Sam was bare skin from the waist up and from his upper thighs to his boots. “Oh, come on,” I said. “Boondockers? And black socks? With running s...orts? I win on your bad taste.” “It's a working party, son,” he said. “We wear boots to work in this man's Navy. I'm only out of uniform if the Chief says I am.” We looked at our boss, Chief Duncan, who was watching in benign amusement. “Hey,” he said with a shrug. “This ain't a parade. I seen motherfuckers work in their boxers in the tropics.” “Yeah,. S. with almost surgical precision. The more we talked about it the more I liked it as she spelled it out to me.It was working on one o'clock—4:00 p.m. on a Friday in D.C., she tartly pointed out—so I needed to get cracking if I was going to follow her advice. I still delayed long enough to go down and snatch up one of the last sandwiches remaining on the dining room sideboard for my lunch, partly because I figured I'd be pretty hungry by dinner and partly to give myself a couple of minutes to. More

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