The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga) (54 page)

“I hope that girlfriend of his isn’t pregnant. Hey, I’m going to need another drink if we’re going to go on like this.”

Settling back onto the couch with fresh drinks, they discussed Jack until they’d come full circle, making no apparent progress in unearthing a motive for Jack’s downbeat behavior. Forcing herself not to allude to his secret, she decided to shift focus. “Well, Harry, all I can do is prevail on you to watch out for my boy. You will, won’t you?”

“Damn right I will. He hasn’t told you much about me, has he?”

“Only that you’re a hell of a pilot and a good friend. There’s more to the Harry Weems story than that, I’m sure.”

“You could say that; beginning with the fact that getting out of the Navy wasn’t my idea; it was the Navy’s.”

Shifting on the sofa in order to look at Harry as directly as possible, Serena waited a few seconds before she spoke. “Why?”

“Well, as dumb as it’s going to sound to you, I took a poke at a guy- another officer- and he preferred charges. Assault and battery.”

“Why in the world did you do it?”

“Stupid, drunk, crazy- I just went on autopilot, I guess- I don’t even remember doing it. Jack and I were down in his quarters; I lived up in the main BOQ. It was a Sunday, and I’d promised to help him rebuild the carburetors on the Cunningham. Two out of the four were leaking a steady stream, so he’d quit driving it until they could be fixed. He didn’t want to take the chance of turning it over to some off-base guy he didn’t know or trust, so he’d ordered the rebuild kits from stateside. He also had a spec sheet for the Zenith single-barrel downdraft carburetors, and a Uni-Syn manometer from Honest Charley’s Speed Shop. And he had me; I once had a ’33 Ford five-window coupe back in
Nashville
that ran three Stromberg 97 carbs, and I knew my way around a Uni-Syn.

“Anyway, we set out Sunday morning after breakfast at the BOQ with four grungy carburetors and a half-gallon of Barrilito rum, and by
noon
we had them stripped down and clean, and two rebuilds complete, with about half the Barrilito left. At that point we were interrupted by loud knocking on the front door, which we’d left open for the breeze. It was one of the two guys who lived next door, a cob-up-the-ass Lieutenant who was assigned to the station, that is, not in our squadron. I hadn’t seen much of him before, but you can almost sense the prickness of a guy like that before he opens his mouth, which he then made the mistake of doing. Something about ‘destroying Navy property’ and ‘calling the OD,’ at which point I felt the need to stand up and pop him, which I did.

“He took his bloody nose back to his quarters and called the OD, or somebody, but a few minutes later a security detail of Marines showed up. Their officer, a Captain, brought Lieutenant Cob-Up-The-Ass into Jack’s quarters, and after he gave the Captain a statement, in very short order I was on my way to the brig. And not too long after that, I was out of the Navy with a medical discharge, on the way to which I spent some time in the hospital at
Fort
Brooke
in
San Juan, then more of the same at
Philadelphia
Naval
Hospital.”

“How did they diagnose you?” Serena asked him.

“‘Clinical depression.’ Not much argument with that, at least not within the Navy’s justice system. Instead of a General Court-Martial, they showed me the door with a pat on the ass and $1000 for each year I’d spent on active duty. Fourteen grand, and ‘Go and sin no more.’”

“So what did you do?”

“I was separated at NAS Jacksonville, so I decided to see what I could do about straightening myself out before getting tangled up with any more doctors. I sure wasn’t ready to see my son until I could be sure that his mother wouldn’t set me off, so I went up to
Fernandina
Beach
and rented an apartment in town. About 40 miles north of
Jacksonville, but at least I didn’t have to sit underneath a full-time traffic pattern of Naval aircraft to remind me of what I’d lost. I gave Jack a call, which he’d made me promise to do the last time he visited me at
Fort
Brooke’s Hospital. That was in March, and he was getting out in September. On that first call, he said, ‘Harry, you just sit tight and enjoy the sun and the babes. I’ll get up there as soon as I can get scheduled on a flight to
Jacksonville.’ The squadron keeps a two-plane detachment at NAS Jacksonville during hurricane season to fly reconnaissance around the perimeter of the Gulf.

