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counts." "He's a good gambler, all right. The mother sucker. I wonder how much, in addition to Regiment, he gives Dynamite every month." "Why, Niccolo," Warden chortled. "You know such a thing is illegal. It says so in the ARs." "Fuck the ARs," Leva said, his face congested. "I'm telling you, some day he's gonna make me mad. I could transfer out tomorrow and get a supplyroom of my own. I've been inquiring around some lately. M Company lookin for a supply man, Milt." He stopped suddenly, aware he had let loose a secret he had not intended to divulge, aware that Warden had needled him into it. His face a mixture of start and sullenness he swung back to his desk in silence. Warden, catching the fleeting look on Leva's face, making a careful mental note of this new thing he had discovered and must find some way to combat if he wanted to keep his supply-room running, stepped over to the desk and said, "Dont worry, Niccolo. Things wont be this way forever. I got some irons in that fire myself," he hinted broadly. "You ought to have that rating, and you'll get it. You're doin all the work. I aim to see you get it," he said, soothingly. "But you wont," Leva said grudgingly. "Not while Dynamite is the CC. Not as long as O'Hayer is on his boxing squad and pays his rent to Regiment. You're hooked through the bag and you cant get off." "You mean you dont trust me?" Warden said, indignantly. "Dint I tell you I got an angle?" "I aint no ree-croot," Leva said. "I dont trust nobody. I been in this man's army thirteen years." "How you comin with this stuff?" Warden said, pointing to one of several stacks of forms. "You need some help?" "Hell, no," Leva said. "I dont need no help." He thumbed a pile of forms four fingers deep. "I hardly get enough work to keep me busy. Thats why my morale is low. You know: like the Personnel boys say: No work for idle hands hurts the morale." "Gimme half them," Warden said, with mock weariness. "Along with everything else I got to suffer, I got to be supply clerk." He took the forms that Leva handed him and grinned and winked down at the cadaverous Italian. "Two good men like us can get this done today," he said, noting Leva was not swallowing the flattery. "I don't know where the hell I'd be if I didnt have you in this outfit, Niccolo." He didn't believe that about the angle, either, Warden thought, any more than you did. You cant snow an old bull like him with promises, you have to put it on the personal basis, you have to work on his friendship, on his pride. "We get this done," he said, "and you'll have a rest for a month or two. You're as bad as the kitchen force, Niccolo. Always threatening to quit because Preem is the mess sergeant. But they never do. A rifle scares them to death." He laid the pile of forms out on the counter, separating them into neat piles he could work from. From the corner he pulled a high stool and sat down at the counter and pulled out his old pen. "I wouldnt blame them none," Leva said, "if they did quit." "Well, they wont. I wish to hell they would. And you wont either, but not for the same reason. You couldnt quit me, Niccolo, and leave me in the lurch. You're as big a fool as I am. "Yeah? You watch me, Milt. You just watch me," but the timbre of his voice had changed; it was no longer serious but taunting. Warden snorted at him. "Lets work. Or I'll make you re-enlist." "In a pig's asshole," Leva said, completing the chant. Oh, Milton, Warden thought, what a son of a bitch you are, what a fine lyin son of a bitch. You'd sell your own mother to Lucky Luciano if it would secure the hatches on this outfit. You'll lie and cajole poor old Niccolo into staying, just to make your supply efficient. You've lied so much now, he told himself, you dont know whats true and what aint. And all because you want to make your company Superior. You mean Holmes's company, he thought. 'Dynamite' Holmes, boxing coach, horseman, and number one brownnoser with our Great White Father Colonel Delbert.