“No, really. When I was in the Marines we worked out like crazy and none of us got bulked up like that. Got to be steroids. Does your skipper know? I mean, they don’t actually allow you to do that, do they? That shit’ll tear you to pieces in a few years. You’re going to be walking around on canes, calling for a nurse to help you pump up your dick so you can get laid.”

Statue’s main sidekick, a squared-off, no-neck slab of muscle just taller than a dwarf, scratched a new tattoo and shook his head unbelievingly at Condley. “You really were a Marine? In the Nam, huh? Come on. What the hell happened, they put your body through a shrinking machine when you got back?”

The other three laughed uproariously, as if No Neck were a stand-up comedian. Then they drained huge gulps of beer straight from their bottles. Some trainer or maybe officer had taught them that they were royalty, fit to come down from the mountain every now and then to mingle among the mortals.

Condley laughed with them. It seemed to disconcert them. Then he leaned around the bar and stared at their feet. “How many pairs of running shoes do you guys own? I’ll bet you’ve got a different pair for beach running, road running, sidewalk running, cross-country running. I’ll bet you’ve got a special pair you spit-shine for goddamn inspection. That is, if you still spit-shine shoes in today’s kiss-ass, aerobic Navy.”

“Yeah, we got running shoes,” said Black Goliath, now deciding to directly taunt Condley. “When’s the last time your narrow ass ran a mile, Home?”

“Last time I ran further than a hundred feet was when somebody was shooting at me, trying to kill me dead.”

“In the Nam?”

“Hell, no. Right here in Honolulu. A very unhappy guy. He thought I was in the rack with his wife. They can shoot you for that in Hawaii, you know. At least that’s what they tell me.”

“Were you?”

“In the rack with his wife? Not when he was trying to kill me.”

Condley watched them carefully as they elbowed one another again, raising their beers to him in an approving toast. It had become a standoff of disbelief. They were trying to decide if he’d really been a Marine, and he was trying to decide if they could fight.

“Sorry. You guys look too pretty, like some kind of recruiting poster. Did they send you to modeling class? I know you’ve been to all the right schools—SCUBA school, Ranger school, Airborne school. But do they teach you how to take pain? Do they mess with your minds?” He grunted, a dismissal. “Probably kiss your ass every payday, thank you for taking their money.”

“Why, you want to fight, old man?” Black Goliath laughed, giving off a look that bordered on pity.