'Back to the great gray mother,' said Johnny. 'Come on. You want to try the Union Jack?'
'I should keep an eye on Poppy. You know.'
'I know. But he'll be busy dancing.'
'As long as he doesn't get to the Metro,' said Fat Clyde. They strolled down half a block to the Union Jack. Inside, Antoine Zippo, captain of the second division head, and Nasty Chobb the baker, who periodically used salt in place of sugar in the early morning's pies to discourage thieves, had taken over not only the bandstand in back, but also a trumpet and guitar respectively; and were now making Route 66, respectfully.
'Sort of quiet,' said Johnny Contango. But this was premature, because sly young Sam Mannaro, the corpsman striker, was even now sneaking alum into Antoine's beer which sat uneyed by Antoine on the piano.
'SP's will be busy tonight,' said Johnny. 'How come Pappy came over at all?'
'I never had that happen to me, that way,' Clyde said, a little brusque.
'Sorry. I was thinking today in the rain how it was I could light a king-sized cigarette without getting it wet.'
'Oh I think he should have stayed on board,' said Clyde, 'but all we can do is keep an eye out that window.'
'Right ho,' said Johnny Contango, slurping beer.
A scream from the street. 'That's tonight's,' said Johnny. 'Or one of tonight's.'
'Bad street.'
'Back during the beginning of all this in July the Gut ran one killing a night. Average. God knows what it is now.'
In came two Commandos, looking around for somewhere to sit. They picked Clyde and Johnny's table.
David and Maurice their names were, and heading off for Egypt tomorrow.
'We shall be there,' said Maurice, 'to wave hello when you people come steaming in.'
'If ever,' said Johnny.
'World's going to hell,' said David. They'd been drinking heavily but held it well.
'Don't expect to hear from us till the election is over,' said Johnny.
'Oh, is that it then.'
'Why America is sitting on its ass,' brooded Johnny, 'is the same reason our ship is sitting on its ass. Crosscurrents, seismic movements, unknown things in the night. But you can't help thinking it's somebody's fault.'
'The jolly, jolly balloon,' said Maurice. 'Going up.'
'Did you hear a bloke got murdered just as we came in.' David leaned forward, melodramatic.
'More blokes than that will get murdered in Egypt,' said Maurice, 'and don't I wish they would truss up a few M.P.'s now, in those jumping rigs and chutes. Send them out the door. They're the ones who want it. Not us.
'But my brother is on Cyprus, and I shall never live it down if he gets there first.'
The Commandos outdrank them two-for-one. Johnny, never having talked to anyone who might be dead inside a week, was curious in a macabre way. Clyde, who had, only felt unhappy.
The group on the stand had moved from Route 66 to Every Day I Have the Blues. Antoine Zippo, who had wrecked one jugular vein last year with a shore-based Navy band in Norfolk and was now trying for two, took a break, shook the spit out of his horn and reached for the beer on the piano. He looked hot and sweaty, as a suicidal workhorse trumpet should. Alum however being what it is, the predictable occurred.
'Ech,' said Antoine Zippo, slamming the beer down on the piano. He looked around, belligerent. His lip had just been attacked. 'Sam the werewolf,' said Antoine, 'is the only sumbitch here who could get alum.' He couldn't talk too well.
'There goes Pappy,' said Clyde, grabbing for his hat. Antoine Zippo leaped like a puma from the stand, landing feet first on Sam Mannaro's table.
David turned to Maurice. 'I wish the Yanks would save their energy for Nasser.'
'Still,' said Maurice, 'it would be good practice.'
'I heartily agree,' pip-pipped David in a toff's voice: 'Shall we, old man?'
'Bung ho.' The two Commandos waded into the growing melee about Sam.
Clyde and Johnny were the only two heading for the door. Everybody else wanted to get in on the fight. It took them five minutes to reach the street. Behind them they heard glass breaking and chairs being knocked over. Pappy Hod was nowhere in sight.
Clyde hung his head. 'I suppose we ought to go to the Metro.' They took their time, neither savoring the night's work ahead. Pappy was a loud and merciless drunk. He demanded that his keepers sympathize and of course they always did, so much that it was always worse for them.
They passed an alley. Facing them on the blank wall, in chalk, was a Kilroy, thus:
