King Rat

“How did you know that?”

“Obvious. And I planned it that way. I leaked the process myself.”

“You what?”

“Sure. I traded the process for a little information.”

“Well, I can understand that. It was yours to do as you pleased. But what about all the people who were working, selling the tobacco?”

“What about them?”

“It seems that you sort of took advantage of them. You made them work for a month, more or less for nothing, and then pulled the rug from under them.”

“The hell I did. They made a few bucks out of it. They were playing me for a sucker and I just outsmarted them, that’s all. That’s business.” He lay back on the bed, amused at the näiveté of Peter Marlowe.

Peter Marlowe frowned, trying to understand. “When anyone starts talking about business, I’m afraid I’m right out of my depth,” he said. “I feel such an idiot.”

“Listen. Before you’re very much older, you’ll be horse-trading with the best of them.” The King laughed.

“I doubt that.”

“You doing anything tonight? Oh, about an hour after dusk?”

“No, why?”

“Would you interpret for me?”

“Gladly. Who, a Malay?”

“A Korean.”

“Oh!” Then Peter Marlowe added, covering at once, “Certainly.”

The King had marked Peter Marlowe’s aversion but didn’t mind. A man’s a right to his opinions, he’d always said. And so long as those opinions didn’t conflict with his own purposes, well, that was all right too.

Max entered the hut and crumpled on his bunk. “Couldn’t find the son of a bitch for a goddam hour. Then I tracked him down in the vegetable patch. Jesus, with all that piss they use for fertilizer, that son-of-a-bitching place stinks like a Harlem brothel on a summer’s day.”

“You’re just the sort of bastard who’d use a Harlem brothel.”

The King’s snarl and the raw grate of his voice startled Peter Marlowe.

Max’s smile and fatigue vanished just as suddenly. “Jesus, I didn’t mean anything. It’s just a saying.”

“Then why pick on Harlem? You wanna say it stinks like a brothel, great. They all stink the same. No difference because one’s black and another’s white.” The King was hard and mean and the flesh on his face was tight and masklike.

“Take it easy. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean nothin’.”

Max had forgotten that the King was touchy about talking crossways about Negroes. Jesus, when you live in New York, you got Harlem with you, whichever way you look at it. And there are brothels there, an’ a piece of colored tail’s goddam good once in a while. All the same, he thought bitterly, I’m goddamned if I know why he’s so goddam touchy about nigs.

“I didn’t mean nothin’,” Max said again, trying hard to keep his eyes off the food. He had smelled it all the way up to the hut. “I tracked him down and tol’ him what you said.”

“So?”

“He, er, gave me something for you,” Max said and looked at Peter Marlowe.

“Well, hand it over for Chrissake!”

Max waited patiently while the King looked at the watch closely, wound it up and held it close to his ear.

“What do you want, Max?”

“Nothin’. Er, you like me to wash up for you?”

“Yeah. Do that, then get to hell out of here.”

“Sure.”

Max collected the dirty dishes and meekly took them outside, telling himself by Jesus one day he’d get the King. Peter Marlowe said nothing. Strange, he thought. Strange and wild. The King’s got a temper. A temper is valuable but most times dangerous. If you go on a mission it’s important to know the value of your wing-man. On a hairy mission, like the village, perhaps, it’s wise to be sure who guards your back.

The King carefully unscrewed the back of the watch. It was a waterproof, stainless steel.

“Uh-huh!” the King said. “I thought so.”

“What?”

“It’s a phony. Look.”

Peter Marlowe examined the watch carefully. “It looks all right to me.”

“Sure it is. But it’s not what it’s supposed to be. An Omega. The case is good but the insides are old. Some bastard has substituted the guts.”

The King screwed the case back on, then tossed it up in his hand speculatively. “Y’see, Peter. Just what I was telling you. You got to be careful. Now, say I sell this as an Omega and don’t know it’s a fake, then I could be in real trouble. But so long as I know in advance, then I can cover myself. You can’t be too careful.”

He smiled. “Let’s have another cup of Joe, business is looking up.”

His smile faded as Max returned with the cleaned mess cans and put them away. Max didn’t say anything, just nodded obsequiously and then went out again.

“Son of a bitch,” the King said.

Grey had not yet recovered from the day Yoshima had found the radio. As he walked up the broken path towards the supply hut he brooded about the new duties imposed on him by the Camp Commandant in front of Yoshima and later elaborated by Colonel Smedly-Taylor. Grey knew that although officially he was to carry out the new orders, actually he was to keep his eyes shut and do nothing. Mother of God, he thought, whatever I do, I’m wrong.