Wingmen (9781310207280) (4 page)

“Just wait,”
said Frank. “A bottle’ll be around in a minute.” A moment later a
bottle of gin appeared in Frank’s hands. He poured both of them a
few fingers and passed the bottle to the stocky man with the hairy
neck, who raised it to his lips, chugged a few swallows, and fell
back into the bunk. The bottle continued to the left and
disappeared into the haze of cigarette smoke and the crowd of brown
khaki uniforms.

“Hope you like
gin,” said Frank.

“I never refuse
a drink from a friend,” said Fred. The gin was not particularly
good, but Fred drank it anyway. He was nearly finished with it when
the door burst open and a j.g. staggered in, dragging a girl with
him.

“Hey, fellas,”
he said, “I’ve got something to show you. You won’t believe this
when you see it.” The hot smoky air of the room visibly affected
him, and he leaned on the girl. Fred looked at his watch. It was
only 5:20. The j.g. must have set some kind of speed record getting
into town, getting drunk, picking up the girl, and bringing her
back here—all in a little over an hour. No one in VF-8, not even
Deadly Deal himself, could do that.

The girl was
probably a prostitute. She wore a shiny black dress that hit her
legs at the knees and had a loose, low-cut top. A large island
flower was pinned over her left ear, and she wore more make-up than
Fred had seen on any two people at the same time. She was not, he
decided, beautiful; but to most of these men she might look it.

“This lady,”
the j.g. was trying to say, amid pealing laughter and derisive
punches, “this lady can—” He lost his train of thought and stood
there, leaning on her shoulder and staring, glassy-eyed. Someone
handed him a bottle and he drank. Wiping his mouth with the back of
his hand, he tried again. “This lady can—can—”

“I bet she
can,” someone called out, and everyone else in the room dissolved
into hooting laughter. The j.g. took another drink and kneeled to
set the bottle on the floor. When he tried to stand up again, he
couldn’t. He slowly sagged to the floor and lay down at the feet of
his fellow pilots.

“What is it,
honey?” someone asked. A hand reached out and caressed the girl’s
knee, slid up her leg, and pulled up the shiny skirt. The girl
switched her dress and tried to move away, but the other pilots had
moved in and surrounded her.

“What can you
do that’s got poor Fritzi here so excited?” A dark brown shoe
prodded the inert form on the floor. It stirred and moaned.

“I guess I’d
better go.” The girl spoke in a classic, dumb-blonde falsetto.

The red-faced
pilot who’d greeted Fred at the door ambled up to the girl and
draped himself over her. “Did poor old Fritzi here give you any
money, honey?” His voice oozed with concern.

“Well,” said
the girl, looking at the floor.

“Well,” said
the man, “I think he did.” With a very agile thumb and forefinger
he plucked a folded ten-dollar bill from her cleavage.

“That’s mine,”
said the girl, and she snatched it back.

At her feet,
Fritzi moaned again and struggled to his hands and knees. His head
swung ponderously back and forth. He spoke, and the room quieted to
take in his words. “She can tie. A knot. In a cherry stem. Without
using her. Hands.” He struggled to his feet. A small red bottle
dropped from his shirt to the floor. His face ashen, he ran for the
door and was gone.

“What the hell
does she use if she doesn’t use her hands?” someone asked.

Fred slapped
Frank Hammerstein on the knee and climbed to his feet. “I know what
she uses and I can do it, too.” Thirteen faces turned to look at
him. “And I can do it faster than she can.” The liquor in his belly
was giving him amazing courage.

“Ten bucks on
the broad,” someone said immediately.

“Well,” said
Fred, “is there a cherry in the house?” Someone gave the girl a
gentle shove and she fell into Fred’s arms. The entire room erupted
into howling laughter.

“Captain
Fitzsimmons picked some up on the way over here,” said the girl,
and she bent to pick up the little red bottle. The party now was in
hysterics over Fritzi’s new rank, and it was some time before the
room could be shouted into silence.

