"That's very suave, very cool," Ben said, watching the moon light up the black waters of the Edisto River as they traveled toward Charleston going seventy-five. "By the way, Sammy," he said turning to his friend," that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of."
"It's not ridiculous. It's the Bohemian Mountain Approach. Girls can't resist it."
"Have you done that, Sammy? Honestly. Have you ever done that in your life?" Ben asked.
"No."
"Then how do you know it works?"
"I've been around, son. It's a strategy worked out over the ages. Jewboys like me have studied the ways of seduction for centuries because we know that little goy girls are saving their star-spangled banner for their blond husbands."
"Thus we have the Bohemian Mountain Approach," Ben said.
"There are variations of course.
"Of course."
"This is one of my personal favorites. You pick a girl up. Right?"
"Right," Ben said.
"You meet her parents and act like a perfect gentleman. You tell her parents how much you like classical music and poetry and going to art galleries. Then you escort your date out the door all dreamy-eyed. You speak in a gentle, well modulated, restrained voice. You open the door for her and lightly touch her on the elbow as you help her in. You walk slowly around to your side of the car and remove your leather driving gloves. You get in the car, then in a flash you leap at her from across the car, pin her arms to the seat, and rip her panties off."
"A very versatile thing, this Bohemian Mountain Approach."
"It is a way of life, son. It is simply an application of firmness that utilizes the element of surprise. Once you have begun the Bohemian Mountain Approach, there is no turning back. It takes a genius in the art of love to use it properly and that's where I come in," Sammy said.
He pulled the Rambler into a country gas station, left Ben with the car still running, disappeared into the dimly lit depths of the store and returned carrying two paper sacks.
"Here's a little liquid courage," Sammy said, handing Ben a Budweiser.
"I'm in training," Ben protested.
"One beer's gonna cause you to fart out a kidney? Drink it," Sammy ordered resuming the trip up Highway 17. "We'll be there in a half hour and I still haven't prepared you properly for the night."
"What else do I need to know?"
"Plenty. There's one favor I'd like to ask of you, Ben."
"Sure, Sammy."
"You promise you won't laugh."
"I promise."
"If you laugh, can I use all the blood of your Christian children for terrible Jewish ceremonies? That's what Red thinks Jews do."
"I've heard that too."
"It's true. We pass the little fingers and toes of Christian children around on hors d'oeuvre trays. No, seriously. You promised not to laugh. But I didn't tell Alicia West my real name when I called."
"Fine. I'll go along with that. What name did you give her?"
"Rock."
"Rock!" Ben screamed.
"You promised you wouldn't laugh."
"I'm not laughing. I'm screaming."
"Rock Troy."
"Rock Troy!" Ben screamed even louder.
"Go ahead. Laugh. Get it out of your system, because when she gets in the car I don't want to hear any whooping and hollering when she asks ol' Rock Troy to unzip his britches."
"Rock Troy," Ben repeated.
Sammy took a long pull on his beer, then another one. "You can imagine a girl getting fired up to date a guy named Sammy Wertzberger. This adds a little class to it. This will only be a one-night stand anyway. Oh, and there's one other small favor."
"You told the other girl that my name is Hymie Finkelstein," Ben laughed.
"That wouldn't have been a bad idea. No. I told Alicia that I was a hotshot guard on the basketball team. Is that O.K. with you?"
"Sure. You and I are in the backcourt together. That's fine. I like it."
"Hey thanks, Ben. That's one of my great fantasies. Do me just one other favor. Please. Sometime during the night, and you can choose the time, say to your date loud enough for Alicia to hear in the front seat, 'At basketball games people are always pointing at Rock Troy and saying, "I wonder what that little fucking wizard is gonna do next."'"
"Sure, I'll say that."
"That will be the greatest moment of my life. I'll probably just lay my head back on the seat and bask in the glory. Hey, which reminds me. Did you finish The Sun Also Rises for Mr. Loring's English class?"
"Yeah, I read it the first or second day over the holiday."
"I guess ol' Jake sort of reminded you of sophisticated, yet cynical, Sammy Wertzberger."
