Always Faithful

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--oOo--

This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental. Some events are entirely fictional, though I strove for accuracy concerning these events' historical context.

Set in late 1940s America, certain words, behaviors, slang, and attitudes may be offensive to contemporary readers; therefore, reader discretion is advised. Some of the themes and subjects contained in this work are of an adult nature, so unless you're 18 or older, do not read this.

This work is part of a larger project, but as written and edited, it is a standalone story. Everything from 'Aftermath' to the end was summarized from the larger work. I've used a full version of Grammarly. Thanks to my tireless editor, a published and gifted author (she edited the rest of my glowing praise from this paragraph).

While not a classic trench coat detective noir story, it's about a post-war private investigator who is compelled to choose. As always, I appreciate your honest and constructive feedback. It will be especially helpful as we expand this work.

Finally, thanks to the family and friends who were United States Marines of the Greatest Generation, whose accounts enriched my youth. Later, I spent countless hours editing raw audio tapes for a well-known oral history project. Some of what I was told to edit out and clean up were those awful recollections that naturally spilled out, including the raw emotions, tears, and guilt that lingered for decades. I always worked from a dupe tape, so those unedited interviews still exist, many so raw that they're made available to researchers without the interviewee's full name. The expression, 'Hell in the Pacific,' truly describes a war without quarter, mercy, or surrender. For many, it never truly ended.

<<0>>

ALWAYS FAITHFUL

Houston, Texas - Late Spring 1947

Tailing him from a rooming house in the Houston Heights neighborhood went smoothly, but that's normal in my work as a private investigator. Most people aren't aware of their surroundings, especially what's behind them or at a distance. The darkness and bad street lighting also helped me follow him through the dark, quiet residential streets. Walking head down with his hands deep in his pockets, he only looked up when crossing streets and facing down a barking dog.

'He feels secure, making my job easier.'

Not feeling overconfident proved difficult because the most significant payday to date loomed large.

'Don't get too cocky. This might not be him,'

I cautioned myself without conviction.

Before the war, we all had iceboxes and needed a block every few days. Ice houses made and sold block ice, and that's often where folks ran into and visited with their friends and neighbors. They are dying out now that nearly everyone has a home refrigerator, but in Houston, some ice houses survive by also acting as meeting places. They're similar to a neighborhood bar selling beer, snacks, and BYOB set-ups.

I followed him into an ice house on West 20th, just off Shepherd. Watching him enter, I felt 90% positive this was the Paul Smith I hunted, but I needed to see him up close.

After stalling for a few minutes, I slipped through the side door from the old loading dock and settled onto a bar stool under a burned-out light at the end of the L-shaped bar. The bartender looked over, and I pointed at the Grand Prize Beer sign behind him, and he acknowledged with a wink and a nod.

While waiting, I eased the high-quality 5X7 studio photo his wife provided out of my battered war surplus dispatch rider's case. Shaking out a Lucky Strike, I fired up my old Ronson, and by its flickering light, I compared the photo to the fair-complected man standing in good light about fifteen feet away. I lit up, thumbed the lighter closed, and dropped the warm metal back into my pants pocket.

He amiably conversed with the bartender, whom he called Pete. Then a fortyish man in overalls and a work shirt sidled over and asked, "How ya doin', Paul?"

'Bingo! That's Paul Smith! A whole team of private dicks are chasing shadows half a continent away, and I found him!'

I exhaled contentedly and relaxed for the first time in three weeks. There's no feeling like tracking down a man, especially one as elusive as Paul Smith.

"Real swell, Chet!" Smith responded with a sincere smile. Over their sweating beers, the pair shared a quiet joke.

Smith had been around here long enough to be known. That could be as long as the six weeks and some odd days since he'd walked out on his wife, Christine, back in Fort Worth. She said he left three days after a particularly heated argument.

Smith's easy manner exuded confidence and charisma. Seeing the real person helped explain why Christine wanted him back and also why he rose from Marine PFC to first lieutenant during the war. I recalled all the fellas like Smith and wondered if our paths might've crossed.

