King Rat

The King nodded. “I haven’t either, but that could make one hell of a business.”

“Not in the States, that’s for sure,” Brough grunted. “Think of the distances! Hell, that might be all right for one of the little countries, like England, but not a real country like the States.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Peter Marlowe, stiffening.

“I mean that if it wasn’t for us, this war’d go on forever. Why, it’s our money and our weapons and our power—”

“Listen, old man, we did all right alone—giving you buggers the time to get off your arse. It is your war just as much as ours.” Peter Marlowe glared at Brough, who glared back.

“Crap! Why the hell you Europeans can’t go and kill yourselves off like you’ve been doing for centuries and let us alone, I don’t know. We had to bail you out before—”

And in no time at all they were arguing and swearing and no one was listening and each had a very firm opinion and each opinion was right.

The King was angrily shaking his fist at Brough, who shook his fist back, and Peter Marlowe was shouting at Mac, when suddenly there was a crashing on the door.

Immediate silence.

“Wot’s all the bleedin’ row about?” a voice said.

“That you, Griffiths?”

“Who d’ja fink it was, Adolf bloody ’Itler? Yer want’a get us jailed or somefink?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Keep tha bleedin’ noise down!”

“Who’s that?” said Mac.

“Griffiths. He owns the cell.”

“What?”

“Sure. I hired it for five hours. Three bucks an hour. You don’t get nothing for nothing.”

“You hired the cell?” repeated Larkin incredulously.

“That’s right. This Griffiths is a smart businessman,” the King explained. “There are thousands of men around, right? No peace and quiet, right? Well, this Limey hires the cell out to anyone who wants to be alone. Not my idea of a sanctuary, but Griffiths does quite a business.”

“I’ll bet it wasn’t his idea,” said Brough.

“Cap’n I cannot tell a lie.” The King smiled. “I must confess the idea was mine. But Griffiths makes enough to keep him and his unit going very well.”

“How much do you make on it?”

“Just ten percent.”

“If it’s only ten percent, that’s fair,” said Brough.

“It is,” the King said. The King would never lie to Brough, not that it was any of his business what the hell he did.

Brough leaned over and stirred the stew. “Hey, you guys, it’s boiling.”

They all crowded around. Yes, it was really boiling.

“We’d better fix the window. The stuff’ll start smelling in a minute.”

They put a blanket over the barred outlet, and soon the cell was all perfume.

Mac, Larkin, and Tex squatted against the wall, eyes on the stewpan. Peter Marlowe sat on the other side of the bed, and as he was nearest, from time to time he stirred the pot.

The water simmered gently, making the delicate little beans soar crescentlike to the surface, then cascade back into the depths of the liquid. A puff of steam effervesced, bringing with it the true richness of the meat-buds. The King leaned forward and threw in a handful of native herbs, turmeric, kajang, huan, taka and cloves and garlic, and this added to the perfume.

When the stew had been bubbling ten minutes, the King put the green papaya into the pot.

“Crazy,” he said. “A feller could make a fortune after the war if he could figure a way to dehydrate papaya. Now that’d tenderize a buffalo!”

“The Malays’ve always used it,” Mac answered, but no one was really listening to him and he wasn’t listening to himself really, for the steamrichsweet surrounded them.

The sweat dribbled down their chests and chins and legs and arms. But they hardly noticed the sweat or the closeness. They only knew that this was not a dream, that meat was cooking—there before their eyes, and soon, very soon they would eat.

“Where’d you get it?” asked Peter Marlowe, not really caring. He just had to say something to break the suffocating spell.

“It’s Hawkins’ dog,” answered the King, not thinking about anything except my God does that smell good or does that smell good!

“Hawkins’ dog?”

“You mean Rover?”

“His dog?”

“I thought it was a small pig!”

“Hawkins’ dog?”

“Oh my word!”

“You mean that’s the hindquarters of Rover?” said Peter Marlowe, appalled.

“Sure,” the King said. Now that the secret was out he didn’t mind. “I was going to tell you afterwards, but what the hell? Now you know.”

They looked at one another aghast.

Then Peter Marlowe said, “Mother of God. Hawkins’ dog!”

“Now look,” said the King reasonably. “What’s the difference? It was certainly the cleanest-eatingest dog I’ve ever seen. Much cleaner’n any pig. Or chicken for that matter. Meat’s meat. Simple as that!”

Mac said testily, “Quite right. Nothing wrong with eating dog. The Chinese eat them all the time. A delicacy. Yes. Certainly.”

“Yeah,” said Brough, half nauseated. “But we’re not Chinese and this’s Hawkins’ dog!”

“I feel like a cannibal,” said Peter Marlowe.

“Look,” the King said. “It’s just like Mac said. Nothing wrong with dog. Smell it, for Chrissake.”