"No, he reminded me of the little fucking wizard of the backcourt, Rock Troy."
"You son of a bitch."
"No kidding, Jake did remind me a lot of you, Sammy. Especially the part about having no balls. How did you like Cohen?"
"Hemingway hated Jews, no doubt about it. Hell, Ben, the whole goddam world hates Jews. I was sitting there reading that book and I was hating Cohen's guts myself. I can't figure out what everybody's got against Jews."
"It's because they're stingy and have funny shaped heads and ugly looking Jew noses," Ben said, leaning across to poke Sammy in the ribs.
"It's like my father says, Ben. Thank God for the schwartze. If it wasn't for the schwartze, they'd be screwing the Jews. If it wasn't for the niggers, my father wouldn't stay in Ravenel for five minutes."
Again they crossed a river and Ben wondered how many rivers and saltwater creeks one would cross traveling along Highway 17 through the lowcountry. This river had the deep wild odor of swamp water about it. Cypress trees towered to the left of the car, an ink-black creek paralleled the highway, full of rotten winter vegetation.
"Now for the final test before we pick up our dates, Ben," Sammy said. "You pretend you're my date, Alicia, and I'm going to show you how I am going to take advantage of what I learned in The Sun Also Rises. Mr. Loring would be proud of me."
"What do you mean, pretend I'm Alicia? You want me to hold your hand?"
"No. Just pretend you're Alicia just getting in the car for her date with the most exciting man she's ever seen. This will be a real test. You ask me questions and really pretend you're a girl."
"Oh, Rock," Ben said in a high-pitched voice, sliding across the seat and throwing his arms around Sammy," please take me someplace quick and screw my college brains out."
"Be serious, son," Sammy said, knocking Ben's arms off him. "Here, let me start it off," he said, reaching into the pocket of his London Fog and producing a package of cigars.
"Cigars!" Ben said retaining the girlish voice.
"El Producto Cigars, my dear. I had them imported from Spain," Sammy said suavely.
"Cigars smell nasty and poopy," Ben trilled.
"In Europe, during my many visits there, I have learned that European women smoke cigars along with the men."
"My mommy would just die if she knew I was smoking El Producto Cigars," Ben said.
"You probably haven't dated too many men who were as oriented toward the European way, Alicia. I can teach you many things."
"Have you really been to Europe, Rock?"
"Ha! Have I been to Europe? Ask me how many times I've been to Europe," Sammy said, lighting a cigar from a dashboard lighter.
"How many times have you been to Europe, Rock?"
"Four or five. I can't remember precisely."
"Did you go to Gay Paree, Mr. Troy?" Ben asked breathlessly.
"Did I go to Gay Paree," Sammy said with a sneer. "Alicia, darling, I invented Gay Paree. But here, you try an El Producto, Alicia. Don't be afraid. I ordered these cigars from Barcelona, Spain. I met the man who made them when I went to the bullfights with Ernest Hemingway."
"You know Ernest Hemingway?"
"Papa?" Sammy answered imperiously with a gesture so dramatic a cigar ash flew across the car toward Ben. "He's like a father to
me. He taught me everything there is to know about bullfighting and big-game hunting. And of course, women."
"Can I sit in your face, Rock?" Ben said, then screamed with laughter.
"You are breaking character. No fair breaking character," Sammy scolded.
"What was the most exciting thing you did in Europe, Rock?" Ben said in Alicia's voice.
"I think it was when Papa and I ran with the bulls at Pamplona during the El Producto festival. Racing through the streets of that ancient city, the bulls thundering behind us, young señoritas dropping their handkerchiefs to us from balconies. The excitement came from facing Death. Yes, Death in the Afternoon."
"Hey, Sammy, you are really good at that. I'm not kidding. That is really good."
"Tonight, the master leaps into action," Sammy said, puffing on his cigar.
They crossed the Ashley River bridge and headed parallel to the river until they reached Broad Street. The girls were staying in a house south of Broad Street in the muted, elegant old section of the city. The spires of St. Michael's Church shone in the half-mist slipping in from the river. The houses they passed were many-tiered, exquisitely simple, and superbly crafted remnants of a lost society. In front of a house on Tradd Street, Sammy parked the car. He and Ben slapped each other's palms and punched each other on the shoulders before they left the car and brushed back their hair with nervous fingers. Sammy knocked at the door, using a shining brass knocker that drummed nicely on the oaken door.
