Free The Med by David Poyer

brushing at his shoulders, straightening his tie.
    â€œNo,” said Silkworth. “I remember now. I went in there once on my first float. I didn’t know nothing then. Those babes were all over me, back in this dark booth. Real jealous bitches. I didn’t figure it out till I tried for a feel. Man! I like to shit. She had a bigger dick than mine. I was just a private then. One of them kissed me, too, before I caught on.”
    â€œDid he kiss good, Sergeant?”
    â€œThere was no goddamn difference, Dippy. None at all. That was what was so fucken weird about it.”
    Now the street became an alley. Their footsteps bounced off old stucco, off cobblestones strewn with trash, broken glass, a kid’s doll. Givens thought: We’ve left Palermo. This was a place all to itself. Not even the junkyard cars came by, only once in a while a battered, mufflerless Vespa, piloted by boys in black jackets who did not look at them. Over their heads, outside shuttered windows, lines of clothing hung motionless in a dim cathedral light. A baby wailed somewhere, and tinny music beat time to their steps. He looked over his shoulder, and caught Washman doing the same thing. They grinned at each other uneasily.
    â€œThat’s it,” said Silky. “Lily’s. Was that the place he told you guys about?”
    â€œI think so, Sarge. He dint remember the name but he said—”
    â€œYeah, good steer. I been here before, too. It ain’t cheap, but it’s clean, and they don’t rip you off. At least that’s the way it was then. Must be four, five years ago now. Jesus. Here, it’s this green door.”
    Will paused. He had not meant to come here. Walk around, see the city, that was all he had intended. He had not wanted to start drinking, but all the others had. He had promised himself not to participate in anything worse. But he did not feel like waiting alone in the empty street. Not in this part of town.
    He joined the others inside the door.
    He had expected a stinking interior, but they had stepped into a garden. Real grass, trimmed and wet as if it had just been watered. Four wrought-iron chairs sat round a glass-topped table. In the middle of the lawn a blue-and-white Virgin stood in a grotto decorated with marbles and bits of mirror. He looked suspiciously at the statue. A Catholic country, the lieutenant had said.
    â€œHey. Nice,” said Liebo.
    Will had thought the walk was cement, but when he looked carefully it became mosaic, hundreds of square tiles, red and blue and white, glazed porcelain, set with care. Not a square was missing or even cracked. He felt awkward walking on it, even with polished shoes.
    When he looked up the others had gone on ahead, and he hurried to catch up. At the end of the garden a stone stairway curved up to the second floor of a house, stucco like the outer wall, but unchipped and clean. Silky led them up it. On the porch he raised his hand to knock, then paused.
    â€œYou men armed?”
    â€œWhat’s that, Sarge?”
    â€œYou bring your shit?”
    They looked at him blankly. After a moment he unbuttoned his blouse and reached inside, shaking his head. “Here, children,” he said, and handed them out the flat packs of prophylactics, two each.
    â€œThank you, Sergeant,” said Harner.
    Silkworth knocked. The marines shuffled their feet and looked down at the garden, the statue; then the door swung open.
    The Italian was old, white-haired, and unimpressed with them. He motioned them in wordlessly.
    It looked like a living room. A dark television sat against the wall. Four rubber plants stood around it, as if it had been camouflaged. The old man shut the door and they became abashed, as if their grandfather had met them. “Who’s he?” Liebo whispered. Silky shrugged.
    He came back to them as they stood half at attention, and stepped up close to Will. Givens looked down at the opaque eyes, the pink scalp that