Free The Devil Met a Lady by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

even cleaning up, and every night more than a thousand kids in uniform came through the doors.
    The only uniform I had was a spare night-watchman’s brown slacks, jacket, and cap I had to buy when I pulled down regular nights for two weeks in the parking lot of the Brown Derby the year before.
    I parked about a block from the Canteen in a spot big enough for a straight-up quarter or a Crosley. I could hear the music when I stepped out of the car.
    A guy in a flannel shirt was sitting on the steps of a house next to the place where I parked. He was about sixty, burly, with gray curly hair, reminded me of Alan Hale.
    “Visiting somebody?” he asked.
    “Yeah,” I said, locking the driver’s side door and turning to him.
    The man was shaking his head.
    “Hear that?”
    The music from the Hollywood Canteen was loud, full of brass and saxophone.
    “I hear it,” I said.
    “Every night,” he said. “Most of the night. I’m on the early shift at Lockheed all the way out in Burbank. Some shift I’m gonna get my hand pulped. I get no sleep.”
    “Shame,” I said, taking a step toward him.
    “Well,” he said, and sighed. “You know. What can you do? The war. Some of those kids, a lot of ’em, they won’t be coming … hell, I’ve got a kid in the Pacific somewhere, marine. I’ll live with it.”
    “How long have you lived here?” I asked.
    “Twenty-eight years,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the house. “I’ll probably die here.”
    There was a trombone blast from the direction of the canteen, followed by roars, applause, and whistling. A new song blared up almost immediately.
    “Know much about the Canteen?” I asked.
    “Much? Like what?”
    “Anybody get in there besides guys in uniform?”
    “Girls in uniform get in,” he said.
    “And?…”
    “People who work there. Movie people. Know why I’m sitting out here?”
    “Can’t sleep,” I guessed.
    “Naw. I get to see movie stars. When the Canteen lot gets filled they park down here. Almost every night I see someone, write to Hal about it. Hal’s my son. See Bette Davis a lot. That Prisoner of Zenda guy … Ronald Colman. Saw him yesterday. Hal likes movies. Gene Tierney’s his favorite. You figurin’ on crashin’ the door?”
    “Looking for someone who might be in there,” I said. “Civilian.”
    “Good luck,” he said over a tenor sax solo, and I moved back to my Crosley, opened the door, reached into the back seat, pulled out the carrying case with Mrs. Plaut’s Mah-Jongg box inside, and headed down the street toward the blasting trumpets and hooting voices. A quartet of marines moved toward the door in front of me. I zipped my jacket up, tucked the Mah-Jongg box under my arm, and started through the door.
    “Servicemen and women only,” a voice said, as an arm was shoved in front of me.
    I shifted the Mah-Jongg box with a grunt, reached into my pocket, and fished out my wallet.
    “Peters, Warner grip,” I said, finding my long-expired ID card as uniformed kids moved past me to the not-quite-hot trumpet of Harry James, soloing on “Cherry.” Give me Muggsy Spanier any day. “How do I get to the light grids? Miss Davis called, asked me to stop by on the way home. Short or something.”
    I didn’t recognize the guys at the door. They weren’t kids but they weren’t lightweights either. I figured them for security staff from Columbia or Republic. They lacked the refinement of the older studios.
    The guy who had his arm out glanced at the ID card, saw the Warner shield and my name.
    “Al, you know where the grid is?”
    Al was busy ushering people through the door.
    “Nah.”
    “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll find it.”
    The arm came down and I walked into the Canteen. There was a small lobby, beyond which the doors leading inside were open. A fog of cigarette smoke filled the space. About a dozen servicemen and starlets were smoking, talking, smiling.
    I walked inside and looked up at the low stage. Harry