Read Online One to Count Cadence by James Crumley - Free Book Online Page A

street; everyone did it, but not on AP jeeps — and that he was in love with a Filipino barmaid, a nice girl who didn’t work in the rooms out back, a lovely girl, and he couldn’t believe she loved him. He had acne, a dead-white skin and long, greasy blond hair. The Devil as a juvenile delinquent. His parents had replied to his honest confession and plea for understanding with a Dear John asking him not to return home, ever. Franklin was nineteen and believed it. The first thing he did was seduce the girl, first with a cigarette, then a drink, then a trip out back. He stayed drunk for a week afterward, but had caused me no trouble, until this night.
    He passed out. I saw him resting his head on his mill, and I shook him to remind him of his next sked. The swivel chair rolled toward the wall, dumping him at my feet with a thump I felt through my boots. Cagle turned around and said, “God-damnit, Franklin! If I told you one time, I’ve told you a thousand, to leave those fucking kites alone.” He helped me lay him between the wall and console, then copied Franklin’s sked.
    Morning, who acted as if he had invented mitigating circumstances, checked with me. “You going to turn him in, Krummel? If anyone’s had a tough deal out of life, that poor bastard has.”
    “Morning, I don’t care if all you sons of bitches sleep. Forever.” I left Franklin to sleep it off. Several bad jokes were made to ease the tension, then everyone went about their business.
    Around 0400 Cagle dropped through the trap door which led to the roof and shouted that a jeep was turning down our road. Lt. Dottlinger was the Officer of the Day. If he didn’t kill Franklin right then, he was sure to stick him in the stockade and prefer charges. Being the able leader of men that I was, I didn’t know what to do. But the Trick looked at me. It would be my decision. I tried not to think, but grabbed Franklin’s shirt front and dragged him over to the ladder. Morning helped me lift him to the roof. Cagle let Dottlinger in the gate, then followed us down the ladder and took his position.
    Dottlinger entered to an “OH, no!” sigh of the compressor. He had been passed over for captain twice, and when the lists came out once more without his name on it, he would revert to his former enlisted rank of sergeant which he hadn’t really made but was a gratuitous benefit of OCS. He loved being an officer, and looked for chances to seem efficient.
    “Sgt. Krummel,” he said, returning my greeting, “What are those men doing out of uniform?” Several of the men had removed their fatigue shirts.
    “Operations policy, I understand, sir. The men on the mid-trick may remove their shirts while inside the building.”
    “Not when I’m Officer of the Day, Sgt. Krummel.”
    “I’m sorry sir, I didn’t know. You men get your shirts on. And button up those flapping pockets.” Dottlinger didn’t like the pockets bit. He wanted to do it. He suspected me for finishing college. He hadn’t made it.
    Morning was copying very intently, and had not stopped to put on his shirt, though he heard me.
    “That man is still out of uniform, Sgt. Krummel.”
    “He’s copying, sir. He has a sked.”
    “I want his shirt on now, sergeant, right now.”
    “Yes, sir.” I waved at Novotny to relieve him. He plugged his cans into Morning’s console, and picked up the man at the end of a line as Morning slipped out of his chair.
    “Ahhhh,” he moaned, shaking out the muscles of his back as if he had been copying for hours instead of seconds. “Oh, hello, Lt. Dottlinger. How are you tonight? Or this morning, I should say. Haven’t seen you in quite some time, sir.” No trace of insolence in his voice. Nothing Dottlinger could hang a feather on.
    “Get in uniform, Morning.”
    “Sir?”
    “Your shirt. Get it on.”
    “Sir, we’re allowed to remove our shirts on mids.”
    “I don’t want excuses, soldier. Get in uniform.” Dottlinger was red.
    “Am I under