Los Angeles Class

7

The eerie shrill of a boatswain's pipe ululated through the Pittsburgh's compartments from the bulkhead speakers, the final quaver dying away as LCDR Latham's voice came on. "Now starboard liberty section, muster on deck. That is, starboard liberty section, muster on deck. Port section, now sweepers man your brooms. Clean sweep-down, fore and aft. The smoking lamp is lit in all authorized compartments."

"Liberty!" BM1 Scobey exclaimed, giving his neckerchief's square knot a final tighten and tug. "Man, they're playin' my song!"

"Yeah, but it ain't Honolulu, man," TM2 Benson replied. He was taking a rag to his Korfam dress shoes, bringing them to their accustomed mirror polish.

"Nothing's like Honolulu, Rog," BM1 Archie Douglas said, grinning. "And promises in the Navy are just about worth the cost of the teletype flimsies they're printed on. Get used to it!"

The crew compartment was crowded, the narrow passageway elbow-to-dress-whites-elbow with enlisted men preparing to go ashore. Scobey lowered his locker lid, which included the thin mattress and made-up sheets and blanket of his rack. Each man slept atop his own locker, a space only six inches deep, in which he kept his uniforms and few personal possessions during his enforced incarceration on board. The racks were stacked three high, each six feet long, three feet wide, and with twenty-four narrow inches between the top of the mattress and the bottom of the next rack above, a coffinlike space with the single virtue that each man could draw a set of curtains to provide a cloth-thin illusion of privacy when in his rack.

"It ain't right, though," Benson continued. "Promising us palm trees and hula girls, and sending us here!"

"Word is we'll be home-ported in San Diego soon enough," Douglas said cheerfully.

"Yeah," ET2 Jim Jablonski said. "Ballast Point isn't so bad. In fact, it's prime duty!"

"But it ain't Pearl Harbor, man," Benson said mournfully. "It ain't Honolulu."

"Will someone shut the damned broken record player off?" TM2 Mark Doershner said from a nearby rack. "It's fuckin' gratin' on me like fingernails on the blackboard, y'know?"

"Let's get topside," Douglas told them. "This is one liberty call I don't intend to miss!"

Dress white uniforms spotlessly resplendent, they trooped aft and up the gangway to the first deck, then up the ladder to emerge from the forward escape hatch just abaft the sail. It was warm topside, but with a leaden, overcast sky and the strong promise of rain. Afternoon in early July in San Francisco's northern Bay Area could be blistering hot, but a thunderstorm earlier that afternoon had cooled things down. Steam was rising in the damp air from the Pittsburgh's deck, and from the pier alongside.

"Fall in for muster," Master Chief Fred Warren, the Chief of the Boat bawled. The crewmen lined up in two ranks, and Warren began calling off their names. The liberty inspection that followed was cursory and impersonal, as Lieutenant Commander Latham and Master Chief Warren walked swiftly up and down the two ranks, noting a couple of too-long haircuts and pointing out to RM3 Sanders that he had a rust spot on the sleeve of his jumper.

After that, the men were dismissed, filing down the gangway already rigged aft of Pittsburgh's sail, and onto the pier. A number of civilians had gathered behind a roped-off area just off the dock… mostly women and kids. As the sailors trooped up the pier, more than one began jogging, and before long, the civilians were forcing their way past the rope barrier and racing down the dockside toward their men.

"Must be nice to have that waitin' for you, huh?" Scobey said, laughing, as one tall, leggy, auburn-haired woman threw herself into Seaman Hutchison's arms.

Another girl raced toward ST3 Kellerman, shrilling something that sounded like "Squeeee… " at the top of her lungs. Kellerman scooped her up and spun her around, as she wrapped her short-skirted legs around his back.

"Hey, you two!" Douglas called out. "Get yourselves a room!"

"Don't worry!" Kellerman said, grinning. "We will. Boys, this is my fiancee, Loni Dayton."

"Nice to meet you," Douglas said, ignoring the fact that she was still glued to the front of Kellerman's white jumper, arms and legs wrapped tightly around his back.

"What the hell does 'squee' mean?" Boyce asked.

Loni shook her head, clearing away a stray strand of blond hair. "Squee," she said, is not just a word. It is a state of mind. You can squee when you're happy… or go into a major squeeee when you finally see someone you haven't seen in entirely too long!.. "

"Squee, huh?" Benson said.

"Okay, Squee" Scobey said, tapping Kellerman on the arm. "You two wanna come with us into town?"

