W.e.b. Griffin - The Corps II - CALL TO ARMS

He hadn't seemed to notice. They'd turned the Louis XIV bedroom into the Garden of Eden, and she'd wept with joy when she felt him in her. And as perverse as it sounded, with joy again when she'd changed his bandages, for it seemed proof that she was a woman who had found her mate and was caring for him.

That had been the result of her father's phone call on Thanksgiving Friday. Now he was on the line again, and there was no doubt in Miss Ernestine Sage's mind that he had on his mind now the relationship between his daughter and her Marine officer; her mother had gone to him and told him that she knew for a fact that their daughter had left her own bed in the middle of the night so that she could get in bed with Ken McCoy.

"Are you free for lunch?" Ernest Sage asked his daughter.

"Sure," she said.

"Could you come here?" he asked. "It would be better for me."

She wondered how he meant that; was his schedule tight? Or did he just want to have his little talk with her on his own ground?

He picked up on her hesitation.

"Anywhere would be fine, honey," her father said.

"Twelve- fifteen?" Ernie Sage said.

"Would you like anything in particular?" her father asked. "I think Juan's making medallions of veal."

"That'll be fine, Daddy," she said.

"Look forward to it," he said, and hung up.

The hell you do. Daddy.

At five minutes to twelve, Miss Ernestine Sage put on her overcoat and galoshes and left her office. She walked the two blocks from JWT to Madison Avenue and then the half block to the American Personal Pharmaceutical Products Building. This was a nearly new (1939) fifty-nine-story, sandstone-sheathed structure, the upper twenty floors of which housed the executive offices of APP.

She walked across the marble floor and entered an elevator.

"Fifty- six," she told the operator.

The APP building's top formed a four-sided cone, with each floor from fifty-nine down to fifty-two somewhat smaller than the floor below, from which point the walls descended straight to the street level. The fifty-sixth floor was the highest office floor, the top three floors being dedicated to various operating functions for the building itself.

Her father's office was on fifty-five. Fifty-six was the Executive Dining Room, something of a misnomer as there were actually four dining rooms on that floor, plus the kitchen and a bar. APP, like JWT, had a hierarchy. Individuals attaining certain upper levels of responsibility received with their promotions permission to take their lunch on fifty-six, on the company, or to stop by fifty-six for a little nip, also on the company, at the end of the business day.

Fully two-thirds of the floor was occupied by the Executive Dining Room itself. That establishment looked like any good restaurant in a club. And then, in addition to the Executive Dining Room, there were Dining Rooms A, B, and C. Of these, Dining Room C was the smallest, containing but one table and a small serving bar. Its use was controlled by Mrs. Zoe Fegelbinder, executive secretary to the chairman of the board of APP. And it was reserved for special occasions.

When Ernie Sage got off the elevator, the maitre d'hotel spotted her right away and walked quickly to her.

"Good afternoon, Miss Sage," he said. "How nice to see you again. You're in 'C.'"

She was not surprised. This was a special occasion. The chairman of the board of APP did not want to show off his daughter in the Executive Dining Room today.

Today, the chairman of the board wanted to be alone with his daughter, so that he could talk to her about her screwing a Marine, or words to that effect.

As the maitre d' ushered her across the lobby, a path was made for her and people smiled, and she heard herself being identified. She had often thought that it must be like this for Princess Elizabeth; for around here, she was sort of like royalty.

Her father was not in 'C,' but Juan was, in his chef's whites.

"Hallo, Miss Ernie," he said, smiling, apparently genuinely pleased to see her.

"Hello, Juan," she said.

She remembered now that Juan was a Filipino. As in invaded by the Japanese. As in the place where Japanese artillery had damned near killed Ken.

"Your poppa say veal medallions," Juan said. "But I think maybe you really like a little steak… with marchand de vins sauce?"

"Yes, I would," she said. "Thank you, Juan."

"Pommes frites? Haricots verts? And I find a place sells American Camembert, not bad. You try for dessert?"

"Sounds fine," she said.

"You wanna little glass wine, while you wait? Got a real nice Cal'fornia Cabernet sauvignon?"

What I really would like to have is a triple shot of cognac.

"Thank you, Juan," she said, smiling at him. "That sounds fine."

He opened the bottle and poured a glass for her.

"You wanna try?" he asked, as he gave it to her.

She took a healthy sip.

"Fine," she said. "Thank you."

"You think your poppa want a steak, too?" Juan asked.

"I thought we were having medallions of veal," Ernest Sage said, as he walked into the room.

He was a tall and heavyset man, with a full head of curly black hair, gray only at the temples. Her father, Ernie Sage often thought, looked like a chairman of the board is supposed to look, and seldom does.

"Miss Ernie," Juan said, "really wanna steak. You wanna steak, too?"

"I'll have the veal, thank you, Juan," Ernest Sage said, "with green beans and oven-roasted potatoes, if you have them. And a sliced tomato."

"Yes, sair," Juan said, and left the room.

Ernest Sage looked at his daughter as if he was going to say something, and then changed his mind. He flashed her a smile, somewhat nervously, Ernie thought, and then picked up the telephone on the table.

"No calls," he announced. "I don't care who it is."

"Said the hangman, as he began to knot the rope," Ernie Sage said.

Her father looked at her, and smiled. "Conscience bothering you?"

"Not at all," Ernie said.

"What are you drinking?" he asked.

She walked to him and handed her glass. When he'd taken a sip and nodded his approval, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.

"So what's new in advertising?" he asked.

She poured him a glass of wine.

"Everyone is all agog with 'Lucky Strike Green Has Gone to War,'" Ernie said.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing, that's why everyone is all agog," she said.

"Not that I really give a damn, but you've aroused my curiosity."

"They changed the color on the package," she said. "It used to be predominantly green. Now it's white, with the red Lucky Strike ball in the middle. The pitch is, with appropriate trumpets and martial drums, 'Lucky Strike Green Has Gone to War.'"

"Why'd they do that?"

"Maybe they wanted a new image. Maybe they wanted to save the price of the green ink. Who knows?"

"What's that got to do with the war?"

"Nothing," she said. "That's why everyone is all agog. It's regarded as a move right up there with 'Twice as Much for a Nickel Too, Pepsi-Cola Is the Drink for You,' which was the jingle Pepsi-Cola came onto the market with. Better even. Pure genius. It makes smoking Lucky Strike seem to be your patriotic duty."

"You sound as if you disapprove," he said.

"Only because I didn't think of it," she said. "Whoever thought that up is going to get rich."

Juan entered the room with shrimp cocktails in silver bowls on a bed of rice.

"Appetizer," he announced. "Hard as hell to get."

He walked out of the room.

Ernest Sage chuckled, and motioned for his daughter to sit down.

He ate a shrimp and took a sip of wine. "I was sorry to have missed Pick's friend at the house. Your mother was rather taken with him."

"Was that before or after she found out I was sleeping with him?" Ernie Sage asked.