The Med (33 page)

Yeah, it was all real symbolic. He brought the glass out into the lounge with him, wishing it was bourbon, and settled in with Blood and Sullivan and Chapman for a quick game before bed. Blood dealt, his satyr's beard close over the table as cards fluttered through the tilting air of the lounge.

“Rough tonight,” said Sullivan mildly. “Unc, what we got coming?”

“My kind of weather,” grinned Blood. “Whitecaps in your coffee cups. Got a semitropical heading up from Africa; it'll pass us close aboard. Five-card stud, deuces. What do you say … how'd you like the initiation?”

“Real good. You ran it real well, Pop.”

Old Chief Chapman made a face. “Not like what we had in the old days. Quonset Point, once, we had a winter initiation. Got a tumbler of booze in each of them, stripped 'em, marched 'em out onto this fresh-water lake and went ice fishin'.”

“Christ,” said Sullivan.

“Wasn't too bad, we only lost one guy's pecker.”

“You jerks going to ante up, or what?” said Blood.

“Did somebody just turn on a forced draft blower?”

“Up yours.”

“Ten.”

“Yup.”

“Gimme three.”

“Two cards.”

“Real el crappo hand.”

“So anyway,” said Wronowicz, chilling his tongue on a deep draught of water, “d'ja hear the one about the Jewish princess, got herself a gold diaphragm?”

“Why's that?”

“So's her men would all come into money.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Raise you ten.”

“Shit!”

“Pass.”

“Yeah,” said Blood, squinting at his hand, then reaching into his pocket for a cigar. “You guys want one?… Sully?”

“Sure.”

“That reminds me of the one about this guy goes into a bar. He's dressed in a tux, got this flashy blonde on his arm. He makes like he's this big shot, tells the bartender, ‘Bring me a bottle of good wine. Got any Chateau Lepew, 1937?' ‘Wait a minute—I think we might,' says the bar-hop. He goes down into the cellar and comes up a couple minutes later with this old, dusty bottle with spiderwebs all over it. Pass.”

“Pass.”

“Raise you a quarter.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Blood lit the cigar. “So the guy smells the cork, and makes a big production out of tasting it. Then he says, ‘There's something wrong here. This isn't a '37. I think it's a '38.' So the bartender wipes the dust off with his elbow, and sure enough, there on the label it says 1938. ‘Gee,' he says, ‘sorry. I'll go get you the '37.' And he goes back down in the cellar.”

“You look like a movie star with that cigar, Unc,” said Sullivan.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, like Lassie taking a shit,” said Chapman. He giggled. “Sorry, Sully, I heard it a long time ago.”

“Back on the
Maine,
I'll bet,” said Blood.

“Like you're always saying to me, tell the goddamn joke,” said Wronowicz.

“Bartender comes up with another bottle, the guy tries it, says ‘No, that's a '36.' He cleans off the label, sure enough it says 1936. He shakes his head, goes down again, comes back up. This time he checks the label first, and the guy in the tux tastes it, nods, says ‘Yeah, that's it. 1937.'

“Meanwhile, there's this old warrant sitting at the bar, drunk as shit, watching it all and muttering to himself. After a while he calls the bartender over and says ‘Gimme a wineglass.' The bartender gives it to him, and he turns around there at the bar and pisses it full. Then he calls over to the civilian, ‘Hey! Taste this stuff,' and slides it down the bar to him.

“The guy takes one sip and sprays it all over the bar. ‘That's urine!' he says.

“‘Sure,' says the warrant, ‘it's piss. But tell me: How old am I?'”

The four chiefs laughed. Chapman took the pot and scooped it in, putting it in his empty cup to keep it from sliding over the table as the destroyer rolled. “Your deal,” said Sullivan to Wronowicz.

“Boston. Seven cards, three up, nothing wild. Unc, that must be the same warrant that went into a bar one day with three of his pals.”

“Sounds like him so far, yeah.”

“They sit in the back for a while, then the warrant comes up to the bar and orders a beer. The bartender is this big ugly guy—”

“Sounds like you, Kelly.”

“Shut up. With a busted nose. Mean-looking. The warrant watches him polishing the bar, and finally he says, ‘Say. You a betting man, Shorty?'

“‘Sometimes,' says the barkeep.

“‘I'll bet you a buck I can bite my eye,' says the warrant.

