42. Love Shack

She was USAF, not Marine Corps, which made it strange that she was in charge of all those Jarheads.

‘Get up, J-Rod.’ The Major jerked the pistol barrel. At least I knew I looked convincing as Berburos.

She must have just come from the Officers’ Club, since she was in mess dress. I wondered how she’d run across the concrete in that long skirt. I staggered getting up, off balance because my hands were still on my head. The Major took one hand off the gun and swept it through the air to draw my attention to her clothes.

‘What? No cracks about the get-up? I heard a lot about you, J-Rod.’ Her lip-gloss must have been good because none of it came off when she licked her lips. I kept my mouth shut, not being quite sure what J-Rod would have said in the circumstances. She turned to the Gunnery Sergeant and said ‘Get him to my office, use one of the MVTRs. I’ll ride there in your jeep, Gunny.’ The GS stomped a boot and bawled. ‘Ma’am, Yes Ma’m!’ They drove off. A heavy set corporal got two marines to bundle me into the back of a six-wheeled truck. Then six more got in behind them. I sighed. Mr D had given me a job, there was nothing for it, but to do it.

Around ten minutes later the MVTR stopped. I fell into one of the jarheads’ lap. Not one of them had shifted on the bench seats, though it seemed the vehicle had not braked, merely run into a rock face. Two marines jumped down after opening the rear doors. Two more grabbed me and threw me down at the men on the tarmac. They caught me, but pretended it was a close thing. The vehicle was parked outside a wire-fenced compound containing a one-storey clapboard building. The usual painted sign hung on the heavy-duty chicken wire. Just two lines; ‘Special Project #69’ with ‘OC Major Houlihan USAF’. The paint looked new in the truck’s headlights. The pedestrian access gate was open. The two Marines ushered me in and closed it behind me. I heard a click and looked back at them.

‘Not coming, boys?’

‘Sir, Nossir.’ They returned to the truck on the double without looking back. The clapboard building was a little more than a shotgun shack. You could have stood in the middle and reached the outside with your shotgun provided the doors and windows were open. The entrance door was open. Major Houlihan stood in the doorway, one hand all the way up at the top of the doorframe, one hip cocked and keeping the door open behind her. If she’d had her hair down, I’d have said ‘Hi Veronica, I forgot my glass key,’ but I guessed she’d never watched a black-and-white movie in her life. She crooked a finger and stepped back a little, but not enough. Or maybe just enough. She’d taken her mess dress ass-freezer off. The skirt looked like she’d been sewn into it. I made it past the Major only a few beads of sweat on my forehead to the bad. There was a corridor crossing the building leading to a rear exit. To the right were a row of doors with frosted glass and various posts listed, like NCO IC Contingency, OIC Project Management, Logistics and Supply. To the left was one door. Houlihan’s.

‘It’s open, Sugar. Just go in.’

It was. I did. There was a desk. There was also a bar, the kind rich people had in a Dakota Building apartment for entertaining friends. There were two chairs and a low table. Heavy drapes at the windows. There was even a damn’ chaise.

I bet myself the Devil had laughed all the way down in the Hellavator. How in temporal reality was I going to convince the Major that I was J-Rod without falling? Because the Major was clearly intent on dancing the Rhode Island Rumba with the entity that she thought was J-Rod. Who was going to deliver me from Temptation, since Gee-Oh-Dee was dancing in the darkness of senility?

The Major winked. ‘Like a drink, Sugar?’