My mouth went dry at the prospect of such a considerable payday before my curious nature took hold. ‘What on earth is in that ledger that’s worth that much?’
As much this job excited and impressed me, the life-saving sixth sense I’d developed early in combat started to scream its warning. But this much money was impossible to turn down, and something about Paul Smith intrigued me.
“Well, I’ll get right on it,” I managed to rasp as we stood and shook hands.
0>>Pete’s Ice House, Houston, Texas – Late Spring1947
A loud, abrasive patron interrupted my reverie. He went hard at it, regaling two guys and a brassy blonde in their mid-twenties with his exploits as a Marine during the war. He drew me in like the others, but for a different reason. Smith and Chet also glowered at him.
Loudmouth floated between the bar and his listeners’ table, brandishing a beer bottle in one hand and a smoldering Chesterfield in the other. Due to his volume and theatrical mannerisms, the other half-dozen patrons at nearby tables could hardly ignore him and a couple turned their chairs to watch him.
‘This jackass is annoying, but I’m here to do a job.’
Smith loitered around the single decent light above that end of the bar, and I watched his handsome expression grow hard and dark. As my attention drifted back to the abrasive storyteller, I felt it, too.
With an animated, wide-eyed expression, Loudmouth recounted, “There was these whole waves ‘a Japs coming at us! Chargin’ should-to-shoulder, screaming like maniacs, and as fast as we mowed ’em down, the next bunch of Nips plugged the gaps!
‘Oh, brother!’ My cigarette and beer lost their taste.
“You see, on The Canal, that’s what we Marines called Guadalcanal, the only good Jap was a dead one.” He chuckled lowly to himself as if it was a private joke. “Hell, I heard old Chesty–that’s the famous Chesty Puller–say that. You know, he was quite the regular guy and was close to us men and all.”
“Oh, yeah!” one of his friends responded. “I read about him in the Saturday Evening Post!”
The storyteller took a long drag on his cigarette, the tip glowing and fading. As if indulging a child, he spat, “Aw, balls! Don’t believe everything you read! Chesty was the real McCoy to us Marines, but a lot of what you read just ain’t true. That’s why they call him ‘legendary,’ don’t ya see? We knew the real man behind the legend.”
Smith glanced over at Chet as he rolled his eyes.
Bile rose in my throat, and my pulse quickened. ‘Damnit! This guy’s never been west of Abilene!’ I didn’t understand why guys like Loudmouth pissed me off so badly, but then I’d never seen one this brash.
Soon, Smith turned away from Loudmouth with an expression halfway between angry and sullen. While listening to Loudmouth’s blather, Smith’s gaze wandered in my direction, but his mind lingered elsewhere.
‘Why am I still sitting here? I should finish my beer and cigarette, slide out, and phone Christine. Then, watch him until she shows up, probably tomorrow morning.’ Inside the Rexall, a short half block to the west, were a pair of phone booths. ‘It’s time to go!’
Chet snorted, “Pssshh–I’ve heard enough to last all week.” He drained the dregs of his beer and slid some loose change over to the bartender. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Pete. Maybe this guy will wind down by then.”
Bartender Pete smiled and said, “Yeah, see ya tomorrow. Say hello to Marie.”
Chet nodded and donned his well-worn work fedora. Before leaving, he called over his shoulder, “Don’t forget to parry them Jap bayonets, Kid.”
Loudmouth paused, glared at Chet’s retreating back, and said, “Aw, shaddap! Keep on walking, wise guy!”
His listeners laughed. “Now, where was I?” Loudmouth asked. “Oh, yeah. The night them Nips come across the river at us, I could feel it in my gut, which is how you get after a few hot actions.” He droned on in the same irritating, overly dramatic vein.
Smith drummed his fingers on the bar with growing agitation as Loudmouth continued telling the folks at the table how he and Chesty Puller ran the Japs off Guadalcanal. Smith took a long, hard drag on his cigarette and mashed it in the Bakelite ashtray like he was getting even with it.
The kid irritated me, but I was working. I tried to calm down and began gathering my things to ease out of the icehouse. I’d finished the hard part of my job.
I jumped when Smith slammed his fist on the bar, and Loudmouth abruptly halted refighting the Solomons campaign. Smith turned around quickly enough that Pete stiffened and glanced down at whatever he stowed under the bar to maintain order.
“Listen, Kid, I don’t think you were anywhere near Guadalcanal,” Smith declared in a low voice, tense with controlled anger. “I don’t think you are old enough to have been out there.”
‘That’s telling him! Set that fresh kid straight!’ My resolve to leave faded, and I laid my case back on the bar.
“Aw, tend to your own rat killing, Mister,” Loudmouth snapped. Several listeners chuckled.
Pete muttered something to Smith, and they leaned closer, exchanging words. Nodding, Pete relaxed, folded his arms, and leaned against the barback.
Turning back to Loudmouth, Smith interrupted, “Who were you with on Guadalcanal?”
‘Here comes the moment of truth.’ I repressed a smile.
Irritated, Loudmouth rounded on him. “The Marines, wise guy! The Army got there after we already done all the heavy liftin’!” he answered sarcastically. “And I sure ain’t no Jap, am I?” He laughed, which his three admirers and someone deeper in the room echoed.
“Unit, bonehead! What unit?” Smith spat in his command voice.
‘Get him!’ I struggled to contain a raft of strange emotions.
Surprised, Loudmouth thought for a moment. “First Marines. Who else?”
‘Ha! My old unit! Screw leaving this place! He’s got my full attention.’ My adrenaline surged, and my palms sweated as I climbed back on the bar stool.
“Oh? The First?” confirmed Smith calmly. “Who was the Skipper?”
A little less sure of himself, Loudmouth paused but recovered. “Who? General Vandergrift! Who else?”
I couldn’t help myself and laughed along with Smith as all doubts about Loudmouth disappeared. All heads snapped around in our direction, followed by a titter of nervous laughter.
Surprised, Smith flashed a brilliant smile in my direction. ‘Stay calm, but that kid’s also got me riled up.’
Returning to Loudmouth, Smith barked, “Vandergrift commanded the First Marine Division.” He emphasized the last word. “I asked you who you were with, Kid. What lash-up? What regiment?” That last prompt was never required of a real Marine.
‘This is gonna be rich.’ My hands shook.
A speechless Loudmouth glared haughtily at Smith like he was some half-baked feather merchant.
I couldn’t stand it, and for some damn reason, I chimed in, “I was with Fox company, First Marines.” A genuine Marine didn’t need to hear the battalion number. “On Guadalcanal, our skipper was Colonel Clifton Cates.” My throat became suddenly dry, and I took an eyewatering swig of cold beer. “Since you and Chesty were best pals, what unit did you and he serve with on Guadalcanal?” I rumbled.