"No thanks, Big C," Kellerman said. "We've got things to do…. "

"He'd just cramp our style," Douglas added, grinning. "Have fun, you two!"

"Man, it must be nice," Benson said, watching Kellerman and Loni walk away, arms locked about one another.

"Ahh," Scobey said with a sneer, "if the Navy had wanted you to have a wife, they would've issued you one with your seabag! Let's go!"

A Navy liberty bus was waiting near the dock to take them across the G-Street Bridge and into town.

Twenty minutes later, Benson, Scobey, Boyce, Jablonski, and Douglas were walking down Trinity Street in Vallejo, looking at the flickering marquee lights, the tawdry buildings, the signs proclaiming tattoos, massages, uniform alterations, dry-cleaning services, food, alcohol, and various other forms of entertainment, all aimed at the Navy enlisted man freshly back from weeks or months at sea.

"So, where's the action in this town?" Benson wanted to know.

"You've never been to Mare Island?" Douglas asked.

"Never. I was with SUBRON 5, in San Diego."

"Well, there's the Wakky Key Club, over on Marin Drive," Scobey said with a broad grin. "It's a strip club, see, and the girls there are so—"

"Hey, hey!" Douglas said. "You're crazy! The Wakky's in

Honolulu!"

"Honolulu!" Benson wailed.

"Yeah, I just wanted Rog to know what he was missing!"

"Actually," Douglas said, "there's nothing to do in Vallejo. No girls."

"No booze," Benson chimed in.

"No pussy," Jablonski said.

"No food," Boyce added, catching on to the game.

"Not much of anything, actually," Scobey said. "I think it's a conspiracy. Probably has to do with Russian spies in the area. The government doesn't want the Russkis to find places where they can lead innocents like us astray."

"You know," Douglas said, thoughtful, "there is the old Tup 'n' Baa."

"What's that?" Boyce wanted to know.

"Submariner's bar," Jablonski said. "It's really the Ram and Ewe. They have it decorated like a submarine supply officer's wet dream!"

"Are there girls?" Benson wanted to know.

"Oh, there's girls," Scobey said. "But no grass skirts and no palm trees…. "

They found the Ram and Ewe, but Benson had an unpleasant feeling about the place as soon as they walked up to the door. Now it was Macy's Ram and Ewe, a seedy-looking and run-down place, badly in need of paint. A dozen big, gleaming motorcycles were parked in the lot beside the building, overlooking Mare Island Channel. A pair of too-thin women with harsh makeup, tight clothing, and flashy handbags leaned against the wall nearby.

"Doesn't look quite like I remember it," Douglas said, frowning.

"You've been here before?" Boyce asked.

"Oh, sure. Lots of times. The first was when I was shipping out on my first patrol, back in '79."

"Hey, sailor boys!" one of the women called. She was silver-blond, but with bright green streaks dyed in her crisply molded hair. "Lookin' for a date?"

"Maybe later, baby," Scobey called back.

"Maybe you'll buy us a drink?" the other said hopefully. Her hair was a more conservative flaming orange, which did interesting things to her purple lipstick and mascara.

"Sure," Boyce said. "Come on!"

"There's a nice place down the street," the green-blond offered.

"I'd kind of like to check this place out, guys," Douglas said. The redhead started forward, but the green-blond stopped her. "Shit, Liz. Not if they're goin' in there!" She eyed the sailors again. "Maybe we'll catch ya later, honey." They turned and walked off down the sidewalk, heels clicking on the pavement.

"What's with them?" Boyce asked.

"Ah, forget 'em," Scobey said. "C'mon. They've got food here and they've got booze. Let's get us some."

It was dark inside, smoky and not particularly clean. A number of bikers lounged at tables in the back, or stalked about the two pool tables with cues grasped in meaty hands like spears, steel and leather agleam in the weak light. The bikers weren't the only customers in the bar, but it felt like they were the ones who were in charge. Benson had the feeling that every eye in the place was on the quintet of sailors as they walked inside.

"They've done some new decorating, I see," Jablonski said, looking around. Pictures of motorcycles graced the walls, some shown off by bikini-clad girls. A forlorn-looking moose head hung above the bar. "Early biker punk, it looks like."

"Under new management, I imagine," Douglas added. "Damn! They had some really great stuff here!"

"Like what?" Benson wanted to know.

