Weapons of choice

But Slim Jim hadn't thought it was funny at all. It had landed him in a blue funk for two days. He'd only surfaced when Mohr had told him everyone off the Astoria would be moving ashore as soon as they hit Pearl. There was nowhere to berth them on the surviving ships. That got him to thinking on how he might fence the stuff he'd lifted from the Leyte Gulf, which got him to thinking about how much money he stood to make. Which, in turn, led him to the conclusion that if he made enough of the folding stuff he might be able to grease the right wheels and roll right on out of the firing line. Then he could land himself a position more befitting a man of his talents.

Once ashore, they had set up tents for temporary quarters. That had dampened his spirits some again. Pitched in a burned-out expanse of sugarcane stubble a mile or so from Hickam Field, they reminded him of his time on the road gang. But there was no work to be done, which suited him fine.

All he had to do was figure out how to get down to Hotel Street in Honolulu. Given a few hours down there, he was sure he'd be able to move this loot. Unfortunately they were all confined to camp indefinitely. Somebody told him it was because a couple of Japs from the future had got themselves whacked, but Slim Jim took that for bullshit. The navy had stuck him in this shithole with a moron for a roomy, because the navy had nothing better to do than make his sorry life even more miserable than it might be.

Surprisingly enough, it was the moron, Moose Molloy Jr., who came to the rescue. Mohr had asked him to volunteer for a work detail, helping shift a bunch of gear that had belonged to some dead officers out of the Moana Hotel. There was certain to be heavy lifting involved, a Moose Jr. specialty.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me, Davidson," the chief had said when Slim Jim had confronted him, eager to pitch in. "What, d'you take a round in the head or something? You forget what a lazy asshole you are?"

"Come on, Chief," he'd pleaded. "I'm going outta my fucking nut in this cane field. We been here three days with nothing to do but scratch our balls. I just about scratched mine right off. It's Montgomery all over again, Chief. You gotta let me outta this joint. Even working is better than this!"

No doubt Mohr knew he was being played, but he must've decided to let the bum have a bit of rope, see if he looped it around his scrawny neck and hung himself.

"Okay, Davidson, get on the bus with Moose and Barnes. And don't let me find you pocketing the effects of any of them fine, dead, officers and gentlemen."

Slim Jim managed to sound reasonably offended. "Stealing from the dead? That's not my thing, Chief," he said, as he hurried onto an old school bus, repainted in dun green for war service.

"No, bouncing checks off old ladies is more your style, dickwad," Mohr grumbled.

The ride into Honolulu was brief, and Slim Jim couldn't help but laugh at all the dumb jerks they left behind, running along, begging for a chance to get out of that hellhole of a field. They raised a cloud of black ash and dust as they trotted beside the bus. Mohr kept a close eye on his least favorite charge as they bounced and squeaked their way into town. But cops had been eyeballing Slim Jim for a lot longer than Eddie Mohr. He knew to keep himself clean, which meant staying in character. He regaled the men in the seats around him with the exploits from his previous visits to the body shops along River and Barretania Streets. Mohr eventually tired of his bullshit and tuned him out. Slim Jim kept it going all the way to the Moana.

"Would you look at this joint," said Moose Jr., with real awe in his voice as they piled out in front of the hotel. Forty years old and fronting directly onto Waikiki Beach, the Moana had serviced some of the wealthiest tourists in the world before the war. Along with the Royal, it was one of the few grand structures in Honolulu. The coral reef that covered the floor of the bay had been smothered in sand dumped from barges in front of the Moana, so that the dainty feet of wealthy tourists wouldn't be too badly cut up.

Ever since the Japanese raid in December, naval personnel had replaced the tourists, and barbed wire now ran along the beach, blocking access to the brilliant green water.

Slim Jim nudged Moose in the ribs. "What'd I tell you about officers, Moose?"

"To love, honor, and obey them," said Mohr, punching Slim Jim in the back. "C'mon, Vladimir, the workers' revolution can wait. We got barges to lift and bales to tote."