From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [13]
“What do you think?” Leva said. He unwound his jerked-leather frame from around the desk and lit a cigaret.
“Well,” Warden said. “I would be inclined to say no. Just as a guess.”
“Well,” Leva said. “You would be entirely right.”
Warden grinned at him. “Well, after all, its only eight. You cant expect a man of his station, and with his cares, to get up at eight o’clock with clerks like you.”
“Its a joke to you,” Leva said, peevishly. “You can laugh about it. Its no joke to me.”
“Maybe he had trouble with that Dusenberg of his,” Warden mocked.
“Its a Chrysler,” Leva said.
“Maybe he lost the key to that luxurious apartment.”
“He never locks it,” Leva said bitterly. “He keeps a woman or two instead.”
“Maybe he was counting the take,” Warden grinned, “from his game in the sheds last night. I bet you wish you had a nice easy life like that.”
“I wish I had ten percent of the dough he takes in every payday in that shed,” Leva said, thinking of the maintenance sheds across the street from the dayroom where every month, when they had moved out the 37 millimeters and the machine gun carts and all the rest of it, most of the money in the Lower Post finally wound up and where, of the four sheds, O’Hayer’s always had the biggest take.
“I understood,” said Warden, “that he give you almost that much to do his work here for him.”
Leva gave him a withering look and Warden chuckled.
“I believe you,” Leva said. “Next thing, you’ll be askin me for a cut on what he give me, or else have me busted.”
“Now thats an idea,” Warden grinned. “Thanks. I’d of never thought of that.”
“It wont be so goddam funny,” Leva said grimly, “some day. Some day when I transfer the hell out and leave you with this supplyroom in your lap with nobody to do the work but O’Hayer who don’t know a Form 32 from a 33.”
“You’ll never transfer out of this Compny,” Warden scoffed. “If you was to go outdoors before sundown you’d be blind as a bat. This supplyroom’s in your blood. You couldnt leave it if you had to.”
“Oh,” Leva said. “Is that the way it is? I’m gettin tired of doin the supply sergeant’s work while Jim O’Hayer gets the credit and the money because he’s Dynamite’s number one lightheavy and pays off in Regiment to run that shed. He aint even a good fighter.”
“He’s a good gambler, though,” Warden said indifferently. “Thats what 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 supplyroom 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