“The next week Jack knocks on my door. The first thing he said to me was, ‘I know where a jet is that’ll have your name underneath the window; all you’ve gotta do is pass your medical, and I think I know how to get that done.’

“That’s how good a friend he’s been to me. Hell, Ríni, I was exiled to the squadron in the first place, just a couple of months before Jack checked in. And I mean exiled. I’d been an instructor at NAS Jacksonville with VA-44, the East Coast training facility for A4D’s, a nifty little jet attack aircraft that I dearly love. I’d had two previous tours in A4D squadrons, and I loved teaching the new pilots the ins and outs of flying that little rascal. Long story short, my wife left me, and left town with my little boy. She went back to her home in
Memphis, just far enough away to make it tough to drive there over a weekend. It wasn’t long before I was easing the pain with a jug, and doing dumb-shit things around
Jacksonville
after I’d taken a snootful aboard. After my CO’d put me “in hack”- which is to say, confined me to my quarters- for the second time, when it hit the Admiral’s desk for review, he hit the overhead. I think I’d have been thrown out of the Navy then, but I’d been an above-average pilot- hell, I’ll say it- a damn good pilot- ever since the Training Command, so I think that the old boy figured that he’d go the extra mile and send me to Naval Aviation’s elephant graveyard- sort of an unkind name for men and aircraft that perform a vital mission, but the Connie squadrons are heavy with people who’ve gone as far as they can go, rank-wise- for me to do a couple more tours of duty, if I kept my nose clean, complete 20 years of active service and retire.”

“I have the distinct impression,” Serena said, “that you’re about to tell me that it didn’t work out that way.”

“Nope. As Jack’s probably told you, booze is dirt-cheap in Puerto Rico, and on a huge, remote Naval Station like Roosevelt Roads, getting drunk and getting laid, without getting involved with the natives, turns out to be what a lot of people choose to do, even if they know better. The smarter, single guys, like Jack, keep their act under control until they can get into
San Juan
to chase flight attendants and other mainland types.”

“That aspect of his life is something that Jack’s never shared with me. Sounds like maybe the
San Juan
alternative didn’t suit you.”

“Well, to tell the truth, at 34 I really didn’t have much in common with Jack and the other JOs- junior officers- who were all in their early or mid-20s. But mostly, I didn’t trust myself in that
San Juan
hotel environment. I thought that I would be just too damn likely to get- what else? A snootful, and end up just the way our commanding officer warned me not to- in a Puerto Rican drunk tank. So I flew every flight I could get scheduled for, kept my boozing under control, and was unwillingly semi-celibate for a couple of years.”

“Sort of a grim existence, wasn’t it? I mean, even with a new airplane to master...”

“Yeah, but do-able. While I was going through replacement training at
Patuxent
River, I found to my surprise that I really enjoyed the challenge of flying the Connie, and flying it well. And it made good sense to me to hang on for another six years for retirement. I’d made my peace with being an ex-jet jockey, I enjoyed the weather, and I figured that sooner or later I’d run across a more-or-less suitable female to socialize with.”

Serena looked at Harry with some skepticism. “Tell me what you mean by ‘semi-celibate,’ in an atmosphere like
Puerto Rico’s.”

“Oh, I’m totally ineligible for sainthood. I’d make a solo San Juan run every six weeks or so, during the week, and patronize the ladies of the evening at a place called the Castle Club, just across the street from Naval Station San Juan. Better that than getting involved with somebody’s wife back at Rosey Roads, which was the route that more people than you might imagine ended up taking.”

She smiled, still skeptical. “And that took care of your personal situation?”

Harry’s response was somewhere between a chuckle and a snort. “Oh, no, of course not. I’m not that much different from anybody else; if I didn’t turn it loose myself, I reckon I’dve had a wet dream, and I haven’t had one of those since I was about 12.” Taking advantage of a momentary break in their dialogue, Harry said, “I don’t suppose our situations are exactly the same, Ríni, but do you mind if I ask you the same question?”

Seconds passed before she answered. “Well, it seems as though you just did, whether I minded or not, but I’ll play fair and answer you. I do exactly the same thing. Well, maybe not exactly but the result’s the same.”

