Читать книгу Code Of Conduct - Rich Merritt - Страница 13

After renting a car and checking into a cheap hotel, Patrick ventured to Hillcrest—according to Chris, San Diego’s most gay-friendly neighborhood. He stumbled into the Obelisk, a gay-and-lesbian-themed bookstore, a type of place he hadn’t known existed. After Patrick had browsed novels, memoirs and magazines for hours, the manager recommended a dance club called the West Coast Production Company. He advised Patrick that WC’s started late, which Patrick assumed meant ten o’ clock. After a quick bite at a diner, he followed the manager’s directions to the bar.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed. Less than two hundred yards separated the main gate of the Marine Corps’s recruit training base from the entrance to the gay dance club. Patrick drove around the industrial neighborhood, almost deciding the proximity was too dangerous. But he’d arrived a day early for the sole purpose of checking out San Diego’s Saturday scene and WC’s was the only place he knew to go. While weighing his options, he drove aimlessly around the dark warehouse district. If he stayed, his choice was between parking on the well-lit street or in a back alley. He chose the latter, risking muggers rather than military investigators.

“ID?” Patrick’s military ID was hidden in the rental car with most of his cash. As he waited for the bouncer to search his Illinois driver’s license, he faced the building to protect his identity from drivers heading to the base. “You just missed the free cover period before ten,” the man said, “but you’re from out of town. You can slide this time.” The burly guy gave Patrick a friendly jab on the shoulder, saying, “Welcome to San Diego, Patrick. Have a good time.”

“Thanks.” The doorman’s friendliness partially allayed his anxiety. Nodding politely, he hurried through the door away from Marine motorists. A short hallway led to the club’s interior.

“What can I get you?” asked a bartender.

Patrick scanned the mostly empty space. “How about some men? Where are they?”

“You’re early.” The man flashed a devilish smile. “Have a drink—on me—while you wait.”

Jay studied the naked form staring back at him in his bathroom mirror. He looked good for thirty-three. Every year on his birthday, he paid the exorbitant cost and measured his body-fat percentage at a water-immersion tank, the only sufficiently accurate method. He smiled. The percentage of his body weight attributable to fat was a healthy nine percent, a half-percentage point lower than a year ago. More importantly, he’d added four pounds of pure muscle onto his lean form, a personal record and quite a feat for a man who’d been a skinny kid.

Youth had once been Jay’s only asset, and losing it had terrified him. He’d replaced youth with discipline, and to his surprise, he looked better than ever. He’d been born with average looks but now, after fifteen years of daily workouts, healthy diet and abstinence from alcohol and drugs, he’d been rewarded with the stunning physique standing in front of him. As his self-confidence had improved, so had his looks.

“Don’t forget why you’ve been blessed,” said a voice Jay recognized painfully well.

“How can I?” Jay asked as he toweled himself dry. “You won’t let me.”

Helicopter pilots are brooding introspective anticipators of trouble. They know if something bad hasn’t happened, then it’s about to. Leonard recalled the quote from a speech the late Harry Reasoner had given to senior military aviators. Reasoner’s message had been right on point. Helicopter pilots and jet pilots were as distinctive as their respective airframes. Propelled by rearward thrust, a jet’s wings glided effortlessly, relaxing on top of nitrogen, oxygen and the other air molecules. A jet was supposed to fly, and barring an unforeseen accident—or as Reasoner deftly observed, an incompetent pilot—it would. Jet pilots approached life as their aircraft went through the sky—they were astounded when things didn’t go well.

Helicopters were different. They flew by sheer force of will. Rather than soaring like a plane, a helicopter’s rotor blades, says an old joke, beat the air beneath them into submission. According to the laws of physics, helicopters—like bees and hummingbirds—weren’t supposed to fly. Somehow, they remained aloft but the process required a lot of attention, work and tender loving care. Thoughtless incompetents like Sledge weren’t up to the task. Leonard’s drive from Camp Pendleton to his house in La Jolla was long but it gave him the solitude and time to process the day’s problems. Sledge, as the cause of many of his headaches, had consumed much of his car time over the last eighteen months.

At a quarter past ten, Leonard entered his favorite restaurant. Sitting at the bar, he ordered a large Cobb salad. His reading glasses had the annoying habit of disappearing and he searched in his bag for several minutes. “I put them in the side so I’d remember where they are.”

“Don’t you hate it when that happens?” asked the bartender.

