Read Online The Med by David Poyer - Free Book Online Page B

declined to lead. He said he had been drunk every time he’d been here and he could never remember the way. They strolled uptown, conspicuous in starched Charlies amid the thronging, swift-talking Sicilians. Givens stared open-mouthed at the shabby, crumbling buildings, the mobile-junkyard cars, the hammer-and-sickle posters six to every wall. He felt conscious of his uniform, his foreignness, his skin. He closed up on Liebo and Silky and Washman, in the lead.
    â€œBe careful of your watches,” Harner said, startling them all.
    â€œLeft here?” said Liebo, turning halfway around. Washman pulled out his page and they studied it on a corner, looking for an orientation point. Several boys offered to guide them. When the marines ordered them away they left, slapping their arms in a gesture Will thought picturesque. The smallest, a shaven-headed runt of five or six, tagged after them, making motions for a smoke. At last Harner gave in and tossed him a Marlboro. Then he wanted a light.
    â€œAren’t you a Wop, Dippy?”
    â€œFuck, no, man. Liebo’s a good Portuguese name.”
    â€œThink we turn left here, huh?”
    â€œWhy didn’t you get some street names from the squid?”
    â€œLet’s ask this kid where the station is.”
    â€œHey, man, where’s the station? Railroad?”
    â€œCompre’?”
    â€œHe don’t talk English, man.”
    â€œThe railroad, kid. Choo-choo. Ding, ding,” said Liebo. When the others laughed he reddened. “Hey, you fuckers try to talk to him, then.”
    â€œEstacion-ay fairo-veree,” said Will, on an impulse. The boy brightened and pointed to the left. Harner gave him another cigarette.
    They turned left. “Pretty slick, there, Will,” said the sergeant. “Where you pick that up?”
    â€œThe exec said that at formation this morning.”
    â€œHe did? I dint remember that. You must have a natural gift for languages, Private Givens.”
    â€œAh, I just picked it up,” said Will, pleased.
    â€œMarlboro,” said the boy. Harner looked at Silkworth, who shrugged, as if to say, if we don’t some other guys will. He ain’t our responsibility. He shook one more loose and held it out. The boy snatched the pack, his motion so quick he left Harner holding out his hand, and melted toward an alley. “Eh, fuck you, marines,” he said.
    â€œJesus Christ,” said Washman.
    â€œThey grow up fast back here,” said Dippy.
    â€œMaybe he’s one of the sergeant’s,” said Washman. They laughed. “No, too goddamn polite,” said Silky solemnly, and they laughed again, louder because it was Silkworth who said it.
    â€œThat must be the station.”
    â€œAnd there’s the Shore Patrol,” Liebo said. “Just like the man said. Fade, Sarge?”
    â€œStand easy,” said Silkworth. “We’re still legal. They can’t touch us on this side of the line.”
    Harner pulled a spare pack from his sock and they lit up, standing on a corner, watching the two sailors roll back and forth in front of the station. They wore white bellbottoms and caps cocked forward, white belts slung low against weighted nightsticks, and blue brassards like mourning on their sleeves. They glanced at the marines, but made no move toward them. After several minutes they strolled on, past the station, and disappeared around a corner.
    â€œLet’s go,” said Silkworth, flipping his butt to the pavement.
    â€œThey won’t come back?”
    â€œNot if they know what marines eat for lunch, Will.”
    Past the limit the streets looked just the same, or maybe a little narrower. They came to the T the gunner’s mate had described and headed right. A little grocery was just where he had described it, and a bar, Judito’s, was across from it, as he had said. Two women leaned against the entrance, looking toward them. “Here?” said Liebo,