Until then, Paul Smith existed as a man I knew only through what others told me and what I gleaned from studying his life. Methodically chasing leads, questioning people, and using some intuition, Smith took shape, and a trail emerged. I discovered him in Houston, Texas' biggest city. Now, before me, stood the fully formed, flesh-and-blood man.

We're both about 5'10", but Smith is stouter and had me by about ten, maybe a dozen, pounds. I'd put him around 165. He played end at SMU before the war and still carried his weight well.

Where I am jet-black and brown-eyed, he is blonde and blue. Smith looked better in person than in the professionally posed and lighted photo I carried. The pulps describe guys like him as 'matinee idol handsome.' Observing him, it wasn't just his good looks--he possessed that quality which sets some men apart.

Professionally, I was proud to have found him where the others failed. Strangely, though, the elation felt hollow. I knew why but buried it under the promise of my employer's reward.

As Pete replaced my empty beer and dropped a dish of salted peanuts before me, I recalled my first meeting with Ft. Worth socialite and heiress Christine Norton Smith. She is one of two daughters of widower Delbert J. Norton, a man of great wealth heavily involved in diversified industries, agriculture, and commerce. He was also a minor mover and shaker in North Texas politics.

<<0>>

Fort Worth, Texas - Twenty-Three Days Earlier

She called my office and got straight to the point: "Mr. Winters? This is Christine Norton Smith." I ignored the 's' added to my last name. "My father's attorney, Rusk Jameson, tells me you are the best skip tracer in Texas. I need your services right now!"

Getting a call from one of Fort Worth's well-known Norton sisters, who cooly invokes the praise of a former Tarrant County DA, chased away the lingering effects of a late-night Highway 80 motel adultery stakeout. This slapped me wide awake.

"Well... ah, yes, ma'am," I spluttered. "I worked for Cy Brown and Ewell Vickers finding people who'd skipped on loans, and when..."

"I

know

all that, Mr. Winters," she interrupted. "In my case, my husband, Paul, ran away a little over three weeks ago." Her voice breaking, she continued, "No, the truth is... he... he left me, and..." Mrs. Smith began sniffling and put her hand over the mouthpiece while she composed herself.

As I waited, the newspaper society page photos came to mind. The images showed a smiling, brash, and flashy society dame who, along with her sister, often pushed the limits of good taste established by our staid Fort Worth upper crust. Now, envisioning her as a despondent wife slightly altered my perception.

As a private investigator, my livelihood depends on understanding human nature. I also know that family and personal problems are not confined to one part of society.

When she calmed down, I suggested, "Let's meet face-to-face and decide how I can help you, Mrs. Smith."

Despite Christine Norton's wealth and influence, a husband who'd gone missing of his own free will left her powerless. In less than two hours, a driver in a shiny, black '47 Cadillac picked me up from my tiny office above Dubcek's Saddlery just northwest of the stockyards.

I sat up front with the unliveried driver at Christine's request to avoid attracting attention. That made no sense, but I get paid not to sweat

the little things

that make no sense.

As the driver pulled away from the curb, he asked wryly, "Even with a friendly wind, how can you stand being this close to the stockyards?"

I replied, "The rent is cheap, and the odor keeps me from hanging around the office too much."

"One-man shop?" he asked with a sidelong glance.

"Yeah. Mrs. Dubcek handles walk-ins when I'm out, and I have an answering service."

"Don't tell me that," he groaned with a smile. "I thought every private dick had a beautiful blonde secretary who was in love with him." Laughing, he slapped the steering wheel and handed me a pint of Old Crow. "Hair a' the dog?" he asked.

I held up my hand and shook my head. "Thanks, but no hard liquor when I'm working."

He nodded agreeably and said, "You passed Mrs. Smith's first test." Without looking, he heaved the bottle onto the brick street. "Besides, son, who drinks that swill?" Half smiling, he snorted and stared straight ahead. The rest of the trip passed in silence.

Del Norton built his stylish, pre-war mansion in fashionable Westover Hills. Christine awaited me in a large sitting room, whose somewhat flashy 1930s Hollywood décor felt out of place but came off as tasteful and not tacky. Of course, Norton money can erase 'tacky.'