Then the
contest could start. It was decided, of course, that the girl would
go first. A man with a watch quickly emptied a chair of its
occupant and she sat in it. A cherry was taken from the jar, the
stem removed, and the self-proclaimed official held it up. “Where
do you want it, sweetheart?” he asked. She held her hands behind
her back and opened her mouth. The official slipped the stem
between her teeth (which Fred noticed were slightly bucked), and
she worked her lower jaw animatedly for a few moments. Then the
stem, tied in a knot, re-emerged from her teeth. The official held
it up to the light and said, “Well, I’ll be goddamned.” The pilots
applauded mightily.

“How long did
it take her?” asked Fred. He took a cherry from the jar and ate the
fruit, leaving the stem.

“Minute, ten
seconds,” said the man with the watch.

Fred held the
stem between his teeth like a toothpick, clasped his hands behind
his back, and waited for the start signal. Money fell to the floor
in little piles.

“Ready?” asked
the timekeeper.

“Roger-doger,”
mumbled Fred.

“Go.”

Fred sucked the
stem into his mouth, biting it three times with his front teeth as
he did so. Wedging one end of the stem between a molar and an
incisor on the left side of his mouth, he bent it where he’d bitten
it, looped it through with his tongue and pulled the knot as tight
as he could. He turned to the timekeeper, opened his mouth, and
said, “Ahh.”

The official
leaned close and reached carefully between Fred’s teeth. He emerged
with the cherry stem, tied in a disjointed granny knot. The crowd
roared and the little stacks of money were split up.

“What was my
time?” asked Fred.

“Forty-seven
seconds. No contest.” The timekeeper shouted for silence and took
Fred by the hand. He pulled up the girl with his other hand and
held her close to Fred. “This contest,” he said loudly, “has proved
beyond a doubt that a cherry doesn’t stand a chance in this
squadron.” Laughter and applause. “Insofar as this beautiful lady
has been paid for her services and has not as yet produced—” More
applause. “—and insofar as these two cherry stem knot tiers were
obviously made for each other, it is my official decision that she
be assigned to him for payment in full of her contract.” Wild
applause and cheering.

Fred looked at
the girl, wondering why he did dumb things like this.

The red-faced
drunk, whom Fred now saw was a full lieutenant, fell on the two of
them and nuzzled up close to Fred’s ear. “I’m really proud of you,
kid,” he said. “Bang her a good one for the guys.”

“Sure,” said
Fred, “you bet.” He took the girl by the hand; they forced their
way through the crowd to the door. On the way someone handed him a
quarter-full bottle of bourbon. The noise receded as the door was
abruptly closed behind them.

“Boy,” said the
girl, “am I glad to get out of there.”

“Me, too,” said
Fred. He opened the door to his room, allowing her to pass through
first. He turned on the light, though it wasn’t really
necessary.

“That’s some
trick. Where’d you pick it up?” She sat on the edge of Fred’s bed
and tested it with both hands.

“The Golden
Serpent,” said Fred. He closed the door and turned the lock.

“San
Diego?”

“That’s the
one.”

“Stanley, the
bartender.” She took off a shoe and placed it carefully under the
edge of the bed.

“Yeah.
Stanley.” Fred sat down beside her.

“I mean, it’s a
small world, isn’t it?” She laughed easily.

“Look,” said
Fred, “I didn’t know they would do this—”

“Forget it,”
said the girl. “Unhook me?” She turned her back to Fred. He did so.
She wriggled and the dress fell from her shoulders. “Thanks.”

Fred stood, a
little too quickly.

“The way I see
it,” she went on, “a deal’s a deal.”

Fred looked at
her carefully now, a little surprised at how fast she had
undressed.

“Besides, I
think you’re kind of cute.” She smiled and lay back on the bed.
Seeing no way out now, Fred reached for the light switch.

“Who was that
guy?” asked Rogers.

“Name’s
Trusteau,” said Frank Hammerstein. “Came over from Fighting Eight
at Kaneohe.”

“What I want to
know is how he tied that knot,” said the timekeeper, a j.g. who,
unlike the other j.g.’s, had never been in combat, having attended
flight school after graduation from the academy and six months in
the line navy.

“Beats the shit
out of me,” the red-faced, drunken lieutenant replied. He had been
lucid enough to size up the newcomer as a talented trivia artist,
and he had made twenty bucks by betting two-to-one on Fred. “I
wonder what the hell else she can do with her tongue,” he
mused.