Douglas pointed. "They had a couple of old torpedo casings hanging from the overhead right there. Lots of submarine spare parts. Hull fittings. A commode lid from a sub's head. Battle lanterns. There was so much cast-off sub junk on the walls here that they said that an old World War II boat, the USS Shellfish, hadn't gone missing after all. She was hanging right here, in pieces, with so much other junk the Navy investigators never saw her."

"Shellfish?" Boyce said. "Never heard of that one."

"She wasn't real. But she makes for a good story."

They walked toward the bar, where the bartender watched with something less than open enthusiasm. Several bikers at the far end of the bar talked in low tones with one another, shooting hard, hooded glances at the sailors from time to time.

"One drink, fellas," the bartender said, his voice low and on the verge of pleading. "Just one. Then you'd better shove off, okay? This ain't your turf no more."

"It's a free country, ain't it?" Scobey growled.

"Take it easy, Big C," Boyce said. "We don't want trouble. C'mon. There's a table."

They sat down at a free table not far from the front door and a large window looking out onto the street. "Not real friendly here, are they?" Benson said. He watched the bikers in the back of the room return his casual glance with hard, cold stares.

"Gentlemen, we face an ethical dilemma," Douglas said thoughtfully. "If we were smart, we'd turn around and walk out that door right now, because we want to enjoy the rest of our liberty and not end up in a Shore Patrol brig because we got into a barroom brawl. But if we leave now, we let down the honor of our shipmates, the 'Burgh, and the Navy."

"If you think I'm gonna let a bunch of fuzz-faced delinquents scare me off," Scobey said, "you got another think coming!"

"I don't know," Jablonski said. "They look like trouble with a capital T. These aren't your usual delinquents."

A waitress came up to their table. She was young, blond, and looked nervous. Her skirt was short and so tight she could hardly walk, and twice she stole quick glances toward the back of the bar, as though aware of all of those cold, dark stares. "H-hi. What'll it be?"

"Gimme a beer," Douglas said. "Stoneybrook, if you got it. Hey, what the hell happened here?"

"What … what do you mean?" she asked.

"This used to be a submariner's bar," Jablonski said. "Memorabilia all over the walls. Serviceman's place. What gives?"

The waitress shrugged her shoulders. "The old owner got bought out a couple years ago. New bunch came in. Times change, y'know?" She glanced toward the back of the bar again and swallowed hard. "Anything for the rest of you?"

"Hell of a change," Benson said. His eyes narrowed. The woman was scared. "Are you okay, miss? Do you need us to get the police?"

"I'm… fine. Thanks." She managed a smile. "You boys off the sub that just came in this morning?"

"That's right," Boyce said. "Fleet's in! Lock up the women and kids!"

She smiled again. "It can't be that bad!"

"This looks like a pretty tough neighborhood," Douglas told her. "Didn't used to be. Do you like working here?"

"Hey, times are tough. A girl does what she has to, and cocktailing and waitressing ain't so bad." She glanced back at the bartender, who was watching them closely and with obvious concern. "Look, you guys wanna order, or what?"

"I'll have a Bud," Jablonski said.

"Coke for me," Boyce said.

"I'll have—" Scobey began.

"Awwww, look it the fairies in their cute little sailor suits," a big voice boomed from nearby. "Hey, guys! Get a load of the pansies!"

Scobey turned in his seat. "You want to turn the volume down, mister? I'm trying to order here."

"Fuck you, faggot!" the biker growled. He stood at least six feet tall and must have weighed 250, with a belly that hung over the waistband of too-tight leather jeans. His hairy chest and arms were bare under a leather vest, and a tattoo of a naked woman seated with her legs spread wide wiggled on his biceps when he flexed his arm. His beard, unkempt and wiry, reached to the top of his breastbone. Leather armbands, a black kerchief over his head, and wraparound sunglasses completed the unappetizing picture.

"What's the problem?" Douglas asked in a carefully reasonable tone. "We're not bothering you…. "

"Yeah? How do you know that, squid? You bother me just by existin'! And you're bothering the little lady, here!" He reached out with one thick arm and gathered in the waitress in a tight embrace. "Whassamatter, Sweet Cakes?" he asked.

"These sailor boys bothering you? Don't you worry! They ain't shit! I'll be real happy to protect you!.. "

"Hey!" She elbowed him in the side hard, but without visible effect. "Lemme go, you pig!"

"You ever been loved by a real man, Sweetie? We can fix that!"

"Leave me alone.!'