A black man answered wearing a dark suit. "Is one of you gentleman a Mr. Troy?" the man asked, reading from a small, white card.
"I am," Sammy said.
"Miss West offers her sincerest regrets. But Miss Bonham's fiancé arrived unexpectedly today with his roommate from Yale. She tried to contact you in Ravenel, but no one at your number had ever heard of a Mr. Rock Troy."
"Yeah, they probably got the wrong number or something. Thanks a lot, you hear. I appreciate it. Tell Alicia maybe some other time."
They returned to the car. Neither boy said anything. Finally, they both began to giggle uncontrollably. The giggling continued at several Charleston bars and had not stopped completely when Rock Troy left Ben off at his house in Ravenel.
Chapter 26
Early Friday afternoon, Bull's office phone rang. He picked it up and heard Lt. Col. Cecil Causey's voice on the other end. Causey was the commanding officer of squadron 234, which had the reputation and history of being one of the best F-8 squadrons in the Marine Corps for the past five years. The two squadrons were locked in an intense competition to win the trophy signifying supremacy among the other squadrons at Ravenel Air Base. Bull's squadron had a long uphill fight to overtake and surpass 234, and he knew it, but a strong bond and rivalry stirred the relationship, not only because the squadrons flew the same type of plane, but also because Bull and Cecil Causey were best of friends.
Bull had flown with Cecil Causey in the Korean War and had great respect for the man both as a commander and a pilot. A gifted raconteur and an indefatigable drinker, Causey was a pilot of unimpeachable courage. He had once flown a burning Corsair away from a densely populated urban area before bailing out. Three quarters of his body had been terribly burned during the ordeal, his face receiving some of the severest damage. Plastic surgeons removed half his nose, and much of the right side of his face after he was rescued at sea. Afterward they constructed a new face for him that gave him a sinister, ferocious appearance. The right side of his face did not move. Causey was a master of half expression, half smiles, and half glowers, for all nuances of expression stopped at the invisible frontier that marked the dead sector of his face. Bull thought Colonel Causey's melted, rebuilt face was a perfect one for a Marine fighter pilot. But Lillian always remarked that the doctors had taken a badly burned, homely man, and with all the advances of modern medicine at their disposal, turned him into a grotesquerie.
"Meecham," Colonel Causey barked into his end of the phone," this is Lieutenant Colonel Causey, the C.O. of the toughest fucking squadron ever to fly jets for the United States Marine Corps."
"No," Bull answered in a toneless voice, "there must be some mistake. This couldn't be the Colonel Causey I know because the Causey I know is the C.O. of the most limp-wristed, lily-livered, dick-sucking squadron in the history of flight. You, sir, are obviously an impostor, but you did happen to call the C.O. of the best squadron in the world. Can I help you?"
"You lowdown son of a bitch, Bull," Colonel Causey said, laughing. "No kidding, I do want to ask a favor of you. I was over at your house last week when you were on deployment to Yuma, and I left my good shoes under Lillian's bed. I wonder if you'd be kind enough to return them as soon as possible?"
"Yeah, Lillian told me you were over, come to think of it. She said she screwed a guy with the smallest dick in the Marine Corps, and I instantly thought of you. How are you doing, No Nose?"
"Pretty good, Bull. Here's why I'm calling. I thought it would be just outstanding if your squadron and mine could meet tonight at the club for happy hour. Let the boys let off a little steam. Let 'em drink together. Insult each other a bit. Maybe have a few fist fights. You know, Old Corps stuff, like when we were young Marines."
"What do you mean when we were young Marines. I'm a youngster compared to you, No Nose. By the way, I've always meant to ask you, what was it really like in the Halls of Montezuma?"
"We could start off by having a beer chugging contest," Causey answered.
"You sure your boys could handle beer, No Nose? We could chug mother's milk or something so your boys won't get nauseous or anything."
