It Takes Two Read Online Free PDF Page B

deviled eggs, boss. I’ll ask the good lady to pack the lunches herself. You want I should ask if she can scare up a coconut icebox pie?”
    I turned to Emma Mae. “Think you can find somebody from the marine supply to lend you a load of Mae Wests—and they could send me a bill tomorrow?”
    Emma Mae looked shocked, as if I’d suggested robbing an orphanage. “Guess it can be done, boss,” she allowed. “But I don’t know that I’ll find Cap’n Roy. He could be in church.”
    “You’ve got a couple of hours,” I said. “He could be home watering the grass.”
    “Or out fishing,” she said, mournfully, as if the whole thing was really a bad idea. “Or banging his sister-in-law, which I hear…”
    “I could jimmy the rope shop door,” Salmi suggested helpfully. “Probably take me thirty seconds, most of the locks I’ve seen around this burg.”
    “Let Emma Mae try first,” I answered. “No use you going to jail on a non-morals charge.”
    “Will do, Lieutenant,” he said brightly. “Lemme go see Mother Carmen about pie and sandwiches.”
    I picked up the pair of Western Union envelopes and slit the flaps with a butter knife. “Bon voyage, sailor,” I said. “Bring home some fresh fish for supper.”
    The first telegram was strictly routine. An obstetrician and his wife in Scranton, Pa. had a family emergency and were canceling their reservation. The second was anything but:
     
    ARRIVE LATE MONDAY. DISCUSS IMPROVEMENTS TUESDAY.
    DELAY RUFFLES AND FLOURISHES.
    ASDECK
     
     
    Bruce Asdeck, managing partner of the Caloosa’s ownership syndicate, was headed south from New York. He was ready to talk about changes I’d proposed in hotel operations. The visit was strictly business.
    “Ruffles and flourishes,” according to our ship-to-shore-leave shorthand, was the code for whores. When I’d managed the New Victory Officers Club for then-Admiral Asdeck back in Occupied Japan, the two of us had worked out a system for identifying guests and the special services they required. “Overnight berth” meant one girl for at least six hours. “Hors d’oeuvres” was a fast-and-loose party that didn’t necessarily turn into anything else. “Joe Palookas” were alcohol-abusing officers who threw furniture or roughed up civilian staff. “Kilroys” hung around gawking without spending a dime. A request for “full bath” at the club meant that the guest desired the in-room services of a compliant masseuse. “Shower privileges” substituted a muscular masseur. “Maid service” referred to girls under the age of 18. “Special arrangements” was a request for more than one girl at a time. “Share bath” meant that two grown men wanted connecting rooms. And so on.
    The program Asdeck sold his investors in the Caloosa syndicate was considerably more radical than renting geisha girls and private rooms to horny, lonely officers. The Caloosa was conceived as both a year-round commercial establishment and as a top-dollar playground for winter visitors. Since my arrival as the new hotel manager that September, I’d busted my ass to make the right kind of changes, changes that would appeal to big spenders as well as to salesmen and manufacturers’ agents who worked long hours and often saw clients at night. The improvements I planned to discuss with Asdeck included additional conference rooms on the mezzanine, heightening security and replacing most of the dining room waiters with good-looking waitresses, shapely Doris Day types.
    Lou Salmi’s return appearance at my elbow reminded me that the process wasn’t finished yet.
    “Gotta problem, Lieutenant,” he growled, leaning down, his shaving lotion louder than his voice. “Got two gents ordering Haig Pinch on the rocks. Gents say they want the unopened bottle set right out here in front a God ’n’ ever’body. Guess they don’t trust us with their hooch.” He leaned closer. “Can’t do it,” he added, his voice now a mosquito’s whine.