw hesitation on the bartender’s face, he said, more sharply than he intended, “Do it!”
The bartender went to the telephone and returned a moment later, his hands refusing the money Pick held out to him.
“Mr. Gayfer said he’d put it on your bill, Sir,” he said. Then he took a fresh bottle of Johnnie Walker from under the bar and handed it to Pick.
“Thank you,” Pick said, then smiled at the officers at the bar. “Good hunting, gentlemen,” he said, and walked out to the lobby.
The door to the Penthouse was open. Martha was by the windows overlooking the street, half sitting on the sill.
“I think you find my etchings interesting, as the bishop said to the nun.”
She smiled.
He glanced around the sitting room and into the kitchenette. Both bedroom doors were closed. It was a hotel suite now, nothing more. There was no hint that a pair of Marine second lieutenants had once lived here while learning to fly.
“Brings back memories?” Martha asked.
“Yeah. Some. We had a lot of fun here.”
“I was only here once. You’re talking about you and Dick?”
He nodded.
“How is he?”
He met her eyes. “He got his gear shot out; made it back to Henderson, dumped it, rolled his airplane into a ball, and is now in the Navy Hospital at Pearl, wrapped up like a mummy.”
“I’m sorry,” Martha said. “I liked Dick.”
“Everybody likes Dick.”
“You didn’t get hurt?”
He shook his head no.
“Jim told me you were a natural pilot,” she said.
Jim? Oh. Carstairs. Captain James Carstairs.
“And you’re an ace,” she went on. “I saw the way they looked at you.”
“You saw how who looked at me?” he asked. And then, before she could reply, he held up the bottle and asked, “You want some of this?”
“In a minute; I still have some.” She said, raising her glass; it was a quarter full. Then she went on: “The kids, the students at Corey Field this morning.”