When neither fans nor motion picture columnists were around, “America’s Sweetheart” had a mouth like a sewer. That, too, was not unusual. Max Liebermann theorized that actresses used foul language the way infants used crying. But Monica Sinclair’s foul tongue was legendary.
“Look who the fucking cat drug in!” Monica Sinclair exclaimed when she was sure it was indeed Stanley S. Fine swimming across the room in her direction.
She shrugged free of some arm that was around her shoulder and took two steps toward Fine.
“You were supposed to meet me in London, you asshole!” she said.
Some officer who had been looking down the front of her USO uniform now directed his somewhat drunken attention to Fine.
“Duty called, Monica,” Fine said. “I came as soon as I could get away.” “Bet your sweet ass you did,” Monica said. Then she put her hands on his neck, pulled his face down to hers, and kissed him wetly, loudly, and with a tongue probing in his mouth.
Her eyes then fell on Eric. And they lit up. For a moment, Fine thought there was recognition. But then, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he knew that what had made her eyes bright was not maternal affection.
“And did Stanley bring you for me?” she asked.
Eric nodded.
“Fine, you prick,” Monica Sinclair said, “all is forgiven.” She snaked her arms around Eric’s neck, pulled his face to hers, and kissed him openmouthe. Then she rubbed her body lasciviously against him.
It took a moment before Eric was able to push her away, his face showing shock and revulsion.
She stared at him, then turned to Fine.
“Stanley, who is this fucking fairy, anyway?” Fine had seen the horror on Eric’s face.
“Why, this is Lieutenant Eric Fulmar, Monica,” he said. “Remember him?” That set off a violent gust of obscenity, If this is your fucking kike idea of a fucking joke, and so on. Screams followed, When she told Max what he had done to her, he had fucking well better pray he got killed in the war, because he was through in the fucking industry.
At that point, an officious Special Services officer appeared, demanding to know just who they were and what in the name of Christ they had said to Miss Sinclair.
“This officer, Major,” Fine said, “is Miss Sinclair’s son.” The Special Services officer looked at Fine with dismay and loathing in his eyes.
“I can’t even imagine why you would wish to embarrass Miss Sinclair this way, Captain,” he said. “But that is the sick est joke I have ever heardls “What’s sick about it is that it’s not a joke,” Fine said.
“You two will leave the club immediately!” Eric spoke for the first time.
“Piss off,” he said contemptuously. Then he looked directly at his mother. “Hi, Mommy!” he said cheerfully. “Long time no see!”
“You ungrateful shit!” she hissed.
“Mommy!” Eric said, as if he were a little boy crushed by an unjust accusation.
Monica put her hands over her ears and howled.
The piercing shriek silenced the room.
Still holding her hands over her ears, Monica Sinclair screamed, “Get him the fuck out of here!” The Special Services officer, carried away with righteousness, put his hand on Eric’s arm and tried to pull him away. Fine called out a warning. He knew that trying such a move with Eric was foolish under any circumstances, but under these it was suicidal. Eric Fulmar’s jaws were working, and there were tears in his eyes.
With blinding speed, Fulmar struck the Special Services officer on the bridge of his nose with the heel of his hand. Fine was familiar with the blow. He had learned it from the Berbers in Morocco and had taught it to Jim Whittaker, who, as a result of his own Philippine experience, was the OSS’s acknowledged master of lethal hand-to-hand combat.
Whittaker, in turn, had taught it to the English experts at Station X. Its effectiveness had awed even the highly skilled assassins of the SOE.
Blood gushed from the flack’s eye sockets and his nostrils, and he fell screaming to the floor.
The other Air Corps officers in the room, as if in slow motion, slowly realized what was happening and came to the defense of the man screaming on the floor.