Hold Tight by Christopher Bram Read Free Book Online Page A

them. Mason hoped he’d be able to use at least one of these men. They might be able to recognize Mr. E. and Mr. K. and, better yet, they’d be familiar with whorehouses. But these men were as denying and evasive as the rest.
    “What a bunch,” grumbled Mason after the short, feisty sailor who said he went to the house in Brooklyn only because his buddy dragged him there. Earlier, they’d spoken to the buddy, who said it was the short sailor who dragged him. “Either they’re compulsive liars or just plain stupid. Either way, we can’t use them.”
    “What are we hoping to find?” asked Erich.
    “First off, real homosexuals who are trustworthy. I thought we could start with the homosexuals who said, ‘Yes, I’m a homosexual.’”
    “What if they don’t exist, sir?”
    “They exist. The Navy tries to screen them out, but I’d assumed a few would’ve slipped in.”
    Erich went out and called the next sailor. It was another man still in his blues, who’d been in the brig until last week and missed the seasonal issue of whites. But he wasn’t from the house in Brooklyn. His papers said his name was Henry Fayette and he was charged with resisting arrest during the raid on the Bosch house. Erich looked at him, watching for signs of depravity, but the man only looked like a big, blond, dumb peasant. When he stepped into their office, he stood there for a moment and looked around, before he eased his back and shoulders into “Attention” and saluted Commander Mason.
    “Seaman Fayette, sir.” His Southern accent reduced his name to one syllable, a cross between “fat” and “fate.”
    Mason told him to sit down, make himself comfortable. Erich returned to his observation post between the window and filing cabinet.
    “Henry,” began the commander. “May I call you Henry?”
    “Whatever you want, sir. Although my friends call me Hank.” He sat there stiffly, forearms resting on the tops of his thighs, big hands hanging between his knees. He glanced at Erich, the blinds, the bookcase to his right, needing to see where he was before he could give his full attention to the officer in front of him. Most men noticed only the officer.
    “Then Hank it’ll be. No need to be formal here. And everything you say is strictly confidential, Hank. Do you have any idea why you’re here?”
    “Something to do with that house I was at? And my slugging the Shore Patrol. People keep asking me about that house, but I’ve told what little I know. I was only there that once.” He glanced at Erich again.
    Erich tried to make himself look stony and unresponsive.
    “I’ll tell you about it, too, sir, if that’s what you want. But I really wish everyone would finish with me, so I could get back to my ship. I feel funny sitting out the war like this.”
    The man seemed unaware that he’d done anything wrong, but Erich was skeptical about such ignorance. American enlisted men could be as cunning as servants, disguising their cunning as obstinate stupidity.
    Mason began to ask his questions. His confidence was unshakable; he didn’t seem to notice that this was another one from whom he’d get nothing. Fayette kept mulishly coming back to his desire to return to his ship and shipmates, until Mason said he’d see what he could do for him, just to get on with the questioning. He offered Fayette a cigarette.
    “Thank you, sir. Don’t mind if I do.”
    Mason lit it for him with his gold lighter. “How do you like girls, Hank?”
    Fayette drew on the cigarette and exhaled. “They’re okay. I suppose I’ll marry one someday.”
    “Then you’re not a homosexual?”
    Fayette looked at the slim cigarette in his thick fingers. Then he glanced back at Erich, curiously, almost amused, one enlisted man sharing with another his distrust of an officer. The glance annoyed Erich, as though it suggested a conspiracy more personal than rank.
    Mason, too, glanced at Erich, but only to share his new interest in this man: he was the