“Don’t know which is worse, Jimmy. The fact that I have to wear these things to read or that I forget where I put them.” Despite the forty-minute drive, Leonard’s altercation with Sledge continued to rile him. Fortunately, he had plenty of work as a distraction. “Thirty-eight e-mails and that’s on a Saturday.” He flipped through the printouts his adjutant had stuffed in the bag. “How did we ever win a war before the computer was invented?”

“I don’t know, Colonel,” Jimmy said sympathetically. “I don’t have any use for the things.”

At least one message made him smile. His daughter had recently obtained a computer—no doubt a gift from her stepfather—and had learned to correspond with him using something she called “America Online.” Although he didn’t understand “AOL,” she communicated with him now more than ever so he liked it. Hi Dad! I was writing to say ‘Hi’ but also I wanted to let you know…I GOT INTO CORNELL!!!! He was proud of his little girl but sad he wasn’t there to help her celebrate. He pulled the message out of the stack, putting it in his pocket to remind him to call her as soon as he was home. On second thought, he remembered it was after 1 A.M. in New York. He’d congratulate her tomorrow.

Most of the pages were junk mail, but one that caught his attention was a personal message from a close friend in Washington. The Commandant of the Marine Corps sent the selection list for brigadier general to the president for signature on Thursday.

Leonard recalled a mentor’s advice. “Lieutenant colonel is the last promotion you’ll achieve on the basis of merit. After that, it’s as political as running for mayor.”

The e-mail continued. No one’s sure if Clinton will sign the list this week. The White House is in total chaos right now. I hear the Democrats don’t even know how to work the phones.

“Well, of course not,” Leonard grumbled. “They haven’t had to since Jimmy—”

“What was that, Colonel? You need somethin’?” the bartender asked.

“I meant ‘Jimmy’ as in Carter, not you, Mr. Sabo. Sorry to distract you, Jimmy. Must be talking to myself over here. Isn’t that another sign of old age?”

The message concluded with a friendly piece of encouragement. Wish I had more reliable information for you but with Bush losing the race no one knows what will happen to the promotion list. Still, I think your chances are better than most. Leonard was aware what the message didn’t say. Only four percent of eligible colonels would be promoted to general and many worthy women and men would be passed over. With an untested president in the White House, a fortuneteller’s prediction was as good as anyone’s was.

“Here you go, Colonel.” Jimmy placed a glass of Dewar’s in front of Leonard. “On the house. It’s a small token of my appreciation for what you do for this country.”

“On the rocks. Thanks, Jimmy.” At least he could count on some things without waiting.

Patrick circled the interior of WC’s to become familiar with its layout. The windowless club smelled of beer-soaked moldy carpeting. Without people, it seemed cavernous, especially compared to the small gay bar in Pensacola. The ceiling over the dance floor was two stories high. Pool tables overlooked it from a second-story pool bar. Patrick found a staircase to an open-air patio bar on the roof. Under a protective awning behind the bar, television screens showed videos of mellower songs. The chill in the air made him glad he’d brought his jacket. Over the ledge to the south, the city’s skyline and the bay glowed and sparkled in the dark. Compared to his hometown, San Diego’s downtown was modest, but the magnificence of the bay—with cliffs forming a protective peninsula on the other side—blew Lake Michigan away.

“Damn.” As Patrick scanned northward, his admiration for the city’s natural beauty reverted to anxiety as his eyes rested on the Marine Corps’ flag flying over the recruit training base.

“Scary—yet oddly ironic—how close the Marine Corps Recruit Depot is, isn’t it?”

The strange voice over his shoulder caused Patrick to jump. A second ago, he’d been the only person on the roof but now a dozen other customers milled about. The man who’d spoken to him, though, looked like a club employee. “I’m sorry—I—”

“I’m Lance.” The young man extended his hand. Patrick’s initial feelings toward Lance—a mixture of lingering surprise at his sudden intrusion and fear of being recognized as a Marine in a gay bar—changed to physical attraction. Looking at the strapping young man, he realized how horny he was. “Come over to the bar,” Lance said. “Keep me company until more people show up. Want something to drink? On the house. You look like a beer drinker—premium beers.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever been to a friendlier club.” Patrick followed Lance the short distance to the bar, where he sat on a stool. “‘Premium beer’? Do I look pretentious?”

“No. You look like a man with taste. I can tell a lot about people. Been doing this for four years.” Lance stocked bottles from cardboard cartons into the cooler below. He leaned across the bar and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone ’cause I’m only twenty-three. Lied about my age to get this job. Owner thinks I’m twenty-six.” He grabbed a bottle. “Heineken?”

