The Scummers

Forty-One

232 Forty-One The Marvelous Bar Geneva, New York October 1961 We were preparing for another 24-hour shift of mind-numbing guard duty. Our platoon was in formation, standing guard mount in the parking lot in front of the barracks building, the warm, early October sun not yet edging over the top of the building, just enough snap in the air to tell us that winter was hunched off to the north, waiting. Kraus was reading something from a clipboard, his voice droning . I was not paying attention. I’m not sure anyone else was, either. Lt. Ringer was somewhere off to the side, waiting for Kraus to finish reading, then he and Kraus would walk down each row of men, inspecting, hoping to find some infraction. Over Kraus’s shoulder I could see the door to the barracks snap open and Sgt. Murphy stride through. He came straight to Kraus, said something to him that none of us could hear, and then left as quickly as he had arrived. I thought I saw Kraus’s face turn slightly red. He was slightly pissed. The inspection went fairly well—which always irritated Ringer and Kraus—and Kraus brought us to attention, preparing to tell us to “fall out” and send us to our assigned posts for the day. And then Kraus said, “Stone, you will not be pulling guard duty today. Report to the badge office.” He did not look at me when he said that. 233 I stood in front of the counter at the badge office. I did not know why I was there and no one, not even Sgt. Heffner, the guy in charge, paid any attention to me. In fact, no one looked directly at me. I didn’t mind. From where I stood I could see Antonia DiPaulo. She glanced casually in my direction. I could swear that there was a flash of recognition, but maybe I was wrong. Her back was to me. I could not see that magnificent chest but through her snug blouse I could see the indentations of her bra as it struggled to keep control of those tits. I wondered how Heffner managed to get through the day in the presence of those tits. Surely, they must have occupied his every cogent moment . . . “Stone.” Jesus H. Christ, there was only one voice like that. I wheeled around and looked at Ruker. “With me, Private Stone.” And he disappeared down a narrow hallway. Garcia sat at a metal desk in the far corner of the small office. His handsome face was expressionless, but, even so, I thought I could sense that he was not exactly happy with my being in the room. “I’m borrowing you, Stone. You are on temporary duty with me until you are told otherwise.” “Yes, si—” Then I decided to come right out with it. “What the hell am I supposed to call you?” I noticed the signs of a tiny grin on Garcia’s face. “You don’t call me anything, private. Nothing at all. If you should ever think you have occasion to do so, my name is Ruker. You do know that, don’t you?” 234 “Yes. I do.” I decided that I would never utter Ruker’s name. Just the use of his name was a bad omen. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you what your job is.” I sat. “But before we get to that, when you leave here you will go to the armory and turn in your issued weapon. And then you will come back here and take this.” And he handed me a .45 so bright and shiny that it glistened in the lights. Fully loaded. Starker’s. I sat in the middle of the night in one of Ruker’s civilian cars, wearing civilian clothes, in a civilian town, across the street from a civilian bar. This was what I had been assigned to do by Ruker—stay awake, observe, take notes, report. I was hunkered down behind the wheel of the car—turns out he had three of them—wearing a dark ball cap, my eyes just barely high enough in the window to see out. I had the windows rolled up and the doors locked, in some highschool thinking that that might protect me. “So, if that is all I’m supposed to do, why do I need the piece?” I...