the bartender.
“Don’t know which is worse, Jimmy. The fact that I have to wear these things to read or that I forget where I put them.” Despite the forty-minute drive, Leonard’s altercation with Sledge continued to rile him. Fortunately, he had plenty of work as a distraction. “Thirty-eight e-mails and that’s on a Saturday.” He flipped through the printouts his adjutant had stuffed in the bag. “How did we ever win a war before the computer was invented?”
“I don’t know, Colonel,” Jimmy said sympathetically. “I don’t have any use for the things.”
At least one message made him smile. His daughter had recently obtained a computer—no doubt a gift from her stepfather—and had learned to correspond with him using something she called “America Online.” Although he didn’t understand “AOL,” she communicated with him now more than ever so he liked it. Hi Dad! I was writing to say ‘Hi’ but also I wanted to let you know…I GOT INTO CORNELL!!!! He was proud of his little girl but sad he wasn’t there to help her celebrate. He pulled the message out of the stack, putting it in his pocket to remind him to call her as soon as he was home. On second thought, he remembered it was after 1 A.M. in New York. He’d congratulate her tomorrow.
Most of the pages were junk mail, but one that caught his attention was a personal message from a close friend in Washington. The Commandant of the Marine Corps sent the selection list for brigadier general to the president for signature on Thursday.
Leonard recalled a mentor’s advice. “Lieutenant colonel is the last promotion you’ll achieve on the basis of merit. After that, it’s as political as running for mayor.”
The e-mail continued. No one’s sure if Clinton will sign the list this week. The White House is in total chaos right now. I hear the Democrats don’t even know how to work the phones.
“Well, of course not,” Leonard grumbled. “They haven’t had to since Jimmy—”
“What was that, Colonel? You need somethin’?” the bartender asked.
“I meant ‘Jimmy’ as in Carter, not you, Mr. Sabo. Sorry to distract you, Jimmy. Must be talking to myself over here. Isn’t that another sign of old age?”
The message concluded with a friendly piece of encouragement. Wish I had more reliable information for you but with Bush losing the race no one knows what will happen to the promotion list. Still, I think your chances are better than most. Leonard was aware what the message didn’t say. Only four percent of eligible colonels would be promoted to general and many worthy women and men would be passed over. With an untested president in the White House, a fortuneteller’s prediction was as good as anyone’s was.
“Here you go, Colonel.” Jimmy placed a glass of Dewar’s in front of Leonard. “On the house. It’s a small token of my appreciation for what you do for this country.”
“On the rocks. Thanks, Jimmy.” At least he could count on some things without waiting.
Patrick circled the interior of WC’s to become familiar with its layout. The windowless club smelled of beer-soaked moldy carpeting. Without people, it seemed cavernous, especially compared to the small gay bar in Pensacola. The ceiling over the dance floor was two stories high. Pool tables overlooked it from a second-story pool bar. Patrick found a staircase to an open-air patio bar on the roof. Under a protective awning behind the bar, television screens showed videos of mellower songs. The chill in the air made him glad he’d brought his jacket. Over the ledge to the south, the city’s skyline and the bay glowed and sparkled in the dark. Compared to his hometown, San Diego’s downtown was modest, but the magnificence of the bay—with cliffs forming a protective peninsula on the other side—blew Lake Michigan away.
“Damn.” As Patrick scanned northward, his admiration for the city’s natural beauty reverted to anxiety as his eyes rested on the Marine Corps’ flag flying over the recruit training base.
“Scary—yet oddly ironic—how close the Marine Corps Recruit Depot is, isn’t it?”
The strange voice over his shoulder caused Patrick to jump. A second ago, he’d been the only person on the roof but now a dozen other customers milled about. The man who’d spoken to him, though, looked like a club employee. “I’m sorry—I—”
“I’m Lance.” The young man extended his hand. Patrick’s initial feelings toward Lance—a mixture of lingering surprise at his sudden intrusion and fear of being recognized as a Marine in a gay bar—changed to physical attraction. Looking at the strapping young man, he realized how horny he was. “Come over to the bar,” Lance said. “Keep me company until more people show up. Want something to drink? On the house. You look like a beer drinker—premium beers.”
“Don’t think I’ve ever been to a friendlier club.” Patrick followed Lance the short distance to the bar, where he sat on a stool. “‘Premium beer’? Do I look pretentious?”
“No. You look like a man with taste. I can tell a lot about people. Been doing this for four years.” Lance stocked bottles from cardboard cartons into the cooler below. He leaned across the bar and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone ’cause I’m only twenty-three. Lied about my age to get this job. Owner thinks I’m twenty-six.” He grabbed a bottle. “Heineken?”
“That’s a first—a gay man claiming to be older than he is.” Patrick smiled. “Sam Adams.”
“My second choice for you.” Lance reached deep into the metal cooler and exchanged the brews. Opening the bottle, he asked, “How do you know I’m a gay man?”
Patrick was stumped. “I’m sorry. I—I shouldn’t make assumptions—”
“No, you shouldn’t,” said the bartender jokingly.
“I’m sorry I assumed you’re a man.” Patrick flashed what he hoped was a mischievous grin.
“Ouch!” Lance laughed. “Guess I deserved that. Yes, I’m a man, and yes, I’m gay. Now I’ll make some more assumptions about you. Hmm, you’re an officer, right? If I played the odds, I’d say you were a Navy ensign, maybe an LJG ’cause I think you’re a couple of years older than you look, which would put you at twenty-five. But my instinct—and the way you were looking at MCRD—leads me to say you’re a Marine lieutenant, probably a first lieutenant, for the same reason I said you might be an LJG.” Lance had a self-satisfied smile.
“Neither confirm nor deny.” Patrick gulped his beer. “What’s with the mind-reading shtick?”
Lance took some orders and laughed. “Buddy, I don’t have to read your mind—just your clothes.” He handed the other customers their drinks and leaned over the bar close to Patrick. “No one else wears khakis, a rugby shirt, docksiders and a college jacket. Not to this bar.”
Suddenly Patrick felt stupid. He’d grabbed his favorite—and most easily recognizable—jacket. Anyone here who assumed he was a Marine officer and who had access to military personnel records—not a stretch in this town—could end his career by searching for officers from Northwestern. Process of elimination would lead them straight to his doorstep.
“Sorry I said anything,” Lance said, interrupting Patrick’s self-flagellation. “Get a sexy—yet tasteful—pair of jeans and shirts that show off your pecs. You work out so let us see it! Then no one will know you’re a Marine officer. Just trying to help you out, my fellow Devildog.”
‘“Fellow Devildog’? You still in the Marines too?” Patrick realized he’d just confirmed Lance’s suspicion that he was a Marine.
“Not anymore. But yeah, I worked here the last two years I was in. I was stationed about two hundred yards away at MCRD. Got out with an honorable discharge and now the GI Bill pays my way to UC San Diego. The GI Bill and this job.”
“You got a set of balls.”
“That’s what all my ex-boyfriends tell me.” Lance grinned as Patrick caught the expression’s