Sitting on an oversized chaise lounge, Christine looked more petite than her photos, which I realized were usually shot from a low angle. She wore her auburn hair in a perfect, tight chignon, and despite her natural beauty, she couldn't hide the fatigue and worry. Makeup mostly hid the dark circles under her eyes, and her face presented a pretty but tense mask. Worry and concern clouded her light hazel eyes.

She wore an expensive yet conservative navy blue dress, matching heels, and a dainty strand of pearls. Christine slid smoothly from the chaise, where she'd been reading Ladies Home Journal and sipping what looked like a tall glass of iced tea. A half-read copy of Richard Tregaskis' book,

'Guadalcanal Diary,'

lay open and face down on the coffee table. I'd imagined the Norton sisters' private quarters as much like this, minus the reading material.

After introductions, we sat on facing sofas, and she offered coffee from a silver serving set, which a maid silently placed on the large coffee table.

"You noticed the book," she observed. "I wanted to read about what you and Paul did in the war." Smiling at my evident surprise, she continued, "Yes, I know you were also a Marine in the First Division. Like my Paul, you also saw a lot of action."

"So, how..."

Smiling, Christine cut me off, "Mr. Winter, I had you checked out because the detective agencies I've hired to find Paul are having no luck. You will also notice I've gotten your name correct." She smiled demurely as she removed several typed pages from her magazine and waved them. "Daddy's lawyer put together a short biography on you. Most importantly, you have a solid reputation that you can find anyone.

"Daddy and I also think having served in the same Marine division as Paul might be helpful. You will understand him better. Do you agree?"

I nodded, suddenly intrigued and curious.

'Did I know Paul Smith?'

"First, thank you for the kind words," I offered.

Her eyes hardened. "Oh, Mr. Winter, kindness plays no part in this. You will find me churlish, petty, insufferable, and quite spoiled. That's because Mother died giving birth to sister Rita, and Daddy raised a pair of girls who can be quite...willful." She snickered with a devilish grin, "He feels plumb awful that we were thrown into this old world without proper female guidance."

Sensing my discomfort, she laughed and stated, "Come now. You read the papers, and right after the Opry on Saturdays, there's that awful scandal program on NBC. All the gossip lovers listen to it, you included, right?" When I didn't answer, she chuckled. "So, you must know that Rita and I are quite the pair.

"Rita and I are nice to each other in public, but we can barely tolerate each other. While it's true that Baby Sis and I are rivals where Daddy is concerned, we like men who are nothing like him. She's jealous that I have my Paul." She snorted derisively, "Rita keeps trying on men but can't find one that fits, and mine is off limits!"

She raised her right eyebrow and giggled, "You're shocked, Mr. Winter." Christine regarded me with a strange half-smile topped with intense eyes. "Oh, my, but I've never seen a man blush, especially a battle-hardened Marine."

Christine's default smile appeared to be a combination of ingénue and she-wolf. "The truth is, Mr. Winter, nobody knows the real us. Our lives are quite simple--Daddy makes the money, and we girls spend it having fun."

She laughed merrily. "He feels guilty that we raised ourselves,

so he makes many more apologies than demands."

She stared briefly before becoming almost angelic. Her demeanor changed like flipping a switch. "So, may I call you Doug?" she cooed.

Feeling like an overmatched boxer, I answered evenly, "Yes, Ma'am."

"I'm Christine," she said warmly. Then, the warmth drained from her face, and she continued in a demanding tone. "With all the niceties out of the way, let's start looking for my husband."

She regarded me carefully as she refilled my coffee. In this strange and awkward atmosphere, I began to understand what Paul Smith might be fleeing.

"Was your husband working when he decided to leave?" I asked.

She furrowed her brow for an instant. "Heavens, no. He decided to go back to college on the G.I. Bill. His SMU credits transferred to TCU," she explained.

"Were you happy about that?" I asked.

She bit her lower lip and said, "Well... I wasn't, but... I came to respect him for it." I remained quiet, and she explained, "Paul had been gone nearly three-and-a-half years. I hadn't seen him since he came home on a short leave before shipping out in the spring of '42. When he came home in late '45, I wanted to renew our marriage, travel, party, and have fun, but Paul wanted to finish college starting in January."

