King Rat

“Katchang idju and bully, in one meal?”

“You just don’t live right.”

Peter Marlowe was tantalized by the aroma and the bubble of the stew. The last weeks had been rough. The discovery of the radio had hurt the camp. The Japanese Commandant had “regretfully” cut the camp’s rations due to “bad harvests,” so even the tiny desperation stocks of the units had gone. Miraculously, there had been no other repercussions. Except the cut in food.

In Peter Marlowe’s unit, the cut had hit Mac the worst. The cut and the uselessness of their water-bottled radio.

“Dammit,” Mac had sworn after weeks of trying to trace the trouble. “It’s nae use, laddies. Without taking the bleeding thing apart I canna do a thing. Everything seems correct. Without some tools an’ a battery of sorts, I canna find the fault.”

Then Larkin had somehow acquired a tiny battery and Mac had gathered his waning strength and gone back to testing, checking and rechecking. Yesterday, while he was testing, he had gasped and fainted, deep in a malarial coma. Peter Marlowe and Larkin had carried him up to the hospital and laid him on a bed. The doctor had said that it was just malaria, but with such a spleen, it could easily become very dangerous.

“What’s a matter, Peter?” the King asked, noticing his sudden gravity.

“Just thinking about Mac.”

“What about him?”

“We had to take him up to the hospital yesterday. He’s not so hot.”

“Malaria?”

“Mostly.”

“Huh?”

“Well, he’s got fever all right. But that’s not the main trouble. He goes through periods of terrible depression. Worry—about his wife and son.”

“All married guys’ve the same sweat.”

“Not quite like Mac,” Peter Marlowe said sadly. “You see, just before the Japs landed on Singapore, Mac put his wife and son on a ship in the last real convoy out. Then he and his unit took off for Java in a coastal junk. When he got to Java he heard the whole convoy had got shot out of the water or captured. No proof either way—only rumors. So he doesn’t know if they got through. Or if they’re dead. Or if they’re alive. And if they are—where they are. His son was just a baby—only four months old.”

“Well, now the kid’s three years and four months,” the King said confidently. “Rule Two: Don’t worry about nothing you can’t do nothing about.” He took a bottle of quinine out of his black box and counted out twenty tablets and gave them to Peter Marlowe. “Here. These’ll fix his malaria.”

“But what about you?”

“Got plenty. Think nothing of it.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so generous. You give us food and medicine. And what do we give you? Nothing. I don’t understand it.”

“You’re a friend.”

“Christ, I feel embarrassed accepting so much.”

“Hell with it. Here.” The King began spooning out the stew. Seven spoons for him and seven spoons for Peter Marlowe. There was about a quarter of the stew left in the mess can.

They ate the first three spoons quickly to allay the hunger, then finished the rest slowly, savoring its excellence.

“Want some more?” The King waited. How well do I know you, Peter? I know you could eat a ton more. But you won’t. Not if your life depended on it.

“No thanks. Full. To the brim.”

It’s good to know your friend, the King thought to himself. You’ve got to be careful. He took another spoonful. Not because he wanted it. He felt he had to or Peter Marlowe would be embarrassed. He ate it and put the rest aside.

“Fix me a smoke, will you?”

He tossed over the makings and turned away. He put the rest of the bully in the remains of the stew and mixed it up. Then he divided this into two mess kits and covered them and set them aside.

Peter Marlowe handed him the rolled cigarette.

“Make yourself one,” said the King.

“Thanks.”

“Jesus, Peter, don’t wait to be asked. Here, fill your box.”

He took the box out of Peter Marlowe’s hands and stuffed it full of the Three Kings tobacco.

“What’re you going to do about Three Kings? With Tex in hospital?” asked Peter Marlowe.

“Nothing.” The King exhaled. “That idea’s milked. The Aussies have found out the process and they’ve undercut us.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. How do you think they found out?”

The King smiled. “It was an in and out anyway.”

“I don’t understand.”

“In and out? You get in and out fast. A small investment for a quick profit. I was covered in the first two weeks.”

“But you said it would take you months to get back the money you put out.”

“That was a sales pitch. That was for outside consumption. A sales pitch is a gimmick. A way of making people believe something. People always want something for nothing. So you have to make ’em believe they’re stealing from you, that you’re the sucker, that they—the buyers—are a helluva lot smarter than you. For example. Three Kings. The sales force, the first buyers, believed they were in my debt, they believed that if they worked hard for the first month, they could be my partners and coast forever after—on my money. They thought I was a fool to give them such a break after the first month. But I knew that the process would leak and that the business wouldn’t last.”