King Rat

“Better,” said the King, “to outsmart him.”

“How? I would dearly like my friend to tell me.”

“Curse him with thy tongue. Tell him that information has been given thee to prove that he is a cheat. Tell him if he does not give thee a fair price in future—a fair price plus twenty percent to pay thee back for all his past errors—then thou mayest whisper in the ear of the authorities. Then they will take him and take his women and take his children and abuse them to thy satisfaction.”

“It is superb advice. I am happy with the thought of my friend. Because of his thought and the friendship I hold for him, let me offer fifteen hundred dollars. It is all the money I have in the world, plus some money entrusted to me by my friend who is with the sickness of women in the stink-house called a hospital and who cannot work for himself.”

The King bent down and slapped at the clouds of mosquitoes on his ankles. That’s more like it, boy, he thought. Let’s see. Twenty would be high. Eighteen okay. Fifteen not bad.

“The King begs thee to wait,” Peter Marlowe translated. “He must consult with the miserable man who wishes to sell thee an overpriced commodity.”

The King climbed through the window and walked down the length of the hut, checking. Max was in place. Dino down the path to one side. Byron Jones III to the other.

He found Major Prouty, sweating with anxiety in the shadow of the hut next to the American hut.

“Gee, I’m sorry, sir,” the King whispered unhappily. “The guy’s not anxious at all.”

Prouty’s anxiety intensified. He had to sell. Oh God, he thought, just my luck. Got to get some money somehow.

“Won’t he offer anything?”

“Best I could do was four hundred.”

“Four hundred! Why everyone knows that an Omega’s worth at least two thousand.”

“I’m afraid that’s a story, sir. He, well, he seems suspicious. That it’s not an Omega.”

“He’s out of his mind. Of course it’s an Omega.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the King, stiffening slightly. “I’m only reporting…”

“My fault, Corporal. I didn’t mean to pick on you. These yellow bastards are all the same.” Now what do I do? Prouty asked himself. If I don’t sell it through the King we won’t sell it at all, and the unit needs the money and all our work will be for nothing. What do I do?

Prouty thought a minute, then said, “See what you can do, Corporal. I couldn’t take less than twelve hundred. I just couldn’t.”

“Well, sir. I don’t think I can do much, but I’ll try.”

“There’s a good fellow. I’m relying on you. I wouldn’t let it go so low, but well, food’s been so short. You know how it is.”

“Yes, sir,” said the King politely. “I’ll try, but I’m afraid I can’t push him up much. He says the Chinese aren’t buying like they used to. But I’ll do what I can.”

Grey had marked Torusumi walking the camp and he knew that the time would soon be ripe. He had waited enough and now it was time. He got up and walked out of the hut, adjusting his armband and straightening his hat. No need for another witness, his word was enough. So he went alone.

His heart thumped pleasantly. It always did when he was preparing an arrest. He crossed the line of huts, walked down the steps onto the main street. This was the long way around. He chose it deliberately, for he knew the King kept guards out whenever he was transacting business. But he knew their positions. And he knew there was one way, through the human mine field.

“Grey!”

He looked over. Colonel Samson was walking over to him.

“Yes, sir?”

“Ah, Grey, nice to see you. How are things going?”

“Fine, thank you, sir,” he replied, surprised to be greeted in such a friendly way. In spite of his eagerness to be away, he was not a little pleased.

Colonel Samson had a special place in Grey’s future. Samson was Brass, but real Brass. War Office. And very well connected. A man like that would be more than useful—afterwards. Samson was on the General Staff of the Far East and had some vague but important job—G something or other. He knew all the generals and talked about how he entertained them socially—out at his “country seat” in Dorset and how the gentry came shooting, and the garden parties and the hunt balls he organized. A man like Samson could perhaps balance the scales against Grey’s lack of record. And his class.

“I wanted to talk to you, Grey,” Samson said. “I have an idea that you might think worth working on. You know I’m compiling the official history of the campaign. Of course,” he added with good humor, “it’s not the official one yet, but who knows, maybe it will be. General Sonny Wilkinson is historian in charge at the War Office, you know, and I’m sure Sonny’ll be interested in an on-the-spot version. I wondered if you would be interested in checking a few facts for me. About your regiment?”

Like to, Grey thought. Like to! I’d give anything to. But not now.

“I’d love to, sir. I’m flattered that you’d think my views’d be worthwhile. Would tomorrow be all right? After breakfast.”

“Oh,” said Samson, “I had hoped we could talk a little now. Well, perhaps another day. I’ll let you know…”