“‘Bite your
eye?
You're on,' says the barkeep. So the warrant reaches up, takes out his glass eye, and bites it and puts it back. The big guy shakes his head, pays him a dollar. The warrant sits for a while, drinking, then says, ‘Say. Want to make another bet?'

“‘What is it this time?' says the bartender. Now he's suspicious, see.”

“Good cards at last,” said Sullivan, his face lighting up. “Raise four bits.”

“In.”

“Forget it.”

“See you and another two bits, too.”

“Heavy betting,” said Chapman.

“‘Bet you five bucks I can bite my other eye,' says the warrant.”

“His
other
eye?” said Sullivan.

“Yeah. So the bartender says, ‘Now, wait a minute. You didn't come in here with no dog. Sure, it's a stupid bet, but I'll take it.' He puts down a five, and then the warrant takes out his false teeth, bites his other eye, and puts them back in.”

“Ha. Good one,” said Blood, and it was unclear whether he meant his hand or the story.

“The big guy's kind of mad, but he goes back to polishing the bar. The warrant sits for a while, then he says, ‘Tell you what—I hate to see a man lose twice. One more bet. Bet you I can piss a beer bottle full while it's sliding down the counter, without spilling a drop.'

“‘There's no way you can do that,' says the barkeep.

“‘Ten bucks says I can.'

“‘I can't pass this one up,' says the barkeep. So he takes an empty bottle, the warrant unzips his fly and hauls his dick out, and the barkeep skates it down the bar. The warrant runs along the bar, pissing like a horse, and it goes all over the bar. He doesn't get drop one in the bottle. ‘You stupid shit,' says the big guy, laughing his ass off. ‘Pay up.' So the warrant pays up, and starts to leave. ‘Wait a minute,' says the barkeep. ‘You knew you couldn't do that. Didn't you?'

“‘Yeah, I guess so,' says the warrant.

“‘So you just dropped ten bucks. How come?'

“‘Well,' says the warrant, ‘you're right. But, see, I bet my pals there in back a hundred bucks that I could piss all over your bar and make you laugh about it.'”

Their laughter was interrupted by the drone of a foghorn, muffled by the many decks between them and the mast, but still distinct. They saw Blood stiffen. “You got to go up?” said Sullivan.

“Nah. Captain's up there, and the navigator. It's probably just a squall.” He relaxed, but still chewed at the cigar, which had gone out. “Your deal, Pop.”

Chapman dealt. “Singapore,” he said.

“What the fuck is that?”

“You'll see … picked it up in Havana. You ever been to Havana? No, you boys are all too young.”

“Jesus, yes,” said Wronowicz. “You pick up anything else in Havana?”

“Oh yeah.” Chapman chuckled. “That was one wide-open port … you boys think the Med is wild, you ought to of seen the hair shows on Calle Punta.”

“I was to a dog and pony once, in Tijuana,” contributed Sullivan, and they looked at him.

“Kid stuff … they had this dame on Punta Street, used to pick up coins with her twat. Guys would throw them up on stage, she'd kind of squat down, wiggle around, and stand up with it there, no hands. Damnedest thing you ever saw. So one time,” Chapman giggled, “this motormac I was with, I was a third-class then, he got out a silver dollar, and we heated it up with our Zippos and tossed it up on stage. God-
damn!
You never heard such a ruckus.”

“How the hell old are you, anyway, Pop?” Blood asked him.

“I'm so old,” said Chapman, giggling over the cards, “I was tyin' square knots before you got the pins out of your diapers. I'm so old that squeezin' into a parking space satisfies me sexually. I'm so old I remember before they had crappers.”

“Come off it,” said Wronowicz.

“Serious … in the old Navy they didn't have none of these porcelain thrones. You sat in a line over a trough, just a steady stream of seawater goin' under you. It was the goddamn funniest thing…”

“Funny?” said Sullivan, tossing one of his last coins into the pot.

“Yeah, ever so often some smartass on the end would wad up some toilet paper, light it, and float it on down the line. Scorch everybody's butt, they'd pop up and scream one after the other … jeep carrier once I was on, they had an avgas leak in the piping system, contaminated the firemains; guy threw his butt into the trough and it exploded, killed two weather-guessers and a reserve lieutenant commander.”

