three full minutes before the crack of light under the door went out.
Well, if I think about it, it’s not so strange that George thinks of me as a son thinks of a father. From the time the Killer recruited him from Parris Island, from the first day, he’s been taking care of me. When I was sick in Washington. All through the war. After. I was his best man when he got married, because he’d lost his own father. His second son is Fleming Pickering Hart. And not to kiss my ass. On half a dozen occasions, I made it as clear as I could that I would be delighted to help—loan him money, give him money—and he always turned me down.
And he was really uncomfortable when Patricia and I set up the trust funds for his kids.
What does that mean?
It means that while I may have—probably have—lost one son, I still have another. Named George.
Jesus! Not one. Two! The Killer.
The three of them were like brothers.
Patricia was really upset when Ernie married the Killer and not Pick. I wasn’t. As far as I was concerned, the Killer was family, and it didn’t really matter whether Ernie married Pick or Ken McCoy.
My God! The Pickering line ends here. And the Foster line.
Now, obviously there is very little chance that there will ever be a squalling infant named either Malcolm S. Pickering Jr., or Fleming Pickering II. Or Foster Pickering. Anything like that.
Does that matter to me?
Pick being gone matters a hell of a lot. I really would have liked to see the family continue. Patricia will never be a grandmother of a child carrying her father’s name.
And that thought opens the door to another problem I never considered before: What happens to P&FE and Foster Hotels, now that Pick won’t be around to inherit them, the way that Patricia and I did?
Jesus H. Christ, all the time and money we spent on lawyers to make sure that when Patricia and I were gone, Pick would get P&FE, and Foster Hotels, Inc., and not the goddamn government.
That’s all down the tube.
What does it matter?
Who cares?
Something will have to be done.
I will be goddamned if the government gets P&FE and Foster. Or one of those goddamned charities of Greater San Francisco United Charities, Inc.!!!
Leave it to George and the Killer?
Suddenly dumping enormous sums of money on someone whose previous experience with money is worrying about how to make the mortgage and the car payments is a sure blueprint for disaster.
If we split it between George and the Killer, Ernie could handle the Killer’s share, but George?
That will require some thought. Just as soon as this mess is over—hell, before it’s over—I’m going to have to get with the goddamn lawyers. . . .
Jesus Christ, Pickering, you are drunk!
You don’t even know that Pick is dead, and you’re worrying about what’s going to happen to his inheritance.
Oh, Pick, goddamn it!
Why you and not me? My life’s about over, and yours was just starting!
He felt a sudden pain in his stomach, and he was having trouble breathing, and his throat convulsed, and his eyes watered.
Jesus Christ, I’m crying!
Dear God, please let Pick be alive!
[THREE]
EVENING STAR HOTEL TONGNAE, SOUTH KOREA 0605 5 AUGUST 1950
Captain Kenneth R. McCoy went from sleep to full wakefulness in no more than five seconds. It had nothing to do with where he was, or any subconscious perception of danger. That was just the way he woke. Sometimes it annoyed his wife, who took anywhere from three to thirty minutes to be fully awake, and was not prepared to report, for example, what the guy at the garage had said about the condition of the brakes on the car, the moment she opened her eyes.
Without moving his head, McCoy looked around the room, establishing where he was. Next he looked at his wristwatch, establishing the time, and a moment later, kicked off the sheet covering him and swung his legs out of the bed.
He had slept naked, anticipating a hot and humid night. That hadn’t happened. The hotel was not only close enough to the water to get a breeze from it, but some clever Oriental—he wondered if it was a clever Japanese or a clever Korean; but whoever had built the “rest house” for the officers of the Emperor’s army—had rigged some sort of powerless device that directed the breeze into the rooms.
He was in one of the better rooms—perhaps the best—in the hotel. It had its own bathroom,