David Eddings - High Hunt

“Man,” I said “it’s like getting out of jail.”

“Anyhow, Jackie,” McKlearey said, apparently continuing what he’d been talking about before I got to the car, “we unloaded that crippled Caddy on a Nigger sergeant from McChord Field for a flat grand. You know them fuckin’ Niggers; you can paint ‘Cadillac’ on a baby buggy, and they’ll buy it.”

“Couldn’t he tell that the block was cracked?” Jack asked him.

“Shit! That dumb spade barely knew where the gas pedal was. So we upped the price on the Buick to four hundred over book, backed the speedometer to forty-seven thousand, put in new floor mats, and dumped it on a red-neck corporal from Georgia. He traded us a ’57 Chevy stick that was all gutted out. We gave him two hundred trade-in. Found out later that the crooked son of a bitch had packed sawdust in the transmission—oldest stunt in the book. You just can’t trust a reb. They’re so goddamn stupid that they’ll try stuff you think nobody’s dumb enough to try anymore, so you don’t even bother to check it out.

“Well, we flushed out the fuckin’ sawdust and packed the box with heavy grease and then sold that pig for two and a quarter to some smart-ass high school kid who thought he knew all about cars. Shit! I could sell a three-wheel ’57 Chevy to the smartest fuckin’ kid in the world. They’re all hung up on that dog—Niggers and Caddies; kids and ’57 Chevies—it’s all the same.

“So, by the end of the week, we’d moved around eight cars, made a flat fifteen hundred clear profit, and didn’t have a damn thing left on the lot that hadn’t been there on Monday morning.”

“Christ”—Jack laughed—“no wonder Sloane throws money around like a drunken sailor.”

“That lot of his is a fuckin’ gold mine,” McKlearey said. “It’s like havin’ a license to steal. Of course, the fact that he’s so crooked he has to screw himself out of bed in the morning doesn’t hurt either.”

“Man, that’s the goddamn truth,” Jack agreed. “How you doin’ back there, Dan?”

“I’m still with you,” I said.

“Here,” he said. He fumbled under the seat and came out with a brown-bagged bottle. He poked it back at me. “Celebrate your newfound freedom.”

“Amen, old buddy,” I said fervently. I unscrewed the top and took a long pull at the bottle, fumbling with my necktie at the same time.

“You want me to haul into a gas station so you can change?” he asked me.

“I can manage back here, I think,” I told him. “Two hundred guys got out this morning. Every gas station for thirty miles has got a line outside the men’s room by now.”

“You’re probably right,” Jack agreed. “Just don’t get us arrested for indecent exposure.”

It took me a mile or two to change clothes. I desperately wanted to get out of that uniform. After I changed though, I rolled my GI clothes very carefully and tucked them away in my duffle bag. I didn’t ever want to wear them again—or even look at them—but I didn’t want them wrinkled up.

“Well,” I said when I’d finished. “I may not be too neat, but I’m a civilian again. Have a drink.” I passed the bottle on up to the front seat.

Jack took a belt and handed the jug to McKlearey. He took a drink and passed the bottle back to me. “Have another rip,” he said.

“Let’s stop and have a couple beers,” I suggested. I suddenly wanted to go into a bar—a place where there were other people. I think I wanted to see if I would fit in. I wasn’t a GI anymore. I wanted to really see if I was a civilian.

“Mama Cat’s got some chow waitin’,” Jack said, “but I guess we’ve got time for a couple.”

“Any place’ll do,” I said.

“I know just how he feels, Jackie,” Lou said. “After a hitch, a man needs to unwind a bit. When I got out the last time in Dago, I hit this joint right outside the gate and didn’t leave for a week. Haul in at the Patio—it’s just up the street.”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed, “seems to me I got all juiced up when I got out of the Navy, too. Hey, ain’t that funny? Army, Navy, Marines—all of us in here at once.” It was the kind of dung Jack would notice.

“Maybe we can find a fly-boy someplace and have a summit conference,” I said.

Jack turned off into the dusty, graveled parking lot of a somewhat overly modern beer joint.

“I’m buying,” I said.

“OK, little brother,” Jack said. “Let’s go suck up some suds.” We piled out of the car and walked in the bright sunlight toward the tavern.

“This is a new one, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Not really,” Jack told me, “it’s been here for about a year now.”

We went inside. It was cool and dim, and the lighted beer signs behind the bar ran to the type thet sprinkled the walls with endlessly varying patterns of different colored lights. Tasteful beer signs, for Chrissake! I laid a twenty on the polished bar and ordered three beers.

The beer was good and cold, and it felt fine just to sit and hold the chilled glass. Jack started telling the bartender that I’d just got out, and that I was his brother. Somehow, whenever Jack told anybody anything, it was always in relation to himself. If he’d been telling someone about a flood, it would be in terms of how wet he’d gotten. I guess I hadn’t remembered that about him.

Lou sat with us for a while and then bought a roll of nickels and went over to the pinball machine. Like every jarhead I’ve ever known, he walked at a stiff brace, shoulders pulled way back and his gut sucked in. Marine basic must be a real bitch-kitty. He started feeding nickels into the machine, still standing at attention. I emptied my beer and ordered another round.

“Easy man,” Jack said. “You’ve got a helluva lot of drinkin’ to do before the day’s over, and I’d hate to see you get all kicked out of shape about halfway through. We’ve got a party on for tonight, and you’re the guest of honor.”

“You shouldn’t have done that, Jack,” I said. What I’d really meant to say was that I wished to hell he hadn’t.

“Look,” he said, “my brother doesn’t get out of the Army every day, and it’s worth a blowout.” I knew there was no point arguing with him.

“Is Marg really waiting?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “She’s got steak and all the trimmings on. I’m supposed to call her and let her know we’re on the way.”

“Well,” I said, “we shouldn’t keep her waiting. Hey, Jack, who’s this McKlearey guy anyway?” I thumbed over my shoulder at Lou.

“He works at Sloane’s used car lot. I knew him when I was in the Navy. We met in Yokosuka one time and pitched a liberty together. He’s got ten years in the Corps—went in at seventeen, you know the type—washed out on a medical—malaria, I think. Probably picked it up in Nam.”

“Bad scene,” I said. “He seems a little—tight—keyed-up or something.”

“Oh, Lou’s OK, but kind of watch him. He’s a ruthless son of a bitch. And for God’s sake don’t lend him any money—you’ll never see it again. And don’t cross him if you can help it—I mean really cross him. He’s a real combat Marine—you know, natural-born killer and all that shit. He was a guard in a Navy brig one time, and some poor bastard made a break for the fence. McKlearey waited until the guy was up against the wire so he couldn’t fall down and then blasted him seven times between the shoulder blades with a .45. I knew a guy who was in there, and he said that McKlearey unloaded so fast it sounded like a machine gun. Walked ’em right up the middle of the guy’s back.”

“Kill him?”

“Blew him all to pieces. They had to pick him up in a sack.”

“Little extreme,” I said.