“I wondered where, delete expletive, it was,” he said.
“Better,” she said. “George, these people just don’t understand. ”
“That’s what’s known as a massive understatement,” he said.
“I’m not sure I do,” his mother said. “All I know is that I’m proud of you, and I thank God you’re home.”
“Then nothing else matters, Mom,” Lunsford said. “And I give you my word as a field-grade, designate, officer and gentleman, that I will behave myself tonight.”
“Then finish whatever you’re doing with that gun, and get dressed, and come down. Just about everybody’s here, and they’re all anxious to see you.”
“For one reason or another,” Lunsford said dryly. Then: “Sorry. Yes, ma’am. I will be right down. Thank you for the oysters.”
She raised her hand and gently touched his cheek. Then she walked out of the room.
Lunsford sat down at his desk again. He opened a drawer, took from it a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label scotch, and took a pull at its neck.
Then he started putting the Colt Commander back together.
He had been downstairs thirty minutes when he was called to the telephone.
“Captain Lunsford.”
“I understand they cured the clap okay, but that they’re having trouble with the scabies, crabs, and blue balls,” his caller said.
Captain Lunsford didn’t reply for a moment. He was surprised at the emotion he felt.
Then he said, “Oliver, you asshole, where are you?”
“In Philly,” Oliver said. “Just passing through.”
“In a pig’s ass,” Lunsford said. “You will come out here. Got a car?”
“Hey, I don’t want to intrude. You just got home.”
“Don’t argue with me, I’m a goddamned major designate. All I want to hear from you is ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are you?”
“Out by some athletic stadium. I just got off I-95.”
“South Philly,” Lunsford said. “Got a pencil?”
[ FIVE ]
The Presidential Apartments
The White House
Washington, D.C.
1110 13 December 1964
“Colonel Felter, Mr. President,” the Secret Service agent announced.
“Let him in,” the President ordered. “And nobody else, until I tell you. Got it?”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Felter said, entering the room.
The President was wearing a shirt, trousers held up by suspenders, and bedroom slippers. He was sitting in an armchair. On the floor around it were the Sunday editions of the Washington Post, The New York Times, and the Dallas Morning News.
“Lady Bird went to church,” the President said. “Which means I can have one of these. Help yourself.”
The President pointed to a stainless-steel thermos sitting on a tray with a bowl of ice and two glasses.
Felter realized that what he had originally thought was a glass of tomato juice was a Bloody Mary.
“Go on, Felter,” the President said when he sensed reluctance. “You’ve worked for me long enough to know I don’t like to drink alone.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Felter said, and went to the table and made himself a Bloody Mary.
“Too hot for you?”
“No, sir, I like them this way.”
“I like lots of Tabasco,” the President said. “I can’t handle some of those Mexican chili peppers, but I like Tabasco.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you know that the guy who owns that company, the Tabasco Company, is a colonel in the Marine reserves?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
“The commandant told me,” the President said. “He said the guy fought on Guadalcanal as a lieutenant, and wants to come back on duty now and go to Vietnam.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The commandant says he’s tempted to take him; this guy is apparently a crack shot. He knew him on Guadalcanal. But there’s really no place for him. He wouldn’t want to come back in to push paper, and he’s really not qualified to command a regiment. ”
Felter didn’t reply.
“I thought of you when the commandant told me about this guy,” the President said. “You’d really rather be commanding a regiment, wouldn’t you, than what you’re doing?”
“Yes, Mr. President, I would.”
“There are probably five hundred colonels in the Army qualified to command a regiment,” the President said. “But you’re the only one I know qualified to do what you do for me. I know that, and I want you to know I appreciate what you do.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Would you be surprised to hear that the director and you agree about something?”
“We often agree, Mr. President,” Felter said. “You only hear of our disagreements.”
The President laughed.
“Okay. The director agrees with you that unless he’s stopped, Che Guevara is going to cause us a lot of serious trouble in South America and Africa.”
“That’s my assessment, sir. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one