Benson was on his feet. "Hey!" he snapped. "Fuzzface! The lady said to leave her alone!"

Douglas closed his eyes. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, but then he was on his feet as well. Then other Pittsburgh crewmen rose, chairs scraping on the floor. Behind the bar, the bartender was furiously punching out a number on a telephone. The bar was suddenly so quiet they could hear the clicks of the bartender's fingers on the buttons.

The biker shoved the girl away and swung to face the semicircle of white-uniformed sailors. In the background, the other bikers were slowly forming a phalanx, moving toward the face-to-face showdown. Several wore leather jackets emblazoned with a flaming skull and the legend

"Skullbangers."

"Faggots in your tighty whities!" he sneered. "I'll shove those cute little sailor hats up your asses so far you'll fuckin' choke on 'em!"

"We don't want trouble," Douglas said, his voice even. "Let us buy you a drink and—"

"You got trouble, faggot!" the biker screamed. His hand dipped into a pocket, then reappeared, a switchblade snicking open in a deadly flick of motion. "Take 'em, boys!"

Benson reached down, snatched up the heavy glass ashtray from the table, and swung it roundhouse, bypassing the outthrust knife and connecting hard with the side of the biker's head. Neither ashtray nor skull shattered, but the biker staggered heavily to the side. Scobey knocked the knife from his hand, sending it skittering across the floor.

An instant later, another biker rushed up and grabbed Benson by the jumper. Douglas picked up a chair and swung hard, crashing seat and legs into the tough's back and knocking him down. Benson grabbed a handful of tangled beard and pulled, hard, eliciting a wild yelp. Pivoting hard, he rammed his captive headfirst into the bar with a satisfying thud that didn't quite crack the oak paneling, but then someone hit him in the back with a pool cue so hard the wood splintered, and the biting pain drove him to his knees.

The next few moments were a whirling kaleidoscope of noise and movement and pain. Benson staggered back to his feet, then went down again as a beefy fist collided with the side of his face.

For a moment, the other four Pittsburghers held the bikers at bay, standing shoulder to shoulder with chairs raised like a shield wall of old. Rushing forward with a yell, they drove their enemies back a few steps… butthen the bikers recovered, grabbed the chair legs, and a wild tug-of-war ensued, a battle where the outnumbered and outmuscled submariners must soon lose. Fists flew, connecting with meaty thwacks and shrill yells.

The waitress was screaming. Other patrons were fleeing, squeezing through the open door and into the street. An alarm shrilled as some of the former customers slammed out through an emergency exit in the back rather than risk getting caught up in the free-for-all near the front door. The bartender was wading forward with a baseball bat, screaming obscenities… but one of the bikers plucked the weapon from the man's grip and hurled him back across the bar with a stiff-armed shove.

Together, Scobey and Douglas picked up their table and charged, crashing into the bat-wielding man and driving him down and under. Boyce took another biker down with a chair, but then was struck from behind and sent sprawling onto the floor.

Another civilian was on the scene now, a big, slab-muscled man with a gray mustache and a length of lead pipe wrapped in duct tape. "Break it the hell up!" he bellowed.

"Shut the fuck up, Macy!" one of the Bangers yelled back. "Get outta my way!"

Benson thought he could hear the approaching wail of sirens. "C'mon, guys!" he shouted. "Let's get out of here!"

But then someone had picked him up bodily and hurled him through the air. He struck the big plate-glass window and instinctively covered his eyes, knowing he was about to smash through and into the street… but miraculously the glass held and he hit the floor, his back shrieking pain.

Scobey hit the glass above him, and this time the pane gave way in a hurricane of whirling shards. Big C crashed through and into the street.

This, Benson decided, was definitely a time for the better part of valor. They didn't stand a chance against these monsters, and if they tried to stay and fight, they would be cut to pieces. Picking up the stunned Boyce, he staggered for the door, ducking as a beer bottle sailed past his head and smashed against the doorjamb. Jablonski and Douglas followed, fighting a rearguard action by throwing chairs, bottles, glasses, and anything else that came to hand at their foes.

But then a sudden rush by a trio of bikers blocked them from their exit. Benson let Boyce slide to the floor, and the remaining three ' Burghers stood back-to-back, facing the menacing ring of leather and steel that was closing on them now from every direction. There were eight of the Skullbangers surrounding them, not counting two out cold on the floor. Not very good odds, Benson decided. The bartender and the man with the lead pipe — Benson thought he must be the owner of the joint — stood beside the bar, watching.

