High Hunt

Jack turned off into the dusty, graveled parking lot of a somewhat overly modern beer joint.

“I’m buying,” I said.

“OK, little brother,” Jack said. “Let’s go suck up some suds.” We piled out of the car and walked in the bright sunlight toward the tavern.

“This is a new one, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Not really,” Jack told me, “it’s been here for about a year now.”

We went inside. It was cool and dim, and the lighted beer signs behind the bar ran to the type thet sprinkled the walls with endlessly varying patterns of different colored lights. Tasteful beer signs, for Chrissake! I laid a twenty on the polished bar and ordered three beers.

The beer was good and cold, and it felt fine just to sit and hold the chilled glass. Jack started telling the bartender that I’d just got out, and that I was his brother. Somehow, whenever Jack told anybody anything, it was always in relation to himself. If he’d been telling someone about a flood, it would be in terms of how wet he’d gotten. I guess I hadn’t remembered that about him.

Lou sat with us for a while and then bought a roll of nickels and went over to the pinball machine. Like every jarhead I’ve ever known, he walked at a stiff brace, shoulders pulled way back and his gut sucked in. Marine basic must be a real bitch-kitty. He started feeding nickels into the machine, still standing at attention. I emptied my beer and ordered another round.

“Easy man,” Jack said. “You’ve got a helluva lot of drinkin’ to do before the day’s over, and I’d hate to see you get all kicked out of shape about halfway through. We’ve got a party on for tonight, and you’re the guest of honor.”

“You shouldn’t have done that, Jack,” I said. What I’d really meant to say was that I wished to hell he hadn’t.

“Look,” he said, “my brother doesn’t get out of the Army every day, and it’s worth a blowout.” I knew there was no point arguing with him.

“Is Marg really waiting?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “She’s got steak and all the trimmings on. I’m supposed to call her and let her know we’re on the way.”

“Well,” I said, “we shouldn’t keep her waiting. Hey, Jack, who’s this McKlearey guy anyway?” I thumbed over my shoulder at Lou.

“He works at Sloane’s used car lot. I knew him when I was in the Navy. We met in Yokosuka one time and pitched a liberty together. He’s got ten years in the Corps—went in at seventeen, you know the type—washed out on a medical—malaria, I think. Probably picked it up in Nam.”

“Bad scene,” I said. “He seems a little—tight—keyed-up or something.”

“Oh, Lou’s OK, but kind of watch him. He’s a ruthless son of a bitch. And for God’s sake don’t lend him any money—you’ll never see it again. And don’t cross him if you can help it—I mean really cross him. He’s a real combat Marine—you know, natural-born killer and all that shit. He was a guard in a Navy brig one time, and some poor bastard made a break for the fence. McKlearey waited until the guy was up against the wire so he couldn’t fall down and then blasted him seven times between the shoulder blades with a .45. I knew a guy who was in there, and he said that McKlearey unloaded so fast it sounded like a machine gun. Walked ’em right up the middle of the guy’s back.”

“Kill him?”

“Blew him all to pieces. They had to pick him up in a sack.”

“Little extreme,” I said.

“That’s a Gyrene for you. Sometimes they get kill-happy.”

I finished my beer. “Well,” I said, “if you’re done with that beer, I think I’m ready to face the world again. Besides, I’m coming down with a bad case of the hungries.”

“Right,” he said, draining his glass. “Hey, Lou, let’s go.”

“Sure thing,” McKlearey said, concentrating on the machine. “Just a minute—goddamn it!” The machine lit TILT, and all the other lights went out. “I just barely touched the bastard,” he complained.

“We got to go, anyway,” Jack said. “You guys go on ahead, and I’ll give Marg a quick buzz.”

Lou and I went back on out in the sunlight to Jack’s Plymouth and had another belt from the bottle.

“I’d just hit the rollover,” Lou said, “and I had a real good chance at two in the blue.” His eyes had the unfocused look of a man who’s just been in the presence of the object of his obsession.

“That pay pretty good?” I asked.

“Hundred and sixty games,” he said. “Eight bucks. Goddamn machines get real touchy when you’ve got half a chance to win something.”

“I prefer slots,” I said. “There was this one over in Germany I could hit three times out of four. It was all in how you pulled the handle.”

He grunted. Slots weren’t his thing. He wasn’t interested.

“She’s puttin’ the steaks on right now,” Jack said as he came across the parking lot. He climbed in behind the wheel. “They’ll be almost ready by the time we get there.” He spun us out of the nearly empty lot and pointed the nose of the car back down the highway.

We pulled in beside his trailer about ten minutes later and went on in. Margaret came over and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. She seemed a little self-conscious about it. I got the feeling that the “cousinly” kiss or whatever wasn’t just exactly natural to her. “Hi, Civilian,” she said.

“That’s the nicest thing anybody ever said to me,” I told her, trying to keep my eyes off the front of her blouse.

We all had another drink—whiskey and water this time—while Marg finished fixing dinner. Then we sat down to the steaks. I was hungry and the food was good. Once in a while I’d catch myself looking at McKlearey. I still didn’t have him figured out, and I wasn’t really sure I liked him. To me, he looked like a whole pile of bad trouble, just looking for someplace to happen. Some guys are like that. Anyway, just being around him made me feel uncomfortable. Jack and Margaret seemed to like him though, so I thought maybe I was just having a touch of the “first day out of the Army squirrelies.”

After dinner Marg got the kids up from their naps, and I played with them a little. They were both pretty young, and most of the playing consisted of tickling and giggles, but it was kind of fun. Maybe it was the booze, but I don’t think so. The kids weren’t really talking yet, and you don’t have to put anything on with a kid that age. All they care about is if you like them and pay attention to them. That hour or so straightened me out more than anything that happened the rest of the day. We flopped around on the floor, grabbing at each other and laughing.

“Hey, Civilian,” Jack said. “Let’s dump your gear over at your trailer. I want you to see how we got it fixed up.”

“Sure,” I said. “Uncle Dan’s gotta go now, kids,” I told the girls. Marlene, the oldest—about two—gave me a big, wet kiss, and Patsy, the baby, pouted and began to cry. I held her until she quit and then handed her to Marg. I went to the door where Jack was waiting.

“You guys go ahead,” Lou said. “I got my shoes off. Besides, I want to watch the ballgame.”

I glanced at the flickering TV set. A smeary-looking baseball game was going on, but I’d swear he hadn’t been watching it. I caught a quick glance between him and Margaret, but I didn’t pay much attention.

“You guys going to be down there long?” Margaret asked.

“We ought to unpack him and all,” Jack said. “Why?”

“Why don’t you put the girls out in the play yard then—so I can get the place cleaned up?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “Dust McKlearey, too—since he’s a permanent part of that couch now.”

Lou laughed and settled in a little deeper.

“We’ll take the jug,” Jack said.

“Sure,” Lou answered. “I want to rest up for tonight anyway.”

Jack and I put the little girls out in the little fenced-in yard and drove his Plymouth down the street to the trailer I’d rented. We hauled my duffle bag out of the back seat and went in.

It was hot and stuffy inside, and we opened all the windows. The trailer was small and dingy, with big waterstains on the wood paneling and cracked linoleum on the floor. Jack had been able to scrounge up a nearly new couch and a good bed, as well as a few other odds and ends of furniture, a small TV set, dishes, and bedding. It was kind of a trap, but like he said, it was a place to flop. What the hell?

“Pretty good, huh?” he said proudly. “A real bachelor pad.” He showed me around with a proprietary attitude.