"Where'd he get it?"
"He's a goddamned good poker player," Zimmerman said. "And on top of that, he was lucky, real lucky, a couple of times."
Esposito nodded his acceptance of that. "So he bought the LaSalle; that's his," Zimmerman said. "And so we both wound up here. And like I said, we were buddies. But he's now an officer, so he can't come in here, and I can't go to the officers' club. So he has a girl friend. A real nice girl, Esposito, you understand? I personally don't like it when you say 'shack job.' And she lives on a boat, not a yacht, a boat. And McCoy tells her about me and his kid brother, and she says bring us to dinner. So we go. And that's it. We had dinner and drank some beer, and then McCoy drove us back out here."
"I figured it was probably something like that," Esposito said. "His brother's got a real big mouth." "I saw that myself," Zimmerman agreed. "And he's a mean sonofabitch, too," Esposito said. "I told you; he really beat the shit out of a couple of my kids." "I don't want to put my nose in where it ain't welcome,"
Zimmerman said. "But, maybe, if you would like, I could talk to the brother."
"I don't know," Esposito said, doubtfully. "You think he'd listen to you? He sure as shit don't listen to me when I try to talk to him."
"You start beating up on him, you're liable to lose your stripes," Zimmerman said.
"Well, shit, Zimmerman, if you think you could do any good," Esposito said.
"It couldn't hurt none to try," Zimmerman said.
"What the hell," Esposito said. "Why not? And what about the Thompson?"
"You take the old one to the armory, tomorrow," Zimmerman said. "And tell the armorer I said to swap it for you."
"You want to split another pitcher of beer?'
"Naw, hell, I got to get up in the wee hours. But thanks anyway."
Ten minutes later, Gunnery Sergeant Ernst Zimmerman was outside the enlisted beer hall, known as the Slop Chute.
There was a cedar pole ten feet from the entrance. Seventy-five or so knives were stuck into it. Zimmerman had heard about the cedar pole, but it was the first time he had seen it. There was a regulation that the Raiders could not enter the Slop Chute with their knives. So rather than going to his barrack or tent to leave his knife there, some ferocious Raider had stuck it in the cedar pole and reclaimed it when he left the Slop Chute. The idea had quickly caught on.
"Dodge fucking City," Zimmerman muttered under his breath, disgustedly.
He pushed the door open and walked inside, grimacing at the smell of sour beer, a dense cloud of cigarette smoke, and the acrid fumes of beer-laden urine.
"Hey, Mac, no knives," a voice behind him said. Zimmerman turned and saw there was a corporal on duty at the entrance. Zimmerman didn't reply. Finally, the corporal recognized him. "Sorry, Gunny," the corporal added. "Didn't recognize you at first."
Zimmerman looked around the crowded room until he spotted PFC Thomas McCoy, who was sitting with half a dozen others at a crude table drinking beer out of a canteen cup.
He walked across the room to him.
"Hey, whaddasay, Gunny!" one of the others greeted him, cheerfully. "You want a beer?"
"I want to see McCoy for a minute, thanks anyway," Zimmerman said.
"What the hell for?" PFC McCoy replied. He was a little drunk, Zimmerman saw.
Zimmerman, on the edge of snapping, "Because I said so, asshole! On your feet!", stopped himself in time and smiled. "Colonel Carlson's got a little problem he wants you to solve for him."
The others laughed, and a faint smile appeared on McCoy's face. He got to his feet.
"This going to take long?" he asked.
"I don't think so," Zimmerman said.
He motioned for McCoy to go ahead of him, and then followed him across the room and out of the building. McCoy went to the cedar post, jerked one of the knives from it, and slipped it into the sheath on his belt.
"Where we going?" he asked.
"Right over this way," Zimmerman said, "it's not far."
Behind the Slop Chute building was a mixed collection of other buildings, some frame with tar-paper roofs, some Quonsets, and some tents. Here and there a dim bulb provided a little light.
Zimmerman went to the door of one of the small frame buildings, took off his dungaree jacket and his hat, and hung them on the doorknob.
"What's this, Gunny?" McCoy asked, suspiciously.
"You know what it means, you fucking brig bunny," Zimmerman said. "It means that right now you can call me 'Zimmerman,' 'cause right now, I ain't a gunny. I just hung my chevrons on the doorknob."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" McCoy asked.
"Nothing's wrong with me," Zimmerman said. "What's wrong is wrong with you, asshole."
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Gunny, but if you think I'm going to get in it with you and wind up back in the brig, you have another think coming."
"You're not going back to the brig," Zimmerman said, moving close to him. "Having his brother in the brig would embarrass Lieutenant McCoy, and you've embarrassed him enough already, brig bunny."
"I wish I believed that," McCoy said. "I would like nothing better than to shove your teeth down your throat."
"Have a shot," Zimmerman said. "Look around, there's nobody here. And your brother's an officer. He wouldn't let them put you in the brig on a bum rap."
"Fuck you," McCoy said.
"I thought that you were supposed to be a tough guy," Zimmerman said. "I guess that's only when you're picking on kids, right?"
McCoy balled his fists, but kept them at his side.
"Come on, tough guy," Zimmerman said. "What's the matter, no balls?"
McCoy threw a punch, a right, with all his weight behind it.
Zimmerman deflected the punch with his left arm and kicked McCoy in the crotch.
McCoy made an animal sound, half scream and half moan, and fell to the ground with his hands at his crotch and his knees pulled up.
"You cocksucker," he said indignantly, a moment later. "You kicked me."
Zimmerman kicked him again, in the stomach.
"That's for calling your brother's lady friend a 'shack job,'" Zimmerman said, conversationally. He kicked him again. "And that's for calling me a 'cocksucker.' You got to learn to watch your mouth, brig bunny."
McCoy was writhing around on the ground, gasping for breath, moaning as he held his scrotum.
Zimmerman, his arms folded on his chest, watched silently. After several minutes, McCoy managed to sit up.
"Are you getting the message, tough guy? Or do you want some more?"
"You don't fight fair," McCoy said, righteously indignant. "You kicked me, for Christ's sake!"
"Get up then, Joe Louis," Zimmerman said. "Try it with your fists."
McCoy took several deep breaths, and then got nimbly to his feet, balled his fists, and took up a crouched fighting posture.
"I must have missed," Zimmerman said, almost wonderingly. "Usually when I kick people, they stay down."
"You cocksucker!" McCoy said, and charged him. He threw a punch. Zimmerman caught the arm, spun around, and threw McCoy over his back. McCoy landed flat on his back. The air was knocked out of him.
Zimmerman walked to him and kicked him in the side.
"I told you," he said. "Don't call me a cocksucker."
With a massive effort, McCoy got his wind back and straggled to his knees. And then he heaved himself upright.
Zimmerman slapped him twice with the back of his left hand across the face, and then with the heel of his right hand across the throat. The first blow was hard enough to make McCoy reel, and the second sent him flying backward, his hands to his throat, gasping for breath. And then he fell heavily onto his backside.
Zimmerman stepped up to him and kicked him in the side again. McCoy bent double and threw up.
"I hit you with my open hand," Zimmerman said, conversationally. "If I had hit you with the side of it,"-he demonstrated with his left hand-"you would have a broken nose, and you wouldn't be able to talk for a week. If I had hit you hard enough, I would have crushed your Adam's apple and you would choke. The only reason I didn't do that is because your brother is a friend of mine, and he might feel bad about it."