A little help would be a good thing Just now, Benson thought. Then one of the bikers lunged, his face a hideous scowl as he barked paint-peeling obscenities. Scobey kicked him hard in the knee, dropping him, but then the others were piling on. Benson was hit in the side of the head and knocked down. The next thing he knew, several stinking, hairy bodies were piling on top of him, raining down blows with fists, bottles, and at least one set of brass knuckles. He curled up, trying to protect his head, neck, genitals, and kidneys all at once. His ears were ringing, and his mouth tasted of copper and salt.

Shrill whistle blasts cut through the bedlam, mingled with sirens. "Awright… awright!" someone was screaming.

"Break it up!"

Several more hard blows landed, but then Benson was being hauled to his feet. His uniform jumper was blood-splattered and dirty. His side hurt like hell, and the room was spinning wildly. It took him a moment to identify the newcomers, a half dozen Shore Patrol, in helmets and armbands bearing the letters SP in white on black, swarming into the bar and separating the combatants.

"Cavalry to the rescue!" a bloody-faced Scobey shouted, though Benson had never heard the Shore Patrol ever called that. They waded in, black nightsticks at the ready.

"What the hell's going on!" an SP chief yelled with a voice like the trump of doom.

"Your people smashed my place the hell up!" the civilian with the lead pipe yelled. He pointed. "Look at my place! They smashed it up! Hassled my customers! Who's gonna pay, huh? That's what I wanna know! Who the hell's gonna pay?"

"Okay, mister, okay," the chief said, making calming motions with his hands. "It's all under control now, okay? We're taking them in. You can come down and press charges."

"I want this damage paid for!"

"It will be, sir. But you have to come down to the brig and press charges…. "

"Shit!" Benson muttered, rubbing his head. "I thought… "

"We're the scapegoats, Rog," Douglas said. He sounded bitter. "Business as usual!"

"Shit!"

The SPs roughly hustled them out of the bar. Outside, an SP van squatted in the street, red-and-blue lights flashing. Someone opened the back, and the five submariners were hustled in, and none too gently.

As they drove off, the chief was still trying to calm the bar's owner.

Six hours later, they were in the Shore Patrol's drunk tank at their Mainside headquarters in Vallejo. It was a small and crowded community wedged in behind steel bars, with two reeking, open toilets and the stink of alcohol, sweat, urine, and vomit.

"Man," Benson said, shaking his head, "this just ain't right!" He was sitting on one of the narrow cots in the cell, a cell now holding a couple of dozen sailors and Marines, with standing room only for newcomers.

"Never expected Vallejo to go the way of Shit City," Douglas said from the cot opposite his. Norfolk, Virginia, had acquired that particular appellation decades before, making a living off the Navy personnel who lived and worked there, but treating them like dirt. That bit of service-civilian animosity lay mostly in the past, now, but there were still plenty of places where the civilians kicked servicemen in the face every chance they got, even while they were pocketing their money for shoddy service and watered-down drinks.

"Yeah," Jablonski said, "I hear ya." His arm was bandaged and in a sling, and he was sitting on the bare concrete floor with his back against the bars. All of them had been treated for cuts, scrapes, and bruises at the small SP dispensary upstairs. None of them had seen Boyce since they'd been brought in, and no one seemed to know what had become of him. "I thought Reagan was making a big comeback for the military, y'know?"

"Aw, some things never change," Scobey said. "Take our money, kick us in the balls. It's a goddamned conspiracy."

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Benson said. "Here we are, supposed to be the front line of defense against the communists, and we get beaten up by punks in a public bar, and the owner sics the SPs on us! There ain't no justice!"

"Aw, pipe down, runt!" one of the other prisoners groaned. Benson wasn't surprised to see another Pittsburgh crewman. TM2 Mark Doershner was something of a bully, loud, brash, and obnoxious, a self-proclaimed tough guy who got by on the boat by being very good at what he did. "No one wants to hear it!"

"What's the matter, Doershner," Scobey said, grinning. "Too much to drink?"

"Aww… there was something in the whiskey at Brunnli's, man…. "

"Yeah, yeah, that's what they all say."

"Fuck you, man… "

A pair of Shore patrolmen appeared in the green-painted passageway outside the cell. "Awright, listen up!" a First Class petty officer yelled. "Who in here is off the Pittsburgh?"

