name he still didn’t know. After a moment, he recognized Pick’s copilot on the flight.
The record-setting flight. That’s what this is all about. Charley’s throwing a party for the crew, the people who run the operation in Tokyo, and, more than likely, for the press.
Seeming to confirm this, there was a bartender now behind the bar, and another white-jacketed Japanese was walking through the room carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
Jesus! Just what I need! Like a third leg.
He saw Pick paying rapt attention to a tall, graceful brunette, and then, surprising him, he saw Captain and Mrs. Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR.
Pick and Charley Ansley saw him at the same time, and Ansley, a portly man in his fifties who combed what was left of his hair over the top of his skull, started toward him.
“Hail the father of our conquering hero,” Charley said.
Pickering smiled, hoping it didn’t look as insincere as it felt, and put out his hand.
“Good to see you, Charley,” he said.
“This was the best place I could think of to do this . . .”
“They don’t have party rooms at the Hotel Hokkaido?”
“. . . and even if they did, you probably would not have come over there, and I would have had to invite Bart Stevens, which I didn’t want to do.”
“It was a good idea, Charley,” Pickering said.
“How did things go with MacArthur?” Charley asked.
“He’s an amazing man,” Pickering said.
“If you’re talking about the Supreme Commander,” Pick said, “Jeanette here would be ever so grateful for details.”
Pickering had not seen Pick and the lanky brunette walk up.
“Jeanette, this is my dad,” Pick went on. “Pop, this is Jeanette Priestly.”
She put out her hand to him.
“Pick tells me you just had dinner with General MacArthur. True?”
“Miss Priestly, I feel morally bound to tell you that one—especially if one is a very attractive young woman— should never trust anything my son says.”
“True or not?” she pursued.
“Jeanette’s interest is professional,” Pick said. “She’s a reporter.”
“Chicago Tribune,” she furnished.
“It was a private dinner between old friends,” Pickering said. “General MacArthur said nothing newsworthy.”
And even if he had, despite that brilliant smile you’re flashing me, did you really think I would tell you?
“Whatever General MacArthur says is newsworthy,” she said, with a smile.
“How did it go, Pop?” Pick asked.
“A trip down memory lane,” Pickering replied.
“Just you and MacArthur and Mrs. Supreme Commander? ”
He’s doing this to get on the right side of the girl. Well, why not?
“We had drinks, first,” Pickering said. “General Willoughby, Colonel Huff, and MacArthur’s chief of staff, General Almond. I’d never met him before. It was just the MacArthurs and me for dinner.”
“What did you think of General Almond?” Jeanette asked.
“He’s an army officer, a senior one, and he must be competent, or he wouldn’t be MacArthur’s chief of staff. Nice fellow, I thought. And you may quote me, Miss Priestly.”
“There’s a story going around about General Almond,” she said. “I’d love to know if it’s true or not.”
“I really don’t think I want to hear the story,” Pickering said, rather coldly. “Isn’t that what they call muckraking?”
“I know nothing but nice things about General Almond,” she said. “But his previous—to being chief of staff to the Supreme Commander—claim to fame was that he had one of the two Negro divisions in Italy during World War II.”
“I don’t think I follow you,” Pickering said.
“Are you being diplomatically dense, General?”
“Please don’t call me ‘General,’ Miss Priestly, it’s been a long time since I wore a uniform.”
“Sorry,” she said, and then smiled at him. “You make it sound like something you’re ashamed about.”
“I meant to imply, Miss Priestly,” Pickering said coldly, “that ‘General’ is a title of honor to which I am no longer entitled.”
Well, aren’t you the pompous ass, Fleming Pickering?
Goddamn, she made me mad.
And, I think, on purpose.
Get the old fart mad, and he’s liable to say something he shouldn’t.
“And I don’t know what ‘diplomatically dense’ means,” Pickering said.
“That’s when you pretend not to understand what someone has just told you.”
“I understood that General Almond commanded a Negro division in Italy. I don’t understand the significance of that.”
“Really? Or is that diplomatic density?”
He didn’t reply.
“Is this history lesson boring you, General?”
He looked at her for a long moment before replying.
“No. If you wanted to get my attention, you’ve succeeded. Please go on.”
“Okay,” she said, then waited as Pickering grabbed a wandering waiter.
“Famous Grouse, double, water on the side,” he ordered.