“You got laundry,” Moose said as he tossed over the package.

“Laundry? I didn’t send no fucking laundry out,” said Davidson.

“You must have left some with the Chinese place before we shipped out for Midway,” said Moose.

“Chinese?” said Davidson, suddenly coming wide awake. “Yeah, now that I think of it, I did leave some pants behind.”

“You’re always losing your pants, Slim Jim.”

“Ain’t it the truth? What’d you get, buddy?”

“Just a letter from my old man. He says they’re having real trouble keeping the spics in line now that a lot of the younger fellows have left the police force for the army. But he reckons the old boys on the force, they still got a few tricks in them.”

“I’ll bet,” said Davidson.

“And I spoke to Chief Craven, he said Chief Mohr’s gonna be out of the hospital tomorrow and there’s no way we’re shipping out with the other guys. We’re staying here.”

“Well, you gotta take the good with the bad,” shrugged Slim Jim, who’d die a happy man if he never set foot on another goddamn boat.

“You gonna open your package?”

“For a pair of pants? No. I’d thought I’d save the excitement for this evening. Give me something to look forward to in the cocktail hour.”

And it was early evening before Moose left the tent again, giving Davidson a chance to tear open the brown paper parcel. He found a couple of shirts inside, and two pairs of socks. Wrapped up in one pair was an IOU from Big Itchy for six thousand dollars, payable when next they met.

A grin as big as the Grand Canyon broke out on Slim Jim’s face. He could almost feel that money in the tips of his fingers. A lot of guys would have wanted it right there with them in the cot, thinking they could keep it safe that way. But Slim Jim Davidson knew his dough was more secure locked up in the strongbox beneath Big Itchy’s desk. Any sticky fingers straying near the combination lock were liable to get themselves hacked off with a machete.

There was a note with the IOU.

“Got any more ideas?”