“It isn’t routine for us to make this run,” Joe said. “It isn’t routine for you to be on it.”

“We’re bodyguards,” Ray said through his teeth. “We’re not guinea pigs. They got enough crazy truckers for this run.”

“Why do you think they chose you, Sergeant Stingo?” Santa hunched over Ray’s shoulder.

“Because they hate me.”

“If they hated you they wouldn’t have asked me to bring the nose wipes. That’s to help check any respiratory radioactivity. When we arrive, they’ll take a blood sample and perhaps burn your clothes. Would they take those precautions if they didn’t care about you?”

“True,” Ray relented.

“You just needed a ride from Salt Lake City?” Joe asked as Santa moved to his shoulder. “Why are you here?”

“I’ll tell you why they hate me,” Ray interrupted. The amphetamines had fueled his paranoia and turned the whites of his eyes pink. “For the first time in my life I’m ahead of the game. My father runs a garbage truck, my three brothers run garbage trucks and they make fifty dollars a week. I got ten thousand dollars in poker money. I’m getting out of this fucking war with both legs and both arms. When I go back to Jersey I can buy a liquor store. I’ll get my own fighters, maybe I’ll manage. Get a boat at the shore, get married, have kids. They don’t want me to have that.”

“Why didn’t you mention your mother?” Santa moved over to Ray’s shoulder.

“What about my mother?” Ray whipped around. Because he still held the tommy gun, its barrel pointed at Santa.

“Don’t ask a man about his mother,” Joe told Santa and pushed the barrel up.

“Why do you think Sergeant Stingo is nervous?”

“Because the Army hates enlisted men, which you are not.”

“So why are you here?” Ray asked.

Santa smiled patiently. Fine skin crinkled around his pale blue eyes. His nose and cheeks had the rosy hue of a lifetime of long walks in the mellow sun of San Francisco Bay. His Harris tweed jacket smelled like a potpourri of pipe tobacco and bay rum. His hair sprung like white excelsior, thin on top, thick at the sides, wisps from the ears. Everyone on the Hill had naturally nicknamed him Santa. Except Harvey. Harvey called him Bugs Bonney.

“I’m deeply enthused about the time we’re going to be sharing,” Santa said. “I understand we’ll be driving through some spectacular scenery. In fact, in the garage I heard one of the officers refer to these shipments of”—Santa cleared his throat to indicate the plutonium hanging in the canister behind him—“as the Razzle-Dazzle Express.”

“See any officers in here?” Ray muttered. “It’s the fucking glow-in-the-dark Asshole Express.”