‘‘What the hell is he doing in Morocco?’’
‘‘Don’t know,’’ Canidy said, ‘‘but I can imagine. . . .’’
‘‘You bet!’’ Whittaker said with a knowing look.
Curiosity got the better of Ed Bitter. Monica Carlisle was a movie star, possessed of spectacular breasts, blond hair worn hanging over one eye, who always portrayed the innocent about to be violated.
‘‘What about Monica Carlisle’s shameful secret?’’
‘‘He’s an old pal of ours, and he was at St. Mark’s with us for a while,’’ Whittaker explained. ‘‘He’s as old as we are. That’s the shameful secret. America’s innocent sweetheart either bred at eight or nine, or she’s a lot older than her public believes. And considerably less virginal.’’
‘‘No fooling?’’ Bitter said, genuinely surprised.
‘‘His father is German,’’ Canidy added, ‘‘and he went to college there. Since I imagine they’d want to draft him if he stayed there, or else we’d draft him if he came here, it’s likely he’s come up with the not unreasonable notion to sit the war out with some Arab friend in Morocco.’’
‘‘Good for Eric,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘That’s what we should be doing, instead of going off to the mysterious Orient. ’’
‘‘We should be doing? What’s with the ‘we’?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘I’m on my way to the Philippine Islands,’’ Whittaker said
‘‘You’re not kidding, are you?’’ Canidy asked seriously after a moment. Whittaker shook his head no.
‘‘Is that what you’re doing in Washington?’’
‘‘More or less,’’ Whittaker said.
They went into the rooms. Whittaker immediately lay on the bed, his battered cap now pushed down over his nose, his hands under his head, and his riding boots resting on the footboard, as Canidy and Bitter packed.
‘‘Actually, Richard,’’ Whittaker said, ‘‘I’m in Washington to have dinner with our Commander in Chief. He may well be, as Chesty says, a traitor to his class, and there is no question that he did me dirt, but I didn’t have the heart to turn my back on the sweet old guy.’’
‘‘How fine of you!’’ Canidy said. ‘‘St. Mark’s would be proud of you. ‘Greater love hath no man than that he dines with the Roosevelts.’ ’’
‘‘I didn’t think of it that way,’’ Whittaker said modestly.
‘‘Big affair?’’ Canidy asked. ‘‘Or just you and Uncle Franklin?’’
‘‘Uncle Franklin and Aunt Eleanor, actually,’’ Whittaker said.
‘‘And Aunt Eleanor will do the cooking herself, no doubt?’’ Bitter asked, going along with the joke.
‘‘God, I hope not,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘She’s a lousy cook.’’
‘‘How did our Commander in Chief do you dirt?’’ Bitter asked.
‘‘I joined up with the solemn promise from the Air Corps that after I trained, I’d go immediately into the Reserve. Two weeks before I graduated—by presidential order, or executive order, or whatever the hell they call it when he speaks ex cathedra—the rules were changed. All Reserve officers on active duty have to do another year, and resignations will also not be accepted from Regulars for a year.’’
‘‘I hadn’t heard about that,’’ Bitter said.
‘‘Me either,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘But it probably explains Commander Whatsisname’s icy attitude. I thought that sonofabitch was treating us as if we had been caught pissing on the flag.’’
‘‘Who?’’ Whittaker asked.
‘‘The guy who’s processing our discharges,’’ Canidy explained. ‘‘I’m sorry you got caught, Jim.’’
‘‘You’re sorry?’’ Whittaker snorted.
‘‘Well, when you see your uncle Franklin,’’ Bitter said, ‘‘you can tell him what a stinking thing that was for him to do.’’