Benson struggled to his feet, as did Douglas, Scobey, and Jablonski. On the far side of the holding cell, Doershner began moving toward the cell door, along with several other enlisted men off the Burgh — YM2 Erskine, SN2 Patterson, EM3 Hannacker. As the SP rattled a set of keys in the lock, the eight of them squeezed past the others and filed out through the drunk-tank door.

"Follow me, people," the SP ordered.

The holding tank was in the basement. Upstairs, at the front desk behind the building's front door, Master Chief Warren was waiting for them, accompanied by a pretty young woman.

Benson felt a start of recognition. It was the waitress from the Ram and Ewe, dressed more modestly now in blue jeans and a short-sleeved print blouse. "There he is!" she exclaimed to the COB.

"Fall in!" Warren barked.

The sailors managed an untidy line. Doershner and his pals were clearly drunk; Benson and his three friends were much the worse for wear after the brawl, sore, bruised, and battered. Benson remembered Sanders getting gigged for a spot of rust on his sleeve; the four of them were wearing white jumpers liberally splattered with their own blood.

"Okay, what's the story?" Warren demanded.

"Sir," Douglas said, "EM3 John Boyce was with us. I think he was injured in the fight." He nodded at the watching Shore Patrol petty officers. "We haven't seen him since these people took him away."

"Boyce is okay," Warren told them. "He had some cracked ribs, so they took him to the hospital. He's back aboard the 'Burgh now with a taped-up chest and a beaut of a black eye. What I want to know is what the hell happened?"

The woman crossed over to Benson and took his arm. "This man tried to help me, sir," she said. "Don't you dare punish him!"

"I can't promise that, miss." Warren placed his hands on his hips and looked at each of them. "Well?"

"We ran afoul of some of the locals, COB," Douglas said. "They'd taken over one of our usual hangouts."

"Who started the fight?"

"They did, COB."

"The manager says you people did it."

"Maybe because he figures the government'll pay up," Scobey suggested, "and the bikers won't give him squat."

"Or else he's afraid of 'em," Jablonski added.

"What about you guys?" Warren said, glaring now at Doershner, Erskine, Patterson, and Hannacker.

"We weren't even… there," Patterson said, hiccuping impressively in mid-sentence. Erskine appeared to be asleep on his feet.

Warren sighed. "I ought to leave the bunch of you to face mast with the SPs tomorrow morning," he said. "But Chief Dupres owes me a favor and I'm gonna call it in. Get your shit together and get out of here. We're going back to the boat."

"Hell, Master Chief," Jablonski said, "what do the SPs owe you?"

"Never mind. Just thank the luck of Davy Jones himself that the SPs picked you up, and not the local cops. I don't have nearly as much pull with them!"

"Excuse me, Master Chief," Douglas said, as they emerged from the building and into the cool night air, "but how'd you know we were here?"

"Miss Radley, here. She called the front gate, asking to talk to the skipper of the boat that just pulled in today. That would be us. She sounded pretty excited, so they routed her call through to me and I came out to talk to her. Jesus, Benson. According to her, you were playing the white knight in town tonight."

"Not really, COB…. "

"Stow it. You guys aren't off the hook, not by six thousand leagues. I had to promise that you would all go up in front of the Old Man, and you damned straight will." He hesitated. "All of you are with me… except you, Benson. But be damned sure you're back aboard when liberty expires at zero-six-hundred hours!"

"Aye aye, COB!" Benson exclaimed.

He watched with something like awe as the Chief of the Boat ushered the other seven sailors into the back of a truck waiting on the street, clambered into the passenger's side of the cab, and roared off into the night. He felt the woman's arms wrap themselves around his.

"I guess I have you to thank, huh?" he said. "I don't even know your name."

"Carol," she told him. "Carol Radley. I'm just sorry it took so long. I had to wait until my shift was over at ten, and then I didn't know who to call."

"You did just fine, ma'am. Just fine." He felt her squeeze his arm, and he couldn't tell if she was coming on to him, or just being nice. "Uh, I really appreciate what you did for me and the fellas."

"Uh-uh. I have to thank you. I haven't seen bravery like that outside of the movies!"

"Wasn't bravery. I just wasn't going to let that guy get away with acting like that."

"Exactly my point. Come on."

"Where?"

"Back to my place."

"Huh?"

"I want to put something on those cuts and scrapes, and maybe some raw meat for that bruise on your jaw. After that, we'll see."

Dazed and wondering if he were dreaming, Benson let her lead him to her car. " 'Squeeeee,'" he said.