W Griffin - The Corps I - Semper Fi

"Neither do I," Sage said. "I don't expect you to believe this under the circumstances, but neither do I."

"I think maybe I had better go."

She pushed herself off the door and walked so close to him that she could smell the wet wool odor of his overcoat.

"There's a time and a place for everything," she said. "And this is the time and place where I think you should kiss me. If that goes the way I think it will, then I think you should pick me up and carry me into the bedroom."

"Pick you up?" he asked, incredulously.

"I could crawl, I suppose," she said.

He laughed, and scooped her up, and carried her into the bedroom. He lowered her onto the bed and then stood up.

He still hasn't kissed me. All we've done is play anklesy. And the way he's standing there with that dumb look on his face, nothing is going to happen.

Very deliberately, she reached for the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head. He stared at her in marvel. She reached behind her back and unhooked her brassiere, so that he could look at her, naked to the waist.

"Now you," she said, very softly.

She looked at him then as he ripped the uniform off.

He's good at that. Very fast. He's probably had a lot of experience taking his clothes off in a hurry in situations like this.

And then he was naked.

"You're the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he said.

"So are you," Sage said.

As McCoy came to the bed and put his arms around her and with a great deal more tenderness than she expected held her tight against him, Sage thought, I wonder if it's going to hurt as much as they say it hurts, and if there will be a lot of blood, and if that will embarrass him.

(Four)

Pick was sitting in his underwear having breakfast in the sitting room of Penthouse C when McCoy returned. "Been out spreading pollen, have you?" Pick said. McCoy didn't reply.

"I wondered what the hell had happened to you," Pickering said. "I took a chance and ordered breakfast for both of us."

"I'm not hungry," McCoy said.

But he sat down for a cup of coffee and wound up eating a breakfast steak and a couple of eggs and the half dozen remaining rolls.

"I thought you might take just a little bite," Pickering said, "for restorative purposes." "Fuck you," McCoy said.

"Then you didn't get any," Pickering said. "With your well-known incredible good luck, you fell into the clutches of one of our famous cockteasers."

"I got a goddamned cherry," McCoy said. "I didn't know there were any left," Pickering said without thinking, before realizing that McCoy wasn't boasting; that quite to the contrary, he was ashamed. "Who was she?" he asked.

"There were two poor people in here yesterday," McCoy said. "I found the other one."

"What has being poor got to do with getting laid?" Pickering asked. "Just looking around, I get the idea that poor people spend a lot of time screwing."

"She's a nice girl, Pick," McCoy said. "And I copped her cherry."

"Death," Pickering said, mocking the sonorous tones of the announcer in the March of Time newsreels, "and losing cherries comes inexorably in due time to all men. And virgins." "Screw you," McCoy said, but he was smiling. "Which one was it?" Pickering asked. McCoy didn't want to tell Pickering her name. "We're going to have lunch," he said. "I will, of course, vacate the premises," Pickering said. "Nothing like that, goddamn it," McCoy said. "She has to work this morning. She said she would meet me for a sandwich. Someplace called the Grand Central Oyster Bar. You know where it is?"

"Oddly enough, I do. The Grand Central Oyster Bar, despite the misleading name, is in Grand Central Station." He stopped himself from saying what popped into his mind, that McCoy's deflowered virgin had apparently heard of the aphrodisiacal virtues of oysters. "It's right around the comer from Brooks Brothers."

"She said twelve-thirty," McCoy asked. "Is that going to give us enough time?"

"Sure," Pickering said.

Platoon Leader Candidates Pickering and McCoy were not the first about-to-be commissioned Marine officers the salesman at Brooks Brothers had seen. More than that, he was pleased to see them. Not only was it a sale of several Hundred dollars (more if the customer wanted his uniforms custom made rather than off the rack), it was a quick sale. None of the salesman's time had to be spent smiling approval as the customer tried on one item after another. There were no choices to be made. The style was set.

"Uniforms, gentlemen?" the salesman said.

"Sure," one of the Marines said. "I thought it would be a good idea if you remeasured me. I have just gone through a rather interesting physical training course, and I think I ain't what I used to be."

"Oh, you have an account with us, sir?"

"Yes," Pickering said. "But I'm glad you brought that up. This is Mr. McCoy. He's just come from the Orient, and he doesn't have an account. I don't think he's even had time to open a bank account, have you, Ken?"

"I've got a bank account," McCoy said.

"In any event, you'll have to open an account for him," Pickering said.

"I'm sure that won't be a problem, sir," the salesman said. "I didn't catch the name?"

"Pickering, Malcolm Pickering."

"One moment, sir, and I'll get your measurements," the salesman said.

Pickering's measurements were filed together with his account. There were coded notations that payment was slow, but was always eventually made in full.

Brooks Brothers preferred to be paid promptly, but they were just as happy to have very large accounts (the last order from young Mr. Pickering had been for two dinner jackets, three lounge suits, one morning coat, a dozen shirts, a dozen sets of underwear, a dozen dress shirts and two pairs of patent leather evening slippers) paid whenever it was convenient for the affluent.

The fitter was summoned. Mr. Pickering was an inch and a half larger around the chest than he had been at his last fitting, and his across-the-shoulder measurement had increased by an inch.

"You know what we're supposed to have?" Mr. Pickering asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, measure him, then, and we can get out of here. Mr. McCoy has a pressing social engagement."

When McCoy signed the bill, he couldn't quite believe the amount. They were to be paid a $150 uniform allowance. The uniforms he had just ordered (Brooks Brothers guaranteed their delivery, if necessary by special messenger, in time for their commissioning) were going to cost him just under $900.

He had the money in the account at the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society, but it was absolutely unreal that he was going to pay nearly twice as much for uniforms as he had paid for the LaSalle.

When they were on the street, Pickering said: "I debated you getting your uniforms there," he said. "They're expensive, but you're going to need good uniforms. In the long run, they're just as cheap. If you don't have the dough, I'll lend it to you."

"I don't need your money."

"Hey, get off my back. Get two things straight. First, that you're my buddy. And second, that being rich is better than being poor, and I have no intention of apologizing to you because I was smart enough to get born to rich people."

"The last shirts I bought cost me sixty-five cents," McCoy said. "I just bought a dozen at six-ninety-five apiece. That's what they call 'unexpected.' "

"Then you had better be careful with them, hadn't you?" Pickering said. "Make a real effort not to spill mustard on them when you're eating a hot dog?"

McCoy smiled at him. He found it very difficult to stay sore at Pickering for very long.

"It's five minutes after twelve," McCoy said. "Where's Grand Central Station?"

"Yonder," Pickering said, pointing at it. "Do I get to meet your deflowered virgin?"