She laughed nervously. "I mean, Daddy had any job Paul could want, either with his companies or with one of his friends. Paul didn't even need to work, but he... he said he needed to do something."

She stood abruptly and went to an ornate Art Deco credenza behind my sofa. "We argued about it, but he refused to see it my way." Agitated, Christine took two cigarettes from a black lacquered box and lit them with a sterling silver lighter. Handing me one, she hissed, "I wanted my husband back, not a college student! He insisted on taking a full load, too." The cigarette glowed angrily as she inhaled hard.

Animatedly, Christine meandered to the far end of the big room and stared through the tall windows into the mild, sunny afternoon.

'Paul Smith told her 'no' and stuck to it,'

I thought.

"Have you all checked around the university? Talked to his friends or professors?" I asked.

She nodded without looking at me. "Of course. That's the first lead they checked," she intoned. "Nothing. At TCU, they told us that one day, he just stopped coming to class."

After a few minutes, she crushed the cigarette in a fancy pedestal ashtray and returned to the sofa with a slight frown.

Then, the switch had flipped again, and in a professional, engaging manner, Christine Norton Smith spent the next half-hour describing how she'd met Paul. She described meeting and falling for the handsome, largely unpolished, yet supremely confident working-class football player from the hardscrabble, east Texas oil fields.

"He was on a football scholarship to SMU, and incredibly, the guy born without two pennies to rub together overshadowed the sons of the wealthy and connected. His manner and presence commanded respect, and everyone naturally responded."

She looked away sadly and, almost as an aside, said, "Paul is... is so strong, so steady. He makes me behave." Nervously, she brushed a nonexistent hair from her face and smiled demurely. "He makes me so, so happy."

Assuming her engaging manner, she continued, "Oh, we made quite the couple! Of course, Daddy and all my decent friends--both of them," she laughed and clasped her hands to her chest, "were scandalized by our romance."

Taking a sip of coffee, Christine regarded me with smiling eyes over the rim of the expensive bone China cup. Softly, the attractive brunette said, "Like two crazy kids, we went too far. Believing I was in a family way, Paul and I ran off to Shreveport and got married. That license was the best dollar I ever spent.

"Typical of Paul, when we returned, he manned up, met Daddy head-on, and for a moment, I feared for both of them." She smiled wanly as if remembering. "In the end, Daddy relented," she sniggered, "just as he always does.

"Anyway, a few weeks later, well, I... you know," she shrugged bashfully, "and we knew it was a false alarm." Turning sad, she whispered, "And I cried when I found out."

Christine stared at her hands and twisted her simple gold wedding ring.

She laughed drily. "Not to be left out, Rita threw a fit. The nicest thing she called me was 'trollop' and said I was ruined. Typically, Daddy made her a peace offering. This time with a new Mercury V8. The shrew wrecked it a month later."

She looked away with that strange half-smile and said lowly, "Rita doesn't work very hard at being an awful person because it comes so naturally." For a fleeting moment, a dark expression hardened her pretty features.

After a thoughtful pause, Christine's mood lightened, and she gleefully described her pre-war life with Paul Smith. They lived in a small apartment near SMU, and even though he was a scholarship athlete, the coaches ignored that he was married. Her father's status as a major donor and supporter helped.

"Paul occasionally stayed in his dormitory the night before a game," she explained, "and regularly ate at the training table." Otherwise, they lived a fun and easy life, and Christine said wistfully, "I felt truly loved for the only time in my life."

She described their shock when Japan bombed Pearl Harbor and how Paul, several of his teammates, and many other SMU men immediately joined the service.

"Since he was a college man, did they try to make him an officer?" I asked.

With a wistful smile, Christine nodded her head. "Yes, most of the SMU boys became officers, but Paul said it wasn't for him. People seemed so drawn to him so that he would've made a great officer." She fixed me with another intense look. "Paul is a man's man, and before the war's end, he realized he was destined to be an officer."

She beamed while reaching into a small drawer on the coffee table and removed a stack of photos. "Here is one of the photos in late 1944. After that terrible island that starts with a P... Pola... Palla..."