W. Griffin - The shooters

"You are a sonofabitch, aren't you?" Beth said.

"Actually, I'm a bastard," he said. "There's a difference. My mother was a lady."

"Are you going to ask me in? It's raining out here, in case you didn't notice."

"Since I seriously doubt you came here with designs on my body, may I ask why you want to come in?"

"I'm here to apologize," she said, "and to ask a big favor."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, I am not kidding."

"You realize what will happen if you pass through this portal and Righteous Randolph hears about it?"

"I'm asking you as nicely as I know how. Please. I'm getting soaked."

"Won't you come in, Miss Wilson?" Castillo asked, and opened the door fully.

She entered the living room, took off her head scarf and then her raincoat. She was wearing a skirt and, under a sweater vest, a nearly transparent blouse.

Where are you now, Dick Miller, Self-Appointed Keeper of Castillo's Morals, you sonofabitch, when I really need you?

"Do you think this will take long, Miss Wilson?"

"It'll take a little time."

"In that case-you may have noticed that you've interrupted my toilette-please excuse me for a moment while I slip into something more comfortable."

When Castillo came out of the bedroom three minutes later-wearing slacks and a sweater and shower thongs-Beth Wilson was sitting on the couch holding a copy of the Tages Zeitung.

"What's this?" she said.

"They call that a newspaper."

"It's German."

"I noticed."

"What do you do, use this to keep your German up?"

"Keep my German up where?" Castillo asked innocently, and then took pity on her. "My mother's family was in the newspaper business. They send it to me. And yeah, I read it to practice my German."

She gave him a faint smile.

"Now that I am appropriately dressed," Castillo said, "and in a position to proclaim my innocence of even harboring any indecent thoughts of any kind whatsoever should Randolph come bursting through the door, his eyes blazing with righteousness, you mentioned something about an apology?"

"Randy's on a cross-country, round-robin RON," she said. "He won't come bursting through the door."

A round robin was a flight that began and ended, after one or more intermediate stops, at the same place. Cross-country meant what it sounded like. RON stood for "Remain Over Night."

"Oh, you speak aviation?" he said.

"My father is an aviator, you might recall."

"Now that you mention it…"

She shook her head.

He went on: "Lieutenant Miller is also on that recruiting flight. Remember him? You met him, briefly-"

"Recruiting flight?"

"You mean you don't know?"

"Know what?"

"What they do when these splendid young fledgling birdmen are about to finish their course of instruction and graduate-"

"Randy graduates next Friday," she offered. "We'll be married on Sunday at three in Chapel One."

"Thank you for sharing that with me," Castillo said. "As I was saying, when they are about to finish, they schedule one of those cross-country, round-robin RON training flights you mention, with stops at Forts Benning, Stewart, and-depending on the weather-either Knox or Bragg.

"Eight or ten-for that matter, two-Apaches coming in for a landing is a sight that will impress young officers. Some of these fledgling birdmen will even be bright enough to extrapolate from that that driving one such machine, and getting flight pay to do so, would seem to be a far smarter way to serve one's country than mucking about in the mud, etcetera, as they are doing. They then apply for flight training. This is called recruiting. Hence the term 'recruiting flights.'"

"I almost believe that."

"Miss Wilson, there is no limit to what terrible things certain people will do to further Army Aviation."

She looked at him for a moment before smiling again.

"Well, anyway," she said, "you don't have to worry about Randy bursting through your door. He called me from Fort Stewart about an hour ago."

"And suggested you come over here and say 'hi' if you were bored?"

"God, you just don't stop, do you?"

"Are we back to the apology, or have I said something that's changed your mind?"

"You're making it hard, but I haven't changed my mind."

"Are you familiar with Ed McMahon, the entertainer, Miss Wilson?"

"Can you call me 'Beth'?"

"Obviously, I can. The questions would seem to be Will I? and/or Why should I?"

"Because it would make things easier for me. And, yes, I know who McMahon is. Why?"

"Because, Beth-"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Beth. Mr. McMahon said that drink is God's payment for hard work. And as I've worked hard all day-"

"Doing what?"

"I spent three hours in an Apache and two-thirty in a Mohawk. Thank you for your interest. As I was saying, I worked hard all day, and in the shower I was planning to accept my just pay the moment I was dry. But then you started bonging at my door. So, what I am going to do now, while you rehearse your apology, is make myself a drink."

"All right."

He went to the wet bar, took out a silver set of martini-making necessities from the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, and very seriously set about constructing himself a martini in the manner practiced by and passed on to him by Brigadier General Bruce J. McNab.

This involved, among other things, rinsing out both the martini mixer and the martini glass with vermouth before adding a precisely measured hefty amount of Gilbey's gin to the ice in the mixer. He then stirred the mixture precisely one hundred times before pouring it into two large, long-stemmed martini glasses and adding two pickled onions on a toothpick to each.

He took one of the martinis, very carefully placed it in the freezer, and gently closed the freezer door. Then, carefully carrying the other martini, he walked to the couch and sat down as far away from Beth Wilson as the couch would permit.

He brought the glass to his lips, looked at her over the rim, and said, "You may begin the apology."

Then he took his first sip.

"Where's mine?" she said.

"You're kidding, right?"

"You are not going to offer me a drink? After that long Ed McMahon speech?"

"'What work did you do today?' is one question that pops to mind," Castillo said.

"I told you, I'm getting married on Sunday. I spent all day-with half a dozen giggling women-getting ready."

"I can see where that would be tiring," Castillo said. "The next question is a little delicate. Your father-"

"My father has a problem with alcohol," she said. "Something about his metabolism. My mother and I don't."

"And you want a martini?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble. I happened to notice you made two."

"There is a reason for that. You know what they say about martinis."

"I'll bet you're about to tell me."

"Martinis are like a woman's breasts," Castillo said, solemnly. "One is not enough, and three is too many."

"My God! That's disgusting! I can't believe you said that to me!"

She could not, however hard she tried, completely restrain the smile that came to her face.

"I made two because I planned to drink two," Castillo said. "The idea of making one for you never entered my mind."

"Well, now that it has, are you going to give me one?"

"I'm not sure that would be wise."

"Why not?"

"Well, if a couple of belts puts your father on a bicycle, there's no telling what one martini would do to you," Castillo said. And then his mouth went on autopilot: "You might, for example, tear off your clothes and throw yourself into my arms."

She looked at him incredulously for a moment, then got off the couch and walked to the refrigerator, commenting en route, "Don't hold your breath! My God! You're an absolute lunatic."