this moment, Lieutenant Portet is our resident expert,” Lunsford said. “If he says something, you treat it like it came from me. I just hope you’re smart enough to understand how lucky we are to have him.” He paused. “One more thing. If one of you runs off at the mouth and repeats what I said about Lieutenant Portet being the American who jumped on Stanleyville, I’ll feed him his balls.”
He paused.
“You have anything else, Lieutenant?”
“There’s just one problem, sir. There’s a lot of beer in that building that’s going to get warm unless someone starts to drink it.”
“So there is,” Lunsford said. “Okay, what happens now is that you will form a line, walk past Lieutenant Portet, state your name, and say that you are happy to meet him, or words to that effect. With a little bit of luck, he’ll remember them the next time you see him.”
One by one, they filed past Jack and shook his hand, and said they were happy to meet him, or words to that effect. Jack had the feeling they meant it.
“If you’ve got something on your mind, Jack, say it,” Lunsford said as they were riding from Pope Air Force Base to the Main PX at Fort Bragg.
“Although there was a lot of bullshit in that session,” Jack said, “it was masterful.”
“But?”
“I’m not the heroic, calm-under-pressure officer you made me out to be, and you know it.”
“Neither am I heroic, or calm under pressure. The trick is not letting the troops find out.”
“I don’t know if I can pull that off.”
“You can if you try. I’ve been doing it for years. You owe it to the troops, Jack, to make them think you’re something special. They need to think their officers are something special. And you’re an officer now.”
Jack shrugged uncomfortably.
“And speaking of the troops, you owe me . . . three times two ninety-eight is eight ninety-six, divided by two is four forty-eight. You owe me four dollars and forty-eight cents, and I would like it now, please.”
“What for?”
“Your share of the beer.”
VI
[ ONE ]
123 Brookwood Lane
Ozark, Alabama
1550 20 December 1964
“Good, she’s home,” Marjorie Bellmon said aloud when she saw Liza Wood’s Buick station wagon in the carport.
She turned the Jaguar off the street and drove up the drive.
Liza, a tall, lithe, strikingly beautiful twenty-four-year-old who wore her flamboyantly red hair in a pageboy, was in the carport, stuffing bags into a garbage can.
When she saw Marjorie, she smiled and walked up to the car.
“Hi,” Marjorie said.
“It must be love. He’s letting you drive his Jaguar,” Liza said.
“I had to take it to the provost marshal’s to get him a temporary sticker for it,” Marjorie said, and added, “a blue sticker.”
“A blue sticker? What’s that all about?” She didn’t give Marjorie time to reply before adding, “It’ll wait until we get in the house. It’s cold out here.”
She opened the kitchen door for Marjorie, who walked in.
A small boy ran to her and wrapped his arms around her leg. “M’Jeri,” he cried happily in his best, if failing, attempt to say her name.
Marjorie scooped him up.
“Hello, handsome,” she said. “Where in the world have you and Mommy been? Aunt Mar-jor-ee has been looking all over for you.”
She looked at Liza as she spoke.
“I’m about to have a drink,” Liza said. “You want one?”
Marjorie thought it over for a moment.
“Yeah, why not? What are you offering?”
“Whatever you’d like. I’m going to have a Bloody Mary.”
“Sounds fine,” Marjorie said. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Skiing in Colorado.”
“For three weeks? Your mother-in-law wouldn’t tell me where you were.”
“I told her not to tell anyone,” Liza said. “Tell me about the blue sticker.”
“I heard about you and Johnny,” Marjorie said. “I’m sorry.”
“I wanted to get away from here, and I suppose in the back of my mind, there was the hope that I would find some handsome stud by the fireplace in the ski lodge, who would take my mind off the goddamned army.”
“The goddamned army, or Johnny?”
“Both.”
“And?”
“I wouldn’t want this spread around, it would ruin my reputation, but when it came to the nitty-gritty, I decided there had to be a better way to get my act together than letting some moronic suntanned ski bum into my pants.”
“And is your act together?”
“God, I hope so. Tell me about the blue sticker.”
“Bmari,” Allan said. “Bmari, bmari!”
Liza handed him a glass with red liquid in it.
“No booze, of course,” Liza said. “But he likes it, Tabasco and all. I live in fear I’m going to