The three younger chiefs looked at Chapman, undecided whether to laugh or believe him, and his wizened poker face—it seemed almost as old as the sea itself—gave them no clue at all. “Shit,” said Wronowicz at last. “Let's play some cards, here. You and your goddamn sea stories. Next you'll be telling us you were a plankowner on the Ark. Cut the friggin' cards, it's your deal, Sully.”

“This better turn out. I'm 'bout broke.”

“I got the next watch anyway,” said Blood, fanning out his cards. “This is the last hand for me. Yeah … yeah. Kelly, you ever get back to that babe in Naples?”

“No,” said Wronowicz shortly. He wished Blood hadn't mentioned her; he had hardly thought about her all day.

“Some piece … I thought those goddamn bersagleers had us.”

“Where'd you put the bed, Kelly?”

“Lashed it down in one of the fan rooms.”

“Gimme three.”

“Two.”

“Think I'll stick with these, crummy as they are.”

“Yeah, I had me a redhot shack-up a few years ago in Newport,” Blood mused. “Secretary at the ninety-day-wonder school there. Thirty-six-inch bust, chokies big as silver dollars … nipples as big as your thumb. Tell a dirty joke, get her excited, you could see them pop right up under her dress. She was right-handed. The right one always went first; then the left one, and you knew she was ready. Crummy face but great boobs, and I'm your basic tit man. She loved to take it aboard, too, but there was one problem.”

“What was that?” said Chapman.

“She smelled. It was like northern herring after a week in the sun. We used to go out bicycling, and it got so bad I had to stay upwind of her.”

Sullivan looked uncomfortable. “Jesus,” he muttered.

“What's wrong, Sully?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Yeah, she liked it, all right. I bet she had more sailors aboard than the U.S.S.
Independence.
Most guys was only good for maybe three times for her, though. But she had the old wide-on for me and no lie. She even said she was in love with me.”

The table was quiet for a moment as the chiefs concentrated on their cards. “Why didn't you tell her?” grunted Wronowicz.

“Tell her what?”

“Tell her she smelled. She could've fixed that.”

“Hell,” said Blood, grinning, “then some officer would've moved in. Talk about lube jobs! We'd go into the head in the acey-deucey club and she'd haul out my—”

“She loved you, you asshole. What did you do when you were finished with her, walk away?”

“Hey, what else could I do when the old lady arrived? I was married, man. See, here's the way I see it. You got to grab every piece of it you can get. It might be your best, and it might be your last. Like you did with that cunt in Naples—”

“Shut up, you fuckhead,” said Wronowicz, standing up. Something vicious rose in his chest. He slammed his fists down on the table, scattering the cards, and leaned over the astonished quartermaster like an avalanche. Confused feelings struggled in him, the urge to smash in the squinty eyes, the pointed, too-neat beard. Wronowicz didn't understand why; he didn't have the right words, though he had words, plenty of them, all obscene. But that was part of what enraged him, the relentless obscenity. He held his fists on the table with sheer will, and he and Blood stared at each other, the other two chiefs scrambling up from the sliding pile of cards and chips.

“Kelly, take it easy—”

“Cool it, Kelly. He's just telling a story.”

“Yeah? Well, I don't want to hear another story out of him for this whole fuckin' cruise,” Wronowicz said, looking down at Blood. The quartermaster slid back in his chair. The other chiefs moved unobtrusively behind the machinist, ready to grab him, but he did not move. Instead he held Blood's eyes until they fell to the cards and then he turned and walked heavily down to chiefs' berthing, listening to his heart thud in pace with his footsteps.

Dangerous, he thought. Doc told me, blood pressure. Ah, to hell with it. He threw himself into his bunk, rocking the partition, and stared at the overhead, listening to himself pant.

What the hell is wrong with me?

It was a foreign thought, frightening, from somewhere outside of him, and he pushed it away. He lay there for a few minutes, waiting for his pulse to still, and then got up in the darkened compartment and went to his locker. Back in the bunk, curtain drawn, he uncapped the fifth and took a deep drink of warm vodka. It fumed his throat like grease stripper, and he coughed and coughed and then took another long swallow and capped the bottle and snuggled it beside him, next to the bulkhead. Callin might come in, or Jay.… Fuck 'em if they do, he thought savagely. That fucking Blood. He took another drink, his gut warming to it, and reminded himself that he had only that bottle and one other to last God knew how long, till they made port again, and with this Cyprus horseshit that could be weeks.