'He doesn't look capable of making the Big Noise we need. He's so banal,' said Roger.
'He won the Medal of Honor.'
'Not banal, admittedly. But he could be any cop. He looks so cop. The brush haircut, the size, the wariness, the solitude.'
'He was a marine sergeant.'
'Well, yes, a sergeant. I do see that. Not the college polish of your typical officer. Walter, really, this isn't a mistake, is it? A state cop with a good war record? We've bet a lot on this fellow, and engineered our butts off to get him down here.'
'Take it from me, he's not just a cop. Put a gun in his hand and he's something you would not believe. Ask the Japs at Iwo, they found out the hard way. Ask the thugs of Hot Springs, if you can find any above the ground. He made plenty of Big Noise in those places.'
'Well, I hope you're right. Let's go start the dance.'
But Roger immediately sensed something from his younger assistant: reluctance, possibly fear. At least awkwardness. It was odd coming from a perfect no. 2 like Walter Short.
'Well? You're the one who knows him. It's your job to smooth this thing out, facilitate, make it happen.'
'Yes, but…'
'But what?'
'Well, we parted under ambiguous circumstances.'
'Now is a fine time to tell me.'
'I did tell you, Roger. Possibly you weren't listening.'
'Oh Christ, of course it's my fault. So you were sacked?'
'Sort of. A long story. Not worth retelling. Then, a few days later, that outfit had a catastrophe and some men were killed. I had nothing to do with it, of course, but you don't know how some people may see things.'
'So suddenly you're frightened? Excellent timing. My compliments.'
'I just feel a little off tonight. If I'm there, you won't get a sense of who he is and how to handle him. My presence will throw the dynamic off. I'll make myself known sometime later.'
'God. You sound like a schoolboy with a crush afraid to ask the girl out.'
'It's complicated. Don't stare at him.'
'We're way up here?'
But down below, it was as if Earl Swagger sensed that he was being examined, and from what angle. He immediately flicked his eyes up to them, and they were barely fast enough to recede into shadow before he locked on them.
'See? He has incredible reflexes. He feels things. It's the predator's sense of danger. It's his natural aggression. You stare at him, he feels it. It's what kept him alive in the Pacific.'
'You are so ridiculous,' Roger said. 'All right, Walter, hide up here from your love object. You be Cyrano, I'll be Christian.'
'Go, Big Winnetka,' said Walter.
'Good lord, Sergeant Swagger, you don't have to stand at attention,' said Roger heartily, turning on his best and most blazing Indian Hill Country Club charm. It had served him well there and at Harvard, in the army even, and most certainly in the Agency. He had no doubt that it would help him here, too.
'Sir?' said Swagger, turning his direct gaze upon the younger, thinner, far more glamorous man.
Roger saw less a face than some kind of Spartan shield with eyes: bronze, bone and leather, baked in the sun until brown, dented, battered, hooding gray eyes almost serene. Roger hurried onward. 'I mean, the place is guarded by U.S. Marines. And it's Cuba, for God's sake, the forty-ninth state. It's practically Miami.'
'Sir, I'm just trying to pay attention,' said the state policeman.
'Let me introduce myself. I'm Roge Evans, I do a little something in the codes department upstairs.'
'Yes, sir. I guess you'd be the spy.'
Roger laughed.
'Say, I wish it was that exciting. No, I just make sure the private messages to Washington stay private. I button things up for later unbuttoning. That's all. It's easy work, and it leaves me a lot of time to work on my tennis. You don't play?'
'No, sir.'
'Please. A man with your combat record should not be calling a man with mine sir. It should be the other way around.'
'Sure, but don't you know a lot about me.'
'Sergeant, you can't keep a secret in an embassy, let me warn you of that right now. So everyone knows about the medal on Iwo Jima, the five battle stars. Why, I only have one?'
'All that was a long time ago. I hardly ever think of it.'
Great! Roger had played what he assumed would be his best shot, the brotherhood-of-arms angle, and this Arkansas guy hadn't even noticed. But Roger wouldn't let it go without a struggle.
'Well, I think of it all the damned time,' he responded. 'Nothing that big ever happened to me before or since. I'm no hero, Sergeant, not like you, but I tried to do the right thing. I even got shot at a little, over in Europe. I was a sergeant, too. Look, if you feel you must stand here, let me get you a drink or something. You look so damned rigid.'
'I don't drink no more. I'm fine. I'm not a man for parties, that's all. I just stand around like a dumb ox and maybe sneak a peek at a gal now and then. The congressman seems to be enjoying himself.'
Damn! Roger was disappointed that the man hadn't picked up on his war-service gambit.
'Yes, well, if certain people are to be believed, he has a history of enjoying himself. Anyhow, you'll be happy to know that this is just the warm-up. The ambassador likes these intimate gatherings to show the staff and his millionaire pals how important he is. But next Monday, he's got the whole island coming in for a more formal thing. Oh, it'll be something. Movie stars, some athletes, Hemingway, newspaper joes, probably some actors, lots of corporation big boys, and the best kind of beautiful women: those of dubious morality. Some mobsters, some gamblers. They call themselves 'sportsmen.' If you don't like this, you'll hate that.'
'Thanks for the warning.'
'You sure I can't get you anything?'
'I'm just fine.'
There was no contact at all. Earl Swagger wasn't particularly interested in Roger St. John Evans, and Roger felt his coldness totally, despite the net of charm the young man had flung out. It secretly enflamed him. He was, after all, the celebrity of the station: handsome, debonair, a superb athlete, a war hero, the one everybody picked as the best boy, the fellow who'd go far.
But Earl just stood, in his centurion's stillness, his face wary but untroubled, his eyes steadily on the move, flicking this way and that, but nowhere near anxiety. He just watched.
He was completely ill-dressed for the dinner-jacketed formality of the evening, and if he'd noticed it-unlikely-it clearly didn't bother him a bit. His khaki suit was rack-bought, new, rather baggy and shiny at once, and too tight through the shoulders. Roger had to fight the temptation to give the man his tailor's name.
But then Roger noticed something, a lump under the coat, left side, under the arm where it oughtn't to be.
'You're armed?'
'Yes, sir. Today and every day.'
Roger sort of slid around and, looking across the chest, he could see the grip of a pistol protruding just half an inch from the shoulder holster that contained it. He brightened, because he recognized it.
'Oh,' he said, 'your old.45? I carried one, too.'
'Close enough,' Earl said. 'Yeah, it's a Government Model, but not a.45. It's what's called a Super.38.'
Roger knew just a little about guns.
'Super? It must kick?'
'Much less than a.45. The point is, it holds two more rounds. Nine. It shoots a little small bullet, about half the weight of a.45, but much faster. It'll go through most anything. I figured down here if I'm shooting-and I hope to hell I'm not-I'm shooting through or at a car. Sometimes a.45 won't even get through a car door.'
Roger suddenly lit up. He had it!
