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?"

"That's going too fucking far!" McCoy flared.

Pickering saw icy fury in McCoy's eyes.

"For that I apologize," he said.

The ice in McCoy's eyes did not go away.

"I'm sorry, Ken," Pickering said. "You know my mouth."

"Well, lay off this subject!"

"Okay, okay," Pickering said. "I said I was sorry and I meant it. If you're free, I'll be either in the room, or '21.' Call me. If you're not otherwise occupied."

McCoy nodded and then turned and walked toward Grand Central Station. Pickering watched him. Halfway down the block, he looked over his shoulder as if to check if Pickering was following him.

Pickering pretended to be looking for a cab.

The poor sonofabitch has really got it bad for this broad. I wonder who she is?

A cab stopped, and Pickering got in.

"Grand Central," he said.

"It's right down the street, for Christ's sake!"

Pickering handed him five dollars.

"Take the long way around," he said. "I'm in no hurry."

Feeling something like a private detective shadowing a cheating husband, he stationed himself in the Oyster Bar where he felt sure he could see McCoy and the deflowered virgin, but they could not see him.

Pickering was twice surprised when the deflowered virgin showed up five minutes early, and after a moment's hesitation kissed McCoy, first impersonally and distantly, and then again on the lips, looking into his eyes, as a woman kisses her lover.

Pick Pickering had known Ernie Sage most of her life. He was surprised that she had been a virgin. And he was surprised that McCoy thought she was poor. There were some people who thought Ernie Sage had gotten her job with J. Walter Thompson, Advertising, Inc., because she had graduated summa cum laude from Sarah Lawrence. And there were those who thought it just might be because J. Walter Thompson had the account of American Personal Pharmaceutical, Inc., which spent fifteen or twenty million a year advertising its wide array of toothpastes, mouthwashes, and hair lotions. The chairman of the board of American Personal Pharmaceuticals (and supposedly, its largest stockholder) was Ernest Sage.

Chapter Thirteen

(One)

U.S. 1 Near Washington, D.C.

2230 Hours, 23 November 1941

They stopped for gas and a hamburger, and when they started off again, Pickering took the wheel.

"What did you think of the Met?" Pickering asked.

"What?"

"Since I didn't see you from the time we walked out of Brooks Brothers until five-thirty this afternoon, I naturally presumed that you had been enriching your mind by visiting the cultural attractions of New York City. Like the Metropolitan Museum of Art."

McCoy snorted.

"We did take the Staten Island Ferry," he said. "She said it was the longest ride for a nickel in the world."

"It must have been thrilling!" Pickering said.

"Fuck you," McCoy said, cheerfully. "Since you're so fucking nosy, we spent most of the time in her apartment."

"We are now going sixty-eight miles per hour," Pickering said.

"So what? You're driving. You'll get the ticket, not me." Then he added, "But maybe you had better slow down a little. The Corps goes apeshit when people get speeding tickets. Especially in cars they're not supposed to have in the first place."

"If you were to slug me, I would probably lose control, and we would be killed in a flaming crash," Pickering said.

McCoy looked at him curiously.

"I mention that because I have something to say to you.

Some things-plural, two; and I want you to understand the risk you would be running by taking a poke at me."

"You can say anything you want," McCoy said. "God is in his heaven, and all is right with the world."

"Ernie Sage really got to you, huh?"

"How do you know her name?" McCoy demanded,

suspiciously.

"I followed you," Pickering said. "When you met her in Grand Central, I was lurking behind a pillar."

"You sonofabitch!" McCoy said. But he wasn't angry. "I hope you got an eyeful."

"Very touching," Pickering said. "Romeo and Juliet."

"She's really something," McCoy said.

"I realize this is none of my business-"

"Then don't say it," McCoy interrupted.

"- but since you seem to put such weight on such things, I feel obliged to tell you something about her."

"Be careful, Pick," McCoy said, and there was menace in

his voice.

"Ernie is named after her father," Pickering said. "Ernest Sage. Ernest Sage is chairman of the board of American Personal Pharmaceutical."

"So what?" McCoy said. "I never even heard of it."

Pickering recited a dozen brand names of American Personal Pharmaceutical products.

"In other words," McCoy said, finally catching on, "she's like you. Rich."

"The rich say 'comfortable,' Ken," Pickering said.

"I don't care what they say," McCoy flared. "Rich is rich." There was a moment's silence, and then McCoy said, "Oh, goddamn!"

It was a wail of anguish.

"As I have tried to point out, being rich is not quite as bad as having leprosy," Pickering said. "I'm sure that if you put your heart in it, you could learn to like it."

"She lied to me, goddamnit. Why did she do that?" McCoy asked. Pickering knew he hadn't heard what he had

told him.

"There is a remote possibility that the lady finds you attractive," Pickering said. "Marines have that reputation, I'm told."

"She made a fucking fool out of me!" McCoy said. "Goddamnit, she got me to tell her all about Norristown."

"Norristown?"

"About why I went in the Corps. About my father. Even about my slob of a sister.''

"If she wanted to hear about that, then that means she's interested in everything you are. What's wrong with that?"

"Just butt out of this, all right?"

"Now I'm sorry I told you," Pickering said.