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eggs, toast, coffee, a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, a copy of The Washington Star, and a
rose in a tiny vase.
"Come in," Sergeant George Hart called cheerfully.
The door opened and a man in a paint-stained smock stuck his head in.
"Sorry to disturb you, Sir," he said. "If you'll tell me when it's convenient, I'll come back and finish
painting the door." He pointed at the wall that separated the suite Hart shared with Moore from the one
Senator Richmond F. Fowler shared with Brigadier General Fleming Pickering. A tarpaulin concealed the
newly installed door.
"Come ahead," George said. "Watching other people work has never bothered me." The witticism was
lost on the painter.
"I'll come back when you've left, Sir."
"I don't plan to leave. Come on in and paint the door."
"Yes, Sir." George turned his attention to The Washington Star.
According to Reuters News Service, there was heavy fighting between the Germans and the Russians on
Mamayec Kurgan Hill, outside Stalingrad. Casualties on both sides were described as severe.
British troops had landed at Tamatave on the east coast of Madagascar, with the apparent intention of
taking the capital, Tananarive. This was held by reportedly "very strong" Vichy French forces. There was
a map, with arrows. George knew who the Vichy French were, they were the ones who'd made peace
with the Germans. But he had no idea where Madagascar was. The map was no help.
In the Pacific, the Commander in Chief, Pacific, had announced that six transports, under heavy escort,
had made it safely to Guadalcanal, where they successfully delivered the Seventh Marines (to reinforce
the First Marine Division), and a "substantial amount" of supplies. There was a map here, too; and
George studied this one with interest.
Until he'd seen Major Dillon's movies yesterday, he really hadn't been all that interested in Guadalcanal.
He was reading the comic strips when the telephone rang.
Not the one in his suite, one of the telephones in The General's.
He carefully squeezed past the painter working on the door and picked it up. It was The General's
phone, not the Senator's. He knew the drill:
"General Pickering's quarters, Sergeant Hart speaking, Sir." He would then tell them The General was
not available at the moment and could he take a message?
"George?" His heart jumped.
"Jesus Christ!"
"I called last night when I got here," Elizabeth Lathrop said.
"Some officer answered and said you would be late." He could feel her fingernails on his back, smell the
soap in her hair, taste the skin of her neck.
"How the hell did you get this number?"
"Where else would Pick's father stay in Washington?"
"What do you want?" He could tell from her tone that the question hurt.
Jesus Christ, I didn't want to hurt her feelings!
"Well, I happened to be in the neighborhood," she said more coldly, "and I thought I would just call up
and say hi."
"You're in Washington?"
"Yes," she said. "And I thought maybe you'd want to see me. He thought: I would kill to be inside you
again, with your breasts soft and warm against my chest.
Detective George Hart of the Saint Louis Vice Squad answered for him without thinking: "Honey, I can't
afford you." The telephone made a clicking noise, then hummed, and then after a moment, there came the
dial tone.
"Shit!" Hart said, loudly and bitterly. He slammed the handset into the cradle and said "shit!" again.
The man painting the door looked at him with open curiosity. George glowered at him and the painter
looked away.
How the hell can I find her? Call the local cops and ask them as a professional service to a brother vice
detective if they have an address or known associates of a high-class whore named Lathrop, Elizabeth,
white female, approximately five three, approximately twenty-two or twenty-three, approximately one
hundred five pounds, blue eyes, blond hair, no distinguishing scars or bodily blemishes?
That's probably not even her fucking name. That's her professional name.
Her real name is probably Agnes Kutcharsky or some shit.
He had just squeezed past the painter when the telephone rang again.
"General Pickering's quarters, Sergeant Hart speaking, Sir."
"Don't you think I know you don't have any goddamned money?"
"Baby!"
"You sonofabitch!"
"I'm sorry. That just... I don't know why I said that." There was a long silence.
"I said I was sorry."
"OK."
"Where are you?"
"The Hotel Washington."
I've seen that marquee. It's around here someplace. Hell, yes, right down the street, a block down from
Pennsylvania Avenue, around the corner from the movie theater.
"That's right around the corner."
"Yeah, I know. Do they give you any time off?"
"I'm off now."
"Would you like to come here? And have a drink or something?" A drink, at hal(past nine in the morning?
Or something?
"Or something," George said.
"I'm in 805," Elizabeth Lathrop said. The phone clicked again before he could open his mouth to say, "I'll
be there in a couple of minutes." It was beautiful outside. The sun was shining and the temperature was
just right. Indian summer, he thought, as he walked-almost trotted-past the White House. It's sort of like
a dream, he thought, walking past the White House, on my way to be with Elizabeth.
The Washington Theater was showing Eagle Squadron; Tyrone Power was playing an American who
went to fly for the English. Hart remembered hearing someplace that Tyrone Power was joining The
Corps. From Major Dillon, that's it, he remembered; he'd heard him tell The General. He wondered if
they would send him to Parris Island. It was strange to think of Tyrone Power with all his hair cut off
getting screamed at by some asshole like Corporal Clayton C. Warren.
The Hotel Washington was just where his memory placed it.
He pushed his way through the revolving door, walked across the lobby to the bank of elevators, and
rode up to the eighth floor; 805 was the third door to the left.
When Beth opened the door, she was wearing a white blouse, an unbuttoned sweater, and a tweed skirt.
And she wouldn't look at him.
"Hi! Come on in."
"I'm sorry about what I said on the telephone." She nodded but didn't reply.
"It's only a couple of blocks from the Foster Lafayette to here." She nodded again.
"So what brings you to Washington?" Now she looked at him, and there was pain in her eyes again.
"Oh, Jesus!" Hart said, almost moaning.
"Stupid of me, right?" Elizabeth said. "But I decided, what the hell..." He reached out and touched her
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