“Well, what the
hell’re we gonna do tonight?” asked Duggin, the stocky,
hairy-necked man.

“I know what
one of us is doing,” said Frank. He had pressed his ear against the
wall over the bed and was listening. He waved for silence and then
they could all hear it: Thud; squeak. Thud; squeak. It was the bed
in the next room, gyrating rhythmically against the wall.

“Hotdamn,” said
Brogan, “he’s banging her.” Two other pilots pushed their way to
the wall and pressed their ears to it.

“He’s sure got
rhythm,” said one.

“How long you
think he’ll last?” asked the timekeeper.

“Five
minutes.”

“Three at the
most.”

“Ten bucks says
he lasts five minutes.”

“You’re on.”
The money began to pile up on the floor and more ears were pressed
to the wall.

“Hold it,” said
the timekeeper, “he’s speeding up.” The noise was louder now. Thud;
squeak. Thud; boom; squeak. It accelerated until the thuds and
squeaks were almost continuous, then abruptly stopped.

“Hotdamn,” said
the drunken lieutenant. He reached for the money.

“Wait a
second,” said Hammerstein. “He’s starting again.” From the other
side of the wall: Thud; squeak. Thud; squeak. Thud; squeak.

“Seven
minutes,” someone said. “He’s really hanging in there.” More bills
fluttered to the floor. Bets were taken. Everyone waited.

A short
eternity passed in near silence. The only sounds were the sloshing
of booze in bottles and the steady thud-squeaking of sex in the
next room. One more time the sounds sped up and stopped, only to be
resumed a few seconds later. More bills hit the floor. Five minutes
passed and the sounds became continuous—almost frenzied—lasted for
another minute, then stopped altogether.

“Seventeen
minutes,” someone whispered, awe-struck. The money was split up
swiftly, most getting none, a few getting most of it. They heard
the door to the next room open and someone walk into the hall. The
drunken lieutenant opened the door and poked his head out.

“Well?” he
said.

“Well what?”
said Fred. He was wearing only shorts.

“How the hell
was it?”

“I don’t know.
All right, I guess.” Fred wanted to say something sharp and witty
but couldn’t muster the strength.

“You’re all
right,” said the lieutenant, and he went back to the party, leaving
Fred alone in the hall. Outside it was getting dark. Fred walked
down to the head, turned on the shower, and washed away the smell
of sweat and sex.

The next day,
Sunday, he made another friend when he introduced himself to
Fitzsimmons and paid him back the ten bucks Fitzsimmons had been
unable to collect for himself. Fred didn’t mind that part because,
as he told himself, it was well worth it.

“Tower Control, this
is Dumpy One with flight of three SBDs. Request taxi
clearance.”

“Hold at flight
line until ordered, Dumpy One. Unidentified Avenger on the flight
line. Identify yourself.”

“Alpha Tango
Five Seven, Control, Alpha Tango Five Seven. Ready to roll.”

“Wait one, Five
Seven.”

“Control, this
is Banger Seven, flight of two F6Fs. Request taxi clearance.”

“Dumpy One, you
are cleared to roll with your three buzzards. Watch for cross
traffic.”

“Roger,
Control.”

“Banger Seven,
get your clearance individually if you don’t mind. You will be
cleared for taxi after, repeat, after Avenger Five Seven.”

“Roger,
Control.” Duane Higgins leaned far over in his cockpit and looked
at the aircraft next to his. The young pilot there, Trusteau, made
a circle with his thumb and forefinger and nodded broadly, then
jutted his thumb toward the control tower.

The kid was on
the ball, Duane thought; he had heard the entire exchange and knew
now to request his own clearance. Butting in on the already crowded
control frequency was not necessary. The controller continued
directing the Monday morning traffic jam on the concrete strip, and
Higgins leaned back into his seat to wait for their turn. All
around them the aircraft of Air Group Twenty taxied through the
parking areas, became airborne, and circled off to their rendezvous
and training areas. Among all these pilots, thought Duane, the one
who needed the flight time the most wasn’t there, and he wished he
could do something about it.