Lieutenant R. B. Macklin was walking across the room to them.
“Would you mind posing with Sergeant McCoy and the mayor, Miss Wood, for some photographs?” he asked when he reached them.
“Certainly.”
“Maybe it would be better if you left your drink here,” Macklin suggested. Veronica handed it to Pickering. Dunn drained his bourbon.
“We would like you in the photos too, Dunn,” Macklin said.
“I’ve been through this before, Macklin,” Dunn said.
“You two could have expressed a certain respect for The Corps by coming to attention when the Marine Hymn was played,” Macklin said.
“Unless you want to be photographed on your rear end, Lieutenant,” Dunn said softly and icily, “you had better not say one more word to either me or Mr. Pickering for the entire balance of the evening.”
He turned to Veronica Wood. “Would you take my arm, Ma’am, and we’ll sashay across the ballroom and have our picture taken.”
“I would be honored, Lieutenant Dunn,” Veronica said. She took his arm, and they marched across the room, with Lieutenant Macklin trailing along behind.
“Is that what they mean when they say a ‘two-fisted drinker’?” a female voice behind Pick asked. He turned to see who it was. She was in a cocktail dress, an older woman, thirty-five anyway; her hair seemed to be prematurely gray.
“I guess it is,” Pick said. He finished his drink and set it down.
“You’re Lieutenant Pickering, right?” the woman asked, offering her hand.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he said.
“I’ve been wanting to introduce myself,” she said. “We’re going to dinner together. I’m Alice Feaster. Mrs. Alice Feaster. For what it’s worth, I’m the President of the City Council’s sister. That’s how I got a ticket.”
“How do you do?” Pick said. “I didn’t know we were going into dinner in pairs.”
“I arranged it,” Mrs. Feaster said.
What the hell does that mean?
“And the Major… what’s his name?”
“Major Dillon.”
“… pointed you out to me, but I didn’t want to interrupt. You were having a private conversation with Miss Wood.”
“You should have come up. If I had known, I would have gone looking for you.”
“May I ask you a personal question?”
“Certainly.”
“Is there… uh… anything between you and Miss Wood?”
“Miss Wood is going to marry Major Dillon. We’re just friends.”
“You seem to be very good friends,” she said.
“We are. Can I get you a drink, Mrs. Feaster?”
“I’d love one. A martini. Gin. Onions.”
On the way back from the bar, Pickering observed that Mrs. Feaster was very well preserved, for an older woman.
“Thank you very much,” she said, looking at him over the rim of the martini glass.
“Did your brother the City Council President manage a ticket for Mr. Feaster, too?”
“Mr. Feaster is in Spokane tonight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You wouldn’t really like him; he’s rather dull.” She reacted to the surprised look in his face by asking: “Don’t you think people should say what they want to?”
“Absolutely.”
“And where is your wife, while you’re off on the war bond tour?”
“No wife.”
“I’m surprised. You’re a very good-looking young man. I’m surprised that some sweet young thing hasn’t led you to the altar.”
“So is my mother.”
Chimes sounded.
“I think that’s for us,” Mrs. Feaster said.
“It sounded like an elevator,” Pick replied. “You know, ‘third floor, ladies’ lingerie’?”
Why did I say “ladies’ lingerie”?
She laughed as she took his arm.
“May I?”
She walked very close to him as they crossed the room to the place where the guests at the head table were gathering. The President of the City Council was a tall, balding man with a skinny wife.
“We’re really honored to have you in Portland, Lieutenant,” he said.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“And grateful for the excitement, right, Frank?” Mrs. Feaster said. “We don’t have much excitement in Portland, do we?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Alice.”
“I would,” Alice said with a sharp laugh; then she gave Pick’s arm a little squeeze. When he looked down at her, he (almost entirely innocently, he told himself) got a look down the opening of her dress.
Black lace and white flesh are inarguably erotic.