Harry’s eyebrows took a momentary trip into his forehead. “I’ve never talked to a woman about that. You know guys do it but it’s not something people ever talk about, particularly women. I wonder why that is? Why the hell can’t we just do what needs doing and not worry about it? Life would be a hell of a lot simpler.”

“Beats me. I always thought masturbation simply puts sex in perspective. Getting the urge for sex, and having someone who wants to do it with you, are two things that don’t always match up.”

His eyebrows taking their round-trip once again, Harry said, “Whoa! You actually used the word! That’s amazing; I knew artists were free spirits, but...”

“Oh, it’s not just artists. I got some great advice from my mother when I was a young girl just starting to go out on dates. She said, ‘Serena, a boy’s pecker’s under non-stop pressure, and all it wants is relief. You’ll have a lot less trouble with them if you just help them release it somewhere besides in your vagina.’”

She had Harry’s full attention. “So...”

“So she told me, ‘Just put a handkerchief in the bottom of each of your bra cups. If you’re not careful, that stuff’ll get all over you.’ Then she took me down to the kitchen, went to the refrigerator, took out a cucumber, and showed me how to do it. So, unlike far too many young girls, I didn’t get pregnant until I was ready. Well, almost.” After taking a breath, she let her eyes slide toward Harry’s lap. “Speaking of ready, you’re looking very much that way to me. May I take a look?”

Too taken aback to answer, Harry sat still- very still indeed- as Serena unzipped him. Freeing his penis from its confinement, she smiled approvingly. “Nice. Very nice. Hold on just a minute.” Quickly stepping into the kitchen, she returned with a couple of clean dishtowels and a bottle of Colavita Extra Virgin Olive Oil. “Let’s just pretend that you’re dying to screw me, and let me see if I can take your mind off screwing and just enjoy feeling good.” Moistening the tips of the fingers of one hand with the oil, she spread it judiciously over his now-rock-hard organ. “Just a little bit more, Harry my boy, and I’ll get you going.”

Which she duly did. Anticipating his spurt, she knelt and directed it into her mouth. When he was finished, she covered his penis with her lips and cleaned it, compressing them to pick up the last drops. Giving Harry’s fast-fading member a playful kiss, she had just disposed of the dishtowels when the downstairs door’s intercom buzzed. In response to her acknowledgment, it spoke.

“It’s Hap. If it’s not too late, may I come up for a quick word of welcome?” Serena looked around the corner of the kitchen wall to assess Harry’s status, which appeared to be fully zipped.

“Sure,” she said. “Jack’s napping, but I think you’ll enjoy meeting his friend.” Hitting the button to release the outside lock, she said, “He won’t stay long; it’s pretty close to the old duffer’s bedtime.” In due course, the shoe-polish tones erupted; opening the door, Serena kissed Hap quickly, but with practiced intimacy. Unsuccessfully suppressing an instinctive jerk back from her, Hap moved his lips around in a circular, wine-tasting motion, now looking sharply at Serena, who coolly returned his gaze. “Hap Rutherford, Commander Harry Weems,” she said, her smile the gentlest of taunts, it being entirely unnecessary to say, “That’s his jizz in your mouth.”

To his credit, Hap recovered quickly, extending his hand to Harry. “A pleasure, Commander.”

Harry didn’t recover, as well or as quickly, as Hap had. Except for the green eyes, he was looking at an older, shorter Jack Mason. “Just Harry, please sir; the Navy’s past tense for Jack and me now.”

“Fair enough, Harry; and I’m Hap. Your shipmate still snoozing?”

The answer came from behind the curtain: “Hell, no; who can sleep with that goddam bell-buoy of a doorbell going off?”

“Well, get your ass on out here and join the living,” Hap said, grinning as he walked toward the curtain.

Tearing his gaze away, Harry called over his shoulder, “Rum Martini, Hap?”

Rapping on
Suite
431’s door in the Cavalier Hotel, Jack thought of the day in May when a hotel door had last separated him and Rick. The door’s deadbolt slid back with a solid thunk; it opened to the gap allowed by its security chain. Rick, his gaze filtered through Aviator Ray-Bans, grinned briefly through the crack, then disappeared momentarily before the door swung wide. “Hello, Killer,” Rick said, the grin widening.