“The last time I saw him was at the… what the hell were they making at that factory? Before lunch?”
“Before lunch was the place that used to make thermostats and is now making artillery fuzes.”
“Lieutenant Dunn was last seen entering a Buick owned by the wife of a well-known thermostat manufacturer,” Pick said, in a credible mimicry of Walter Winchell. Winchell was a radio news broadcaster who specialized in celebrity gossip. His trademarks were the sound of a telegraph key and an intense, staccato speaking voice. “The word going around is that they were going to test each other’s temperatures.”
“You sound jealous,” Veronica said, laughing.
“I am,” Pick said.
“Maybe you ought to smile back at Dawn Morris.”
“Lips that have touched Macklin’s shall never touch mine.”
Veronica was truly surprised. “You really think she’s… uh…”
“They could, I suppose, be holding Midnight Vespers in her room.”
“Do you think Bobby knew that?”
“Yeah, sure he did. We saw Macklin going into her room at one in the morning-in Sacramento, I think, on the second or third day of this odyssey-in his dressing gown, no less. Why did you ask that?”
“No reason, Pick. Just feminine curiosity. Oh, there’s Billy.”
“I hate that sexually satiated look on his face,” Pick said.
Dunn crossed the room to them, snatching a drink from a waiter’s tray on the way.
He took a sip from it, grimaced, and handed it to Pick.
“Scotch,” he said.
“God is punishing you,” Pick said.
“I’ll take it,” Veronica said, taking the drink from Pickering.
“God has been very kind to me lately, actually,” Dunn said. “And how was your afternoon, Mr. Pickering?”
“What would you like to know about truck windows?”
Dunn looked at his watch.
“Isn’t it about time for the triumphal entry?” he asked.
“Any minute now,” Pick said. “If you want a drink before the baked chicken breast Portland, you’d better get it now.”
“Not chicken again!”
“I told you, God is punishing you. When he said, ‘Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery,’ He meant it. He knows how you spent the afternoon.”
“Oh, Pick, shut up.” Veronica giggled.
Another waiter passed with a tray full of drinks. Dunn took another chance. To judge by the pleased look on his face after he tasted it, this time he was successful.
“See, He does love me after all. This is pretty good sour mash.”
There was a small ripple of applause. It gradually swelled as everyone in the Main Ballroom turned to the door.
Staff Sergeant Thomas Michael “Machine Gun” McCoy, USMCR, stood in the doorway. He was wearing a dress blue uniform, and the Medal of Honor on its white-starred ribbon was hanging around his neck. Behind him, in greens, were a pair of gunnery sergeants.
The Mayor of Portland walked to the door and shook Sergeant McCoy’s hand. The applause died down. The strains of the Marine Hymn, from an electric organ, filled the room.
With the exception of Lieutenants Dunn and Pickering, everyone there seemed to come to attention. A few people actually put their hands over their hearts.
When the music was over, Sergeant McCoy waved shyly and modestly at the crowd. And then, with the mayor at his side and the two gunnies one step behind him, he crossed the room to the bar. Once he was there, a bartender handed him a Pilsner glass of beer.
“I would really like to know what Jake Dillon said to him, to get him to behave,” Dunn said.
“It is probably what the gunnies have done to him,” Pickering said.
“You mean you don’t know?” Veronica asked.
“Know what?” Pick asked.
“If he behaves all day, and all the way to dinner, Jake sees that he gets two drinks after dinner. And that isn’t the only carrot Jake dangles in front of his nose, either.”
“The lady speaketh, believeth the truth,” Pick said.
“Major Dillon is a man with an uncommon problem-solving ability, isn’t he?” Dunn asked admiringly.
“Every night?” Pick asked.
“Every night, if he has behaved all day,” Veronica said.
“How come nobody ever dangles a carrot in front of my nose?” Pick asked.
“God doesn’t love you,” Dunn said. “And look who’s coming!”
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