“That’s a first—a gay man claiming to be older than he is.” Patrick smiled. “Sam Adams.”

“My second choice for you.” Lance reached deep into the metal cooler and exchanged the brews. Opening the bottle, he asked, “How do you know I’m a gay man?”

Patrick was stumped. “I’m sorry. I—I shouldn’t make assumptions—”

“No, you shouldn’t,” said the bartender jokingly.

“I’m sorry I assumed you’re a man.” Patrick flashed what he hoped was a mischievous grin.

“Ouch!” Lance laughed. “Guess I deserved that. Yes, I’m a man, and yes, I’m gay. Now I’ll make some more assumptions about you. Hmm, you’re an officer, right? If I played the odds, I’d say you were a Navy ensign, maybe an LJG ’cause I think you’re a couple of years older than you look, which would put you at twenty-five. But my instinct—and the way you were looking at MCRD—leads me to say you’re a Marine lieutenant, probably a first lieutenant, for the same reason I said you might be an LJG.” Lance had a self-satisfied smile.

“Neither confirm nor deny.” Patrick gulped his beer. “What’s with the mind-reading shtick?”

Lance took some orders and laughed. “Buddy, I don’t have to read your mind—just your clothes.” He handed the other customers their drinks and leaned over the bar close to Patrick. “No one else wears khakis, a rugby shirt, docksiders and a college jacket. Not to this bar.”

Suddenly Patrick felt stupid. He’d grabbed his favorite—and most easily recognizable—jacket. Anyone here who assumed he was a Marine officer and who had access to military personnel records—not a stretch in this town—could end his career by searching for officers from Northwestern. Process of elimination would lead them straight to his doorstep.

“Sorry I said anything,” Lance said, interrupting Patrick’s self-flagellation. “Get a sexy—yet tasteful—pair of jeans and shirts that show off your pecs. You work out so let us see it! Then no one will know you’re a Marine officer. Just trying to help you out, my fellow Devildog.”

‘“Fellow Devildog’? You still in the Marines too?” Patrick realized he’d just confirmed Lance’s suspicion that he was a Marine.

“Not anymore. But yeah, I worked here the last two years I was in. I was stationed about two hundred yards away at MCRD. Got out with an honorable discharge and now the GI Bill pays my way to UC San Diego. The GI Bill and this job.”

“You got a set of balls.”

“That’s what all my ex-boyfriends tell me.” Lance grinned as Patrick caught the expression’s double—or true—meaning. “Funny how all those things Marines say to each other take on a whole new definition in here.”

“Or do they?” Patrick took another drink from the bottle.

“Good point. Yeah, every time another Marine said ‘Eat me!’ or ‘Suck my dick!’ it crossed my mind, ‘Does he really want me to or is he just saying that?’” Glancing at the growing number of patrons, Lance said, “Time to get busy. Been a slow month, but tonight will be pumpin’! Before I deal with these queens the rest of the night—am I right? You a Marine officer?”

Picking up his drink, Patrick extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Lance. My name’s Patrick. I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot more of you.” Lance’s wink communicated he understood Patrick’s need to be coy. Grabbing some glasses, Lance backed away to the other end of the bar. Patrick turned to face the crowd, amazed at how rapidly the roof had filled with customers. He could only imagine what it looked like on the lower two floors. Realizing there was only one way to find out, he descended the staircase into the dark and loud space below.

“Bitch, I done told you if you so much as look as my man again, I’d slice your damn throat.”

Jay hated waiting in lines and paying cover charges but the afternoon’s reconnaissance with Ollie had delayed his plans, forcing him to stand outside with these obnoxious fairies. He hoped the effeminate homosexuals would get into a fight, providing some entertainment, but the one who’d spoken sashayed to the back of the line without carrying out his threat.

The line into the club was fifty yards long and snaked down a sidewalk adjacent to a row of parked cars. Two had the telltale DoD decals, similar to the jeep’s Jay had copied earlier. No other businesses in the vicinity were open, leading Jay to the conclusion that the owners were in the club. He decided against writing down the numbers so as not to arouse suspicion.

“Mmm good!” Jay turned around to see a large guy with a beard leering at him. “De-lic-ious!” The man licked his lips. Jay turned to the front, glad he was at the door to the club.

“Need to see some ID.” Jay handed the doorman a Virginia license. “What’s with all the out-of-state IDs tonight?” He studied the picture and then scrutinized Jay. “Go on in.”