King Rat

They sat awhile listening to the constant movement of the jungle. Swaths of fireflies cut patches of brilliance in the small rain ditches beside the path.

“Just like Broadway at night,” said the King.

“I saw a film once called Times Square. It was a newspaper yarn. Let me see. I think it was Cagney.”

“Don’t remember that one. But Broadway, you got to see it for real. It’s just like day in the middle of the night. Huge neon signs and lights all over the place.”

“Is that your home? New York?”

“No. I’ve been there a couple of times. Been all over.”

“Where’s your home?”

The King shrugged. “My pa moves around.”

“What’s his work?”

“That’s a good question. Little of this, little of that. He’s drunk most of the time.”

“Oh! That must be pretty rough.”

“Tough on a kid.”

“Do you have any family?”

“My ma’s dead. She died when I was three. Got no brothers or sisters. My pa brought me up. He’s a bum, but he taught me a lot about life. Number one, poverty’s a sickness. Number two, money’s everything. Number three, it doesn’t matter how you get it as long as you get it.”

“You know, I’ve never thought much about money. I suppose in the service—well, there’s always a monthly pay check, there’s always a certain standard of living, so money doesn’t mean much.”

“How much does your father make?”

“I don’t know exactly. I suppose around six hundred pounds a year.”

“Jesus. That’s only twenty-four hundred bucks. Why, I make thirteen hundred as a corporal myself. I sure as hell wouldn’t work for that nothing dough.”

“Perhaps it’s different in the States. But in England you can get by quite well. Of course our car is quite old, but that doesn’t matter, and at the end of your service you get a pension.”

“How much?”

“Half your pay approximately.”

“That seems to me to be nothing. Can’t understand why people go in the service. Guess because they’re failures as people.”

The King saw Peter Marlowe stiffen slightly. “Of course,” he added quickly, “that doesn’t apply in England. I was talking about the States.”

“The service is a good life—for a man. Enough money—an exciting life in all parts of the world. Social life’s good. Then, well, an officer always has a great deal of prestige.” Peter Marlowe added almost apologetically, “You know, tradition and all that.”

“You going to stay in after the war?”

“Of course.”

“Seems to me,” the King said, picking at his teeth with a little thread of bark, “that it’s too easy. There’s no excitement or future in taking orders from guys who are mostly bums. That’s the way it looks to me. And hell, you don’t get paid nothing. Why Pete, you should take a look at the States. There’s nothing like it in the world. No place. Every man for himself and every man’s as good as the next guy. And all you have to do is figure an angle and be better than the next guy. Now that’s excitement.”

“I don’t think I’d fit in. Somehow I know I’m not a money-maker. I’m better off doing what I was born to do.”

“That’s nonsense. Just because your old man’s in the service—”

“Goes back to 1720. Father to son. That’s a lot of tradition to try to fight.”

The King grunted. “That’s quite a time!” Then he added, “I only know about my dad and his dad. Before that—nothing. Least, my folks were supposed to have come over from the old country in the ’80’s.”

“From England?”

“Hell no. I think Germany. Or maybe Middle Europe. Who the hell cares? I’m an American and that’s all that counts.”

“Marlowes are in the service and that’s that!”

“Hell no. It’s up to you. Look. Take you now. You’re in the chips ’cause you’re using your brains. You’d be a great businessman if you wanted to. You can talk like a Wog, right? I need your brains. I’m paying for the brains—now don’t get on your goddam high horse. That’s American style. You pay for brains. It’s got nothing to do with us being buddies. Nothing. If I didn’t pay, then I’d be a bum.”

“That’s wrong. You don’t have to be paid to help a bit.”

“You sure as hell need an education. I’d like to get you in the States and put you on the road. With your phony Limey accent you’d knock the broads dead. You’d clean up. We’ll put you in ladies’ underwear.”

“Holy God.” Peter smiled with him, but the smile was tinged with horror. “I could no more try to sell something than fly.”

“You can fly.”

“I meant without a plane.”

“Sure. I was making a joke.”

The King glanced at his watch. “Time goes slow when you’re waiting.”

“I sometimes think we’ll never get out of this stinking hole.”

“Eh, Uncle Sam’s got the Nips on the run. Won’t take long. Even if it does, what the hell? We’ve got it made, buddy. That’s all that counts.”

The King looked at his watch. “We’d better take a powder.”

“What?”

“Get going.”

“Oh!” Peter Marlowe got up. “Lead on, Macduff!” he said happily.

“Huh?”

“Just a saying. It means ‘Let’s take a powder.’”