Hell Hole by Chris Grabenstein Page B

and take a bow!”
    Five men in uniform rumble up the steps and line up behind the senator.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen, I give you Second Lieutenant Winslow G. Worthington and his courageous comrades from the fighting Eighty-second Airborne!”
    The crowd goes wild.
    Well, everybody except me.
    Winslow G. Worthington? He’s the soldier with the limp.
    The one Dixon calls “Lieutenant Worthless.”

15
    â€œYou from New Jersey, Officer Starky?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œYou what they call a Jersey girl?”
    â€œâ€™spose so, sir.”
    â€œHow come you don’t have the big hair?”
    Just our luck. After the toast, Sergeant Dixon is still thirsty. So he and three of his buddies, the ones he calls Handy Andy, Mickey Mex, and Butt Lips, are in the booze tent, helping themselves to champagne. A magnum each. That’s one and a half liters—twice as much as a normal bottle.
    When it comes to alcohol consumption, these guys don’t know from normal. Especially Butt Lips. He’s huge. A real two-fisted drinker. One magnum in each paw.
    Dixon leans in with a leer. “So, what do you do for fun down here, Jersey girl?”
    â€œSarge?” It’s Lieutenant Worthington. Two of the senator’s bodyguards flank him. “Dad says we should roll.”

    â€œSo soon?” says Dixon. “What a shame. Officer Starky was about to give me her phone number.”
    â€œIt’s the same as mine,” I say. “Nine-one-one.”
    â€œCute, Boyle. Cute.”
    â€œI try.”
    â€œYeah. Well, why don’t you and Ceepak try spending some time figuring out who the fuck killed one of my men instead of valet parking cars at fancy-ass parties?”
    â€œSarge?” Worthington shakes his head. “Not here.”
    â€œYou giving the orders now, gimp?”
    Worthington blinks.
    â€œSo, you guys want to hit the boardwalk tomorrow?” Dixon asks nobody in particular.
    â€œSure, sarge,” says Butt Lips. I think I know how Rutledge got his nickname: he kisses a lot of heinie.
    â€œMight give us something to do before we do the job the local constabulary seem unable to do.” He holds up a hand. “But, I gave my word. Gave Officer Ceepak twenty-four hours, of which he only has what? Twenty left?”
    â€œNineteen, sir,” says Handy Andy. He is, indeed, handy. Knows his math.
    â€œSo, we’ll head over to the boardwalk and kill some time riding the rides before we head out to kill whoever—”
    He stops.
    Here come two more musclemen in sunglasses and suits. They look like the downfield blockers for a tailback if, you know, offensive linemen were allowed to carry concealed weapons under their uniforms. They halt. Separate.
    Here comes the all-American from Pennsylvania: Senator Winslow W. Worthington. The four other bodyguards from the eight-man crew are tailing him, still scanning the crowd for trouble other than someone popping out of their bikini top.
    â€œWin?”
    â€œYes, Dad?”
    â€œIt might be prudent for you and your friends to call it a night.”

    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œGood seeing you again, Sergeant Dixon,” says the senator. He looks like his face should be chiseled into marble. White swept-back hair—like George Washington with better teeth. If this senator-president thing doesn’t work out, the elder Mr. Worthington could become a male model and pose as the wise-and-loving father of the bride in tuxedo ads.
    The senator extends his hand. Dixon puts down his champagne jug so he can shake it.
    â€œThank you for watching out for my son, Sergeant.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    I note that Dixon is standing more stiffly now, like someone just shoved a ramrod up his butt.
    The senator snaps Dixon a crisp salute, which Dixon returns just as sharply. The man sobers up quicker than anybody I’ve ever met.
    The noble statesman and his bodyguards breeze up the garden