“It doesn’t matter. Shit happens in wars.”

“The war? That was a long time ago.”

“Not when you’re still alive.”

The rainsquall ended. A grand rainbow streaked the sky above Pearl Harbor. The car kept driving, stuck in a mass of traffic, then turned right and headed up a steep hill toward Halawa Heights. Within minutes they reached a gatehouse and passed a Marine sentry, who waved the government car onto the base. Dick Tracy then drove past a complex of huge boxy old buildings that were the headquarters for the four-star admiral who commanded the American forces in the Pacific.

“The general’s office is at Camp Smith,” said Condley absently, wanting Dick Tracy to know that he’d been there before.

“He’s meeting you at his house.”

“So I guess he wants social advice.”

“I’m not privy to the general’s thinking,” said Dick Tracy with all the stiff formality that a GS-9 civil servant could muster. “But after meeting you my guess is that he wants to make sure you don’t embarrass him in front of a whole lot of people.”

“You’re hurting my feelings, you know. Remind me to never save your fucking life.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Dick Tracy. “What kind of a man would go out of the way to insult his own military escort?”

“You’re not military and you’re not my escort. You’re more like a nightmare version of somebody’s parole officer.”

“I rest my case,” said Dick Tracy. “That’s exactly what I mean. I fucking rest my case.”

As he drove, Dick Tracy pulled out a cell phone from his jacket pocket and punched in some numbers with his thumb. Finally someone answered. “This is Combs,” he said. “We’re a couple minutes out.” He punched the END button on his cell phone and put it away. “The general’s been in meetings,” he announced to Condley. “It’ll be about fifteen minutes.”

They were driving along a street lined with old, sprawling frame homes. The homes had been on Halawa Heights since before World War Two but had been frequently refurbished and were meticulously well-kept. The highest-ranking officers in the Pacific Command lived in them. In a few minutes the car slowed in front of one of them. A sign was posted in the manicured yard:

Lieutenant General Wayne Duncan, USMC
Commanding General Fleet Marine Forces Pacific

The car spun into a circular driveway and stopped underneath a covered portico. Dick Tracy stepped out of the car and moved to Condley’s side, opening his door so that he could escort him to the front door of the house.

“You’re here for lunch,” reminded Dick Tracy as they walked toward the house.

“I already ate two baluts.”

“You really are loopy. Those things are foul. I wouldn’t want to be inside your intestines right now.”