My bright white sports coat fits in well with Cap's new decor. I'm in the end booth, excited and a littler nervous, my back to the wall. I have a view of the downtown traffic outside and the whole diner inside. Doris Day's "Secret Love" gushes from the juke box. The place is noisy with spoons heavy enough to tunnel out of Alcatraz with clanging against the thick earthenware coffee mugs. The mid-morning crowd is waning but the regulars are left. They form an odd mixture of dock workers coming off the midnight shift and staff on break from the Federal building across the street.
The clear blue day is warming and a few of the customers are taking off their jackets. You should have been in the Pacific in '44 I thought; now that was hot. Overhead the fans hum as they draw up the steady flow of cigarette smoke. Outside the sun glints off the heavy chrome of a Desoto lumbering down the street. A kid in a USN sailor suit comes out of the Men's room door on my left. He pauses momentarily, posing like the guy on the Cracker Jack box and drinks in a good, hard long look at my companion.
The view directly across the booth captivates me as well; Cynthia Dunne. Damn the girl is hot. She has the face of a Vargas pinup with long dark lashes arching over the most angelic hazel eyes. Her long black hair is sculpted up and away from her face. She's wearing a tight, sand colored wraparound dress held together by fabric buttons winding down diagonally from just below her jutting cleavage. She grins quizzically at me, her face framed by the string of faux pearls and matching, oversized earrings I gave her.
Cynthia is a good kid. I first saw her six months ago when I was doing grounds keeping work at San Francisco University. She was late for class, strutting tall across the lawns like Mamie Van Doren's brunette kid sister. She could pass for one of Hugh's centerfold girls except her left breast is a half cup size larger than the right. It doesn't make any difference to me but it kept her shy of boys for far too long. Before me, her first boyfriend was some pimply faced kid in college. Apparently just seeing Cynthia's trimmed pussy was enough to make the poor bastard cum. She lost her virginity to him, but only just. I (with the help of Chester) have made it a point to teach her how to appreciate a man and have worked hard to help her hone her sizable talents.
She still lives at home with her daddy, my boss, the president of the University. She brought me by her house to see him a few times but I don't think the old guy is warming up to me at all. Her powers of attraction aren't just restricted to men. I'm not sure Myrna our waitress even knows I'm here. I watch her reflection approaching in the plate glass window as she refills only Cynthia's cup for the third time. Cynthia plays along and sticks out a pouty lip, giving Myrna her best "come fuck me" look as she thanks her. Unable to maintain the façade Cynthia laughs, maybe a little cruelly. Rebuffed, Myrna turns without a word and ambles back to her station behind the till. Her uniform does little to compliment her dumpy, middle age form.
I reach into my jacket pocket for the hundredth time making sure the ring box is still at hand. Today is the big day. All my questions will be answered. I hope.
"Cynthia?" I ask softly "I have a question I need you to answer..."
She gives me a quizzical look but her attention is drawn away by a shiny new black De Ville pulling into a parking space out front of the Diner. It stops me cold.
"Will you excuse me for a moment?" I ask abruptly. She's disappointed as I slide out across the seat and head for the Men's room.
The smell of urine hits me hard as I push through the door. I am not alone. I pass the doorless stall; the guy reading his paper with his pants down around his ankles doesn't even look up. I amble over to the unoccupied side of the double urinal and relax as Cap's java flows freely out of Chester. The door opens behind me. The elderly man beside me zips up and is quickly replaced by a fat, hairy longshoreman.
"That's quite the dame you got there." the fat man says, in a voice that sounds like gravel churning in a cement mixer. "I guess there's no chance she's a working girl?"
My fists clamp together and the muscles in my neck tighten. I stare down, Jesus; I pissed on my wingtips again.
"Nope... no chance." I say through clenched teeth.
"That's too bad." he rasps, checking out my wet shoes, then his eyes widen as he spots Chester.
Finished, I shake off before he can say anything more and go over to the sink to wash. I take a hard look in the mirror wondering again if I am doing the right thing. I shake my head clear. It has to be done. I have to know for sure.
I step back into the diner and I'm not surprised to see two men occupying my booth. Their suits fit so bad they could be rentals. Whitey is on my side of the table, waiting for me. Hermann is sitting close to Cynthia, his huge mass blocking any escape.
Hermann is an ex-boxer who emigrated from Germany after the war. His face is like crumpled paper, mostly because some Kraut hating ref's decided to let a few of his mismatched fights go on too long. His one good eye is staring shamelessly down into Cynthia's bare cleavage.
Whitey rises and ushers me to slide over to the window. As I pass I realize how much his squinty eyes and greasy grey hair make him look like a grizzled old wharf rat.
"You got some unfinished business with Mr. "C"?" Whitey squeaks out like he has seen one too many Cagney movies.
I turn away from them without saying a word. I'm thinking Mr. "C", that's a good one Whitey. Cynthia's concerned but she is keeping her cool, good girl.
"You got the money... or what?' he asks impatiently.
I shake my head. Truthfully, all the money I have in the world is tied up in the red satin box in my jacket pocket. Even if I tried to take it back to the pawn shop on Mission Street I know I'll never get what I paid for it.
"Hey war hero," he says changing the subject "you still carrying around your Purple Heart?"
I nod.
"Did you know," he asks Hermann "this guy was a bonafide hero at Iwa Jima?"
But Hermann isn't paying attention. His left arm is moving under the table towards Cynthia and she is doing everything she can to keep him at bay.
"Oh yeah," he continues knowingly "he was there. His company of Marines was the first ashore. In 30 minutes he went from corporal to platoon leader." He pauses and glances over at me. "If I get this wrong, you let me know."
He isn't getting it wrong.
Cynthia has given up her struggle with Hermann and places her hands back on the table. She looks unresponsive but tiny beads of perspiration are forming just above her full lips.
"So anyway, he was field promoted to platoon leader and what's left of his squad turns tail and runs back to the launching crafts, leaving him and one other guy to fend for themselves. Can you beat that, two guys trying to hold back a Jap counter attack?" he says with a measure of respect "That's when you find out who you can trust, isn't it Johnny?" he asks me "when things really get hot".
Whitey stares out the window for a moment. He is trying to make up his mind about something.
"Well, war hero," he says with resignation "we're still going to need some kind of payment to hold us over." he gives me a crooked smirk. "What do you think Hermann?"