"Beer's fine, Bull. Tell your boys not to wear nylon stockings and lipstick this time 'cause there's gonna be some real Marines at the bar come 1700."
"This is a damn good idea, Cecil. I'll call a meeting of my troops to get 'em fired up for happy hour. By the way, should you and me start the fisticuffs?"
"Hell, yes. That's great. The last time you and me fought was down at Rosey Roads in 'fifty-eight. Didn't I end up sitting on your face?" Causey asked.
"No, that was the time I punched you in the nose and nearly broke my hand. No one told me those quacks who built you a new nose made it out of cement. Sure, Cece, let's you and me start it off to show the young lieutenants how it's done. By the way, is Varney going to be there at happy hour?"
"Negative, I've already had my scouts turn in intelligence reports. He and most of the other brass punched out this morning for a high level meeting with the Great Kahuna at Cherry Point. They'll probably discuss the implementation of a vital campaign for good dental hygiene among pilots. You know how they do. They'll make it a court-martial offense for pilots not to use dental floss twice a day."
"Ha! Ha!" Bull laughed. "I've missed you, Cecil. Where've you been keeping yourself?"
"I've been flying my L.M.D. ever since the Cuban rift. Everett thinks if you can fly your large mahogany desk as well as you fly an F-8, then you shouldn't command a squadron. I'm lucky to get ten hours of flying time in a week, Bull, and that's no shit. And you remember the days when I'd get in sixty or seventy hours a week with no sweat."
"That was the Old Corps, No Nose, the Old Corps."
"Yeah, Bull. You and I are the last of a great breed."
"I'm the last of a great breed. You are the last of the scum and dross."
"How's Lillian and the kids?"
"Fine. The troops are shaping up, I think."
"I've been reading about Ben. It looks like a chip off the old block as far as basketball is concerned."
"He ain't as good as the block."
"I can vouch for that. I still remember that game against West Point when you were playing for Quantico."
"I scored thirty-two that night," Bull said, "and ate their forward Saleesi alive."
"Naw, you scored two and Saleesi ate you alive."
"You son of a bitch."
"Bull, you still got an ego the size of a battleship. Anyway, get them lace panty pilots over to th
e club at happy hour and I'll let 'em drink with some men with real hair on their peckers. And one more thing, Bull. I want you to do me a favor."
"Anything, Cecil. You know I'll do anything for you," Bull said, growing serious.
"I've got a real turkey of a lieutenant that I want taught a lesson by one of your studs. Maybe put him out of commission for a little while. Perhaps ten years."
"What's his name, and what does he look like?"
"His name is Beasley. You'll recognize him right away. He'll be wearing an ascot, a Sam Brown cartridge belt, and a Bowie knife. I'm making him leave his pearl-handled revolver at home."
"You're kidding, Cecil," Bull groaned. "Anyone that wears that kind of crap to happy hour either has to be the best pilot in the world, or he's got the biggest set of nads in the southeast.
"You'd think so, wouldn't you? We got a pool goin' at the squadron about when ol' Beasley's gonna kill himself in a plane or kill one of us. This guy already is well on his way to becoming a black ace."
"How many planes has he lost?"
"He's lost three and he's only been in the Marine Corps four years. One of his crashes happened when he punched out on takeoff."
"Is this the same guy flamed out near Jacksonville in December?" Bull asked.
"That's my man Beasley."
"I've heard about him, No Nose. I heard he punches out if he feels a sudden blast of moonlight on his wing."
"I want one of your studs to let him know he is not the most beloved of all pilots. I'd get one of mine to do it, but you know the kind of problems that can cause. Anyway, I'm afraid of something."
"What's that, No Nose?"
"Everytime I see ol' Beasley, it pisses me off royally. It pisses me off when I see him breathing. He's using up oxygen that I could be breathing. Or my kids. Or egg-sucking dogs. Or even you. I'm tired of seeing him breathing, Bull. I even hate it when he blinks. You ever met anybody like that?"
"Yeah," Bull said," I'm trying to think of who it is though. Oh, I know. I felt that way when I first met you."