Chameleon by William Diehl

to Japan.’
    It was a complaint heard frequently when the two men were together.
    He looked down in the glass, watching the bubbles tumble to the surface. ‘What the hell,’ he said finally, ‘it’s all just history. Kids sleep through it in classrooms. They’re all gone now, anyway. Bless ‘em all. At least we won it. It’s the last goddamn war we won.’ And he raised his glass again.
    ‘May I smoke?’ Garvey asked.
    ‘Of course, Jess. Smoking lamp’s always lit for you.’
    Hooker reached into a desk drawer, took out a box wrapped in silver paper and slid the package across the desk.
    ‘A little something to start the new year off right, Jess. With thanks for all the good years.’
    It was a tradition with them, exchanging gifts on New Year’s Eve. Garvey handed a slightly smaller package to Hooker.
    ‘And Happy New Year to you, General.’
    He stared back at the box for a moment, then watched as Hooker opened his present. It was a watch fob, a replica of the insignia of the First Island Division, The Hook’s old regiment, forged in gold with the motto ‘First to land, first to win’ inscribed across the bottom of two crossed bayonets.
    Hooker was visibly moved.
    ‘By God, old man, that’s something to cherish. Yessir, I’ll be wearing that when they put me away.’
    ‘Thank you, sir,’ Garvey said and smiled with satisfaction. There was a sound from the box. A scraping sound. Garvey cast a nervous glance toward it but said nothing.
    ‘Well, sir, your turn,’ Hooker said, and Garvey tore the silver paper from around his gift. It was a pewter wine goblet, hand-crafted, with the artist’s name etched in the base, and inscribed on its side were the words ‘Major General J. W. Garvey, US Army (Ret.).’
    Garvey held up the chalice by the stem. ‘Beautiful, sir. Has a great feel to it.’
    ‘Well, I know your love for the grape, old man. About time you had a proper goblet.’
    There was a more urgent sound from the box. The top moved again, just a hair.
    Hooker struck a match and relit his pipe. ‘It came about an hour ago,’ he said, without looking at the box. ‘Done up like a goddamn Christmas present, that bloody heathen.’
    He opened the center desk drawer and took out a knife, a malicious stiletto with a curved blade and a hand-tooled leather handle. He slid its razor edge under the string, turned the box slightly and snipped the string off. With the point of the knife he lifted the lid and slid it slowly back.
    They heard it before they saw it. Scratching, slithering along the bottom of the box and up the side.
    Hooker saw its horns first, the two tusks protruding straight out from over its eyes, the third, like a needle, between them. Then its head peered over the side of the box.
    It was bright-green to start with, its eyes lurking under hoods of wrinkled skin, its tail switching slowly back and forth.
    Eighteen inches long or so, he guessed. Hooker knew the species, all eighty kinds of Chamaeleontidae. For thirty-six years now, he had been studying them. This one was the Chameleon jacksoni. African, most likely, although it might have come from Madagascar, its eyes moving independently, looking for prey before they focused together and the tongue struck. And arrogant — they were all arrogant.
    It crawled down the side of the box and very slowly across the desk to the base of the lamp and then just as slowly up over the belly of the Buddha. It changed slowly, its eyes picking up the change in the light rays of the new colour, signalling down the nervous system to the pigment cells in the skin, first mud-brown, then beige, then pink, then blood-red, like a salamander. Its tongue continued to work the air, its head turned, its stony eyes studying the darkness beyond the desk. Then it switched again and moved on t the letter box.
    Hooker watched it turn again, this time to the colour of teak.
    He reached in the box and took out a note. His hand trembled as he read it.
    ‘What’s it