The Passage by David Poyer Page A

any further, is there?” Byrne glanced at the door, got up. “It was good seeing you again. That invite still stands. I know Rosemary would love to see you again.”
    â€œWell … thank you, sir.” He wanted to backtrack, try to find out more, but Byrne didn’t give him a chance. He just led him out to where yeomen and officers were working, gave him a card with his home number, shook hands again, and said so long.
    Standing outside, he buckled his helmet as the bike idled, drawing glances from passing sailors. He was trying to mesh it together in his mind. But no matter how he tried, the gears didn’t mate. All he ended up with was that something was loose somewhere—something that was making the top brass nervous. And shit, as everyone who’d ever been in the service knew, rolled downhill.
    He rolled the bike off the stand, swung aboard as he let in the clutch, and gunned it back for the ship.

6
    R ACKS of glittering bottles reached higher than his head, aisle on aisle. GIN. SCOTCH. VODKA. SAVE WITH SUMMER PRICING AT YOUR NAVY EXCHANGE. Dan rubbed his mouth, considering. Enough for the weekend, and Beverly would probably expect him to take a bottle to this thing tonight … . He got a fifth of White Horse, a fifth of Smirnoff, and two of Seagram’s gin, then added a clay-colored bottle of Lancer’s at the wine section. Standing in line to check out, he remembered and went back for two cartons of Benson & Hedges 100’s.
    Outside, the late-afternoon sun slammed off four lanes of hoods and grilles and fenders locked together like a Rubik puzzle on Rivers Avenue: shipyard traffic, base traffic, rush hour. Hot air sucked through engine after engine until it was a brown roiling haze. He oozed with it, blipping the throttle and dragging his boots along the potholed concrete. Sweat matted his hair under the helmet and ran down his back. He thought about stopping for a cold beer on Spruill. Cars were pulling left toward it at the light ahead.
    There was a Spruill Avenue outside every shipyard and naval base in the world, though they went by different names. They smelled the same: stale beer, stale butts, urine-soaked alleys. What old-time sailors had called a Fiddler’s Green: hookers and hoods and two-for-one drafts in smoke-filled pool clubs, pawnshops and tattoo parlors, go-go clubs and used car lots with fluttering plastic banners. The North Charleston police liked to put a policewoman in fishnets and fuck-me heels at the corner of Spruill and Reynolds, just outside the gate. They took down twenty or thirty guys on a good night. The locker clubs had gone once civvies were allowed aboard ship, and the all-night greasy spoons and live sex shows were falling to fast-food franchises and video clubs. But though the shop fronts changed, the feeling never did, and maybe never would
as long as there were sailors and those who preyed on them. He extended an arm to turn. But then he remembered the bottles shock-corded to the seat, that he had a woman waiting for him, so he dropped it and went straight when the light changed.
    When he pressed the buzzer of the town house, she opened the door as if she’d been waiting just inside. She was barefoot, wearing a green embroidered dressing gown. He held up the bag. “Got you something.”
    â€œTwo cartons! Thanks.” He felt her naked leg engage his. Some faint revulsion made him want to pull away. Then, behind her, he saw the kid watching from the door of his room. He took his hand off her ass and said, “Hi, Bartholomew.”
    â€œHi, Lieutenant Dan.” His face lighted up and he ran out into the living room.
    His mother said something about getting a drink and disappeared into the kitchen. Dan looked down at the boy, then picked him up. He yipped and clutched. “Whoa, don’t grab the uniform, okay? How are you, Bartholomew?”
    â€œBilly, Lieutenant. You smell like motorcycles.”
    â€œSorry, I