An old bellman or caretaker, or whatever he was, struggled mightily with Jerrys bags before depositing them in the foyer of the large suite on the buildings uppermost floor. Here you are, Mr. Grant2400. This here is the penthouse suite dont get much call for this one. Its privately owned but I guess you knew that. He fidgeted around some, waiting for his tip. Yes, sir, Mr. Grant, he said as he pocketed the money and damn near bowed as he backed out of the door. Anything you need or want just let me know. Names Peter.
One thing he found out about the place right away. Good old Mid Pac had stocked it well. The refrigerator was full as was the liquor cabinet behind the bar. He wandered out on the lanai but it was totally dark now and all he could see were lights stretching up on the adjacent buildings, which seemed to indicate that at least two or three of them topped out at more than 24 floors.
He unpacked, making sure to place Rays envelope on the nightstand so he wouldnt forget it again. He took his time in the hot shower and finally went to bed and opened the envelope.
Jerry really didnt know what to expect, but the contents of the envelope, at least those he flipped through immediately, turned out to be nothing but a bunch of newspaper clippings. some of them surprisingly recent, others were dated quite some time ago a roughly sketched map to Rays house on the north shore, a small flimsy key and a carefully written note. He started with the note. It was short.
Dear Lt.
If things go good, you already done more than a man could ask. I know these things dont look too exciting but I couldnt put the diary in here. So, thats what the key is for. Its up at the house which is why I drew the map on how to get there.
Theres a big fat guy who is my friend who will give it to you if you tell him about what happened to that big, tall kid from Wisconsin the time we took the Captains jeep and went up on that beach north of Kaneohe. The newspaper stories I collected for awhile. I think the ones about Captain Fischer are real interesting.
Your friend,
Ray
P. S. After you finish reading the diary, if you think Im nuts just burn all this stuff.
The growling in his stomach woke him up. The bedside clock said it was just after 5:00 AM. With no dinner last night, the urge for food had been strong enough to send him to the kitchen, groping for a frying pan and searching the refrigerator for some bacon and eggs and above all, some coffee. In less than half an hour, he had managed somehow to put everything together reasonably well and was seated at the wrought iron table out on the lanai, wolfing it down, still only in his pajama bottoms. The hell with the neighbors he thought. Nobody should be up this early anyhow.
Below him were layers of more balconies and the tops of some barely moving palm trees. Further out in front of him was, at the moment, a very quiet beach and the deep blue Pacific which, from here, looked as still as the beach. By the time the sun had fully cleared the horizon behind him, he was dressed, having a third cup of coffee and reading the clippings from Rays big envelope.
Every clipping seemed to be in chronological order whether by design or accident, he would never know. The top layer carried datelines starting 20 or 25 years ago at least. They looked like things you would find in a family scrapbook. Little stories about the post-war fate and activities of many of the guys in the Detachment names he had almost forgotten Dan Fitzpatrick, the son of a big Philadelphia attorney and Jerrys number one confidant on and off the base. He smiled a little as he glanced over the story about that big, red faced farmer, Peters and remembered how he got caught shacking up with some Majors wife in Wailuku. Then there was Jules Francis from Santa Barbara, the first out and out homosexual Jerry had ever known. My God, he thought, Ray must have either subscribed to every out-of-town newspaper on the Mainland or he had a helluva clipping service. In any event, the guy sure kept in touch. There was even the story from the LA Times about Jerrys ascension to the throne of Chairman of Mid Pac.
The last of that stack of old clips was the obituary of Harold L. Johnson of Superior, Wisconsin. Private First Class Harold L. Johnson as Jerry remembered. The gangly kid who got a Portuguese Man of War tangled up in his legs on the beach near Kaneohe on that drunken weekend so many years ago. The guy mentioned in Rays note.
Ill be damned, Jerry muttered. Ill bet he included this one just in case I had forgotten.
Beneath these, bundled together with a fat rubber band, was a much larger and seemingly newer collection. All of them seemed to center around the social, political and military life of one Amos T. Fischer spelled with a c and dont forget it! He was the former Commanding Officer of the 5th Detachment, Army Security Agency, Helemano, Territory of Hawaii and in Jerrys perfectly objective opinion, one of the worlds great open, festering sores. Or, to be brutally honest about it, a real asshole! The clippings all from the Honolulu Advertiser and the Honolulu Star-Bulletin were fairly recent. By the looks of things, the son of a bitch was still living here.
He put the stuff back in the envelope and smirked as he thought to himself, Isnt that just wonderful. I must remember to call him and pay my respects or better yet, bust him right in the chops!
He went back out in the kitchen and started to pour the last of the coffee into his cup but saw that it was past saving. Even so, it was probably a lot easier to swallow than his recollections of Captain Fischer. And, after all these years, he thought, I figured Id get over it. Fortunately for his state of mind, the phone rang.
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