Weapons of choice

It was hotter than hell down here, maybe even hotter than Alabama in high summer, which Slim Jim knew from personal experience was worse than being trapped in the Devil's own butt hole. In July of '36 he'd done three months on a road gang just outside Montgomery. At the time he'd sworn never to get himself into that sort of trouble again, but here he was, picking up dead meat, Chief Mohr kicking his ass, Moose Molloy stepping on his toes, the Imperial Japanese Navy hell-bent on killing him, and now this crazy bullshit thrown in for good measure. He'd be a damn fool if he didn't take what little chance he had to profit from these unpleasant circumstances.

And Slim Jim's mama didn't raise no fools. Sharpies, grifters, and one crooked jockey, for sure. But no fools.

Slim Jim's normal approach to a job like this would have been to affect an impression of grim industry while goofing off at every turn. But now he hurried to fill his burlap bag with its obscene cargo and the occasional item of plunder, trying to look like the world's busiest little beaver. Moose Molloy, who was working beside him, droned on without letup, his tiny pea brain grappling with the night's events. Slim Jim upheld his side of the conversation only when necessary. His mind worked furiously behind a mask of barely contained disgust.

Oxy cutters blazed around them, burning narrow passageways through the tangled mass of iron. The air stunk of ozone and corruption. Slim Jim's back hurt from the deadweight collected in his sack. His throat was parched dry, his tongue furry, and he was covered in cuts and bruises from banging against twisted metal in the dark. It was, he thought, worse than that fucking road gang. At least they'd had fresh air. But he stuck at the joyless task long after he'd normally have found an excuse to escape.

"I can't wait to see the mess on this ship," grunted Moose as he pulled at something wedged between two imperfectly fused bulkheads. "They got so many mess men on this ship they must have a mess as big as the Enterprise. You remember when we snuck on board for their Christmas party that time, Slim Jim? How big that mess was, with all of them niggers? I never seen so many of them before."

"They're not mess men," Davidson answered as he pocketed what looked like an electric fountain pen. "Look at their uniforms, you lunkhead. They're officers, some of them. The dames, too. And the captain's a broad and a Negro."

"Oh, a Neeegro, excuse me, Professor. Anyhow, I know that," Moose protested. "I was there, remember?"

"Goddamn! This thing weighs a ton," cursed Davidson as he hauled the bag through another tight crawl space. The effort left him breathless and shaking. He leaned against a bulkhead by Molloy to rest.

"Hey, Moose," he said quietly when he'd caught his breath. "Listen. I wouldn't go calling 'em niggers to their face if I was you. Or nips or broads or nothing."

"But that's what they are!" Molloy protested.

"Maybe," Davidson conceded, "but they're officers, too, a lot of them. And officers stick together. I been around. I seen a few things. Just 'cause the black man's been set lower than us doesn't mean he likes it. These guys coming here? It's trouble for everyone. For the Japs if they get a taste of those guns and rockets like we did. But for us, too, I reckon. And when trouble blows in, a smart guy keeps his head down, waits for it to pass. When it's gone you can see how things lie."

Around them the noise of rescue and salvage created a din that covered their conversation. Davidson didn't exactly think of Moose as a friend. He didn't exactly have any friends. But Moose stood six-four in his bare feet and could probably kill an ox with his right hook. He made a good ally for someone like Slim Jim, who'd always relied on ratbastard cunning to make up for his less-than-intimidating physique. If he was going to work an angle on this, he didn't need to have the big ape messing things up for him by mouthing off to the new guys.

"You think about it, Moose," he said in a conspiratorial tone. "You ever meet an officer didn't think the sun shone out of his ass? It's because in their world, it does. And there's nothing you or I can do about it. I don't know how that bitch got to be captain of a ship like this, but you can bet she thinks she deserves it."

"But that just can't be," Moose argued plaintively.

"It doesn't matter!" Davidson said, cutting him off sharply. "What should be and what is almost never turn out the same. I should be lying back in a big feather bed at the Waldorf getting my dick sucked by Rita Hayworth. But I'm stuck here covered in blood and shit wondering what the hell happened to the laws of fucking nature this morning. You take my advice, Moose, one of these bastards says boo to you, you just tell 'em yes sir no sir three bags full sir. Even if it's some broad looks like she should be cleaning the toilets in a fucking speakeasy."