over on the USS Missoula, which was our sister cruiser. So we’ve had some catching up to do.”
“Hell of a coincidence,” one of the physicians observed.
“Whose deal is it?” the other asked. “You two young whippersnappers want to jump in and lose some money?”
“Take a rain check,” I said. “Three sweet teas, coming up.”
“Was a major, not a lieutenant, led us over there,” Bud whispered, following me to the bar. “And you know I didn’t ride any cruiser to Kolombangara.”
“They don’t know that,” I answered. “Maybe I got it wrong. Could have been a fishing boat I was thinking of.”
Grunting, Bud poked me in the back. “Smart guy, huh?”
Two women sat together at the bar. The older one, a small, sporty type with a white streak in her short dark hair, was Lucille Shepherd—the coroner Doc Shepherd’s wife. The other woman, Wanda Limber, was a Navy flier’s widow who paid her rent by turning tricks for the club’s best customers. The unlikely pair were the female version of drinking buddies.
Both women were very attractive. Lucille Shepherd was a Fort Myers fashion plate. A trim woman who wouldn’t see forty again, she’d gotten herself up in a tailored black-and-white check dress, matching spectator pumps, cherry-red lipstick and over-size eyeglasses. Wanda was a bottle blond with Ann Miller legs, Kathryn Grayson tits and subtle Elizabeth Arden makeup.
We joined them as they put down their drinks. I got in on the last words of the conversation: “holed out with her nine iron.” The two women were discussing golf.
“I was telling Mrs. Shepherd about the 1939 Southern Collegiate Ladies Championships at Pinehurst,” Wanda said, winking at me. (She was about my age and had even fewer illusions.) “Actually, I was telling her about how I didn’t win.”
“She came in three under par,” Lucille said. “So by all rights, Mrs. Limber ought to have been inside the clubhouse polishing up the trophy.”
“Well, I was,” Wanda laughed. “And then somebody waltzed in and told me about Judy Rogers’s chip shot. It was my last big tournament. Butch and I married the next month, the day after he finished advanced flight training. And we were transferred, first to Mayport and then to San Diego. And then the war…”
A bottle of Regal appeared on the counter.
“Same thing,” Bud said, glancing at me. “Unless you got hot coffee.”
“Cream? Sugar?” “Black.”
I wasn’t minding my manners. Lucille stuck her hand out in Bud’s direction. “We met at…?”
“The sheriff ’s Christmas party, ma’am,” Bud answered. “Down at the Legion Hall.”
“Which is where Bud and I first crossed paths,” I explained, adding, “Down at the Legion Hall, I mean. Never met the sheriff.” A decent cover story never hurts anybody. Especially when it’s true.
“But we figure we was probably in the same boat during the Pacific war,” Bud put in, grinning and shaking hands with both women.
Lucille hooted. “All in the same boat for sure, if the Japs were shooting at you.” Then she glanced at Wanda, whispered, “Oh, my,” and covered her mouth. But Wanda just smiled.
The bartender set down Bud’s coffee. “Anything else for the pretty ladies? Or for you two handsome gentlemens? You wish is my commandante .”
Cabildo Morales was only filling in as bartender until we found someone suitable. His formal title was Club and Restaurant Manager. “Mother Carmen,” his backstage nickname, derived from Carmen Veranda, a drag character he’d created while touring with the USO. Carmen had spent the war as an Army entertainer, singing and dancing in soldier shows. After discharge, he auditioned for transvestite nightclubs in New York and Miami and got a few bookings. But competition was tough. He had to make a living between engagements. So he started waiting tables at the Roney Plaza Hotel in Miami Beach. A natural, he moved up to host and then floor manager within a
“Hell of a coincidence,” one of the physicians observed.
“Whose deal is it?” the other asked. “You two young whippersnappers want to jump in and lose some money?”
“Take a rain check,” I said. “Three sweet teas, coming up.”
“Was a major, not a lieutenant, led us over there,” Bud whispered, following me to the bar. “And you know I didn’t ride any cruiser to Kolombangara.”
“They don’t know that,” I answered. “Maybe I got it wrong. Could have been a fishing boat I was thinking of.”
Grunting, Bud poked me in the back. “Smart guy, huh?”
Two women sat together at the bar. The older one, a small, sporty type with a white streak in her short dark hair, was Lucille Shepherd—the coroner Doc Shepherd’s wife. The other woman, Wanda Limber, was a Navy flier’s widow who paid her rent by turning tricks for the club’s best customers. The unlikely pair were the female version of drinking buddies.
Both women were very attractive. Lucille Shepherd was a Fort Myers fashion plate. A trim woman who wouldn’t see forty again, she’d gotten herself up in a tailored black-and-white check dress, matching spectator pumps, cherry-red lipstick and over-size eyeglasses. Wanda was a bottle blond with Ann Miller legs, Kathryn Grayson tits and subtle Elizabeth Arden makeup.
We joined them as they put down their drinks. I got in on the last words of the conversation: “holed out with her nine iron.” The two women were discussing golf.
“I was telling Mrs. Shepherd about the 1939 Southern Collegiate Ladies Championships at Pinehurst,” Wanda said, winking at me. (She was about my age and had even fewer illusions.) “Actually, I was telling her about how I didn’t win.”
“She came in three under par,” Lucille said. “So by all rights, Mrs. Limber ought to have been inside the clubhouse polishing up the trophy.”
“Well, I was,” Wanda laughed. “And then somebody waltzed in and told me about Judy Rogers’s chip shot. It was my last big tournament. Butch and I married the next month, the day after he finished advanced flight training. And we were transferred, first to Mayport and then to San Diego. And then the war…”
A bottle of Regal appeared on the counter.
“Same thing,” Bud said, glancing at me. “Unless you got hot coffee.”
“Cream? Sugar?” “Black.”
I wasn’t minding my manners. Lucille stuck her hand out in Bud’s direction. “We met at…?”
“The sheriff ’s Christmas party, ma’am,” Bud answered. “Down at the Legion Hall.”
“Which is where Bud and I first crossed paths,” I explained, adding, “Down at the Legion Hall, I mean. Never met the sheriff.” A decent cover story never hurts anybody. Especially when it’s true.
“But we figure we was probably in the same boat during the Pacific war,” Bud put in, grinning and shaking hands with both women.
Lucille hooted. “All in the same boat for sure, if the Japs were shooting at you.” Then she glanced at Wanda, whispered, “Oh, my,” and covered her mouth. But Wanda just smiled.
The bartender set down Bud’s coffee. “Anything else for the pretty ladies? Or for you two handsome gentlemens? You wish is my commandante .”
Cabildo Morales was only filling in as bartender until we found someone suitable. His formal title was Club and Restaurant Manager. “Mother Carmen,” his backstage nickname, derived from Carmen Veranda, a drag character he’d created while touring with the USO. Carmen had spent the war as an Army entertainer, singing and dancing in soldier shows. After discharge, he auditioned for transvestite nightclubs in New York and Miami and got a few bookings. But competition was tough. He had to make a living between engagements. So he started waiting tables at the Roney Plaza Hotel in Miami Beach. A natural, he moved up to host and then floor manager within a
Similar Books
