King Rat

He got up and, keeping to the shadows, circled carefully. On the back of the headman’s hut a ladder soared to the veranda, high off the ground. The King was up it, Peter Marlowe close behind. Almost immediately they heard the ladder scrape away.

“Tabe,” smiled the King as Cheng San and Sutra, the headman, entered.

“Good you see, tuan,” said the headman, groping for English words. “You makan-eat yes?” His smile showed betelnut-stained teeth.

“Trima kassih-thanks.” The King put out his hand to Cheng San. “How you been, Cheng San?”

“Me good or’ time. You see I—” Cheng San sought the word and then it came. “Here, good time maybe or’ same.”

The King indicated Peter Marlowe. “Ichi-bon friend. Peter, say something to them, you know, greetings and all that jazz. Get to work, boy.” He smiled and pulled out a pack of Kooas, offering them around.

“My friend and I thank thee for thy welcome,” Peter Marlowe began. “We appreciate thy kindness to ask if we will eat with thee, knowing that in these times there is a lack. Surely only a snake in the jungle would refuse to accept the kindness of thy offer.”

Both Cheng San and the headman broke into huge smiles.

“Wah-lah,” Cheng San said. “It will be good to be able to talk through thee to my friend Rajah all the words that are in my miserable mouth. Many times have I wanted to say that which neither I nor my good friend Sutra here could find the words to say. Tell the Rajah that he is a wise and clever man to find such a fluent interpreter.”

“He says I make a good mouthpiece,” said Peter Marlowe happily, now calm and safe. “And he’s glad he can now give you the straight stuff.”

“For the love of God stick to your well-bred Limey talk. That mouthpiece mishmash makes you look like a bum yet.”

“Oh, and I’ve been studying Max assiduously,” Peter Marlowe said, crestfallen.

“Well, don’t.”

“He also called you Rajah! That’s your nickname from here on. I mean ‘here on in’.”

“Crap off, Peter!”

“Up yours, brother!”

“C’mon, Peter, we haven’t much time. Tell Cheng San this. About this deal. I’m gonna—”

“You can’t talk business yet, old man,” said Peter Marlowe, shocked. “You’ll hurt everything. First we’ll have to have some coffee and something to eat, then we can start.”

“Tell ’em now.”

“If I do, they’ll be very offended. Very. You can take my word for it.”

The King thought for a moment. Well, he told himself, if you buy brains, it’s bad business not to use them—unless you’ve got a hunch. That’s where the smart businessman makes or breaks—when he plays a hunch over the so-called brains. But in this case he didn’t have a hunch, so he just nodded. “Okay, have it your way.”

He puffed his cigarette, listening to Peter Marlowe speak to them. He studied Cheng San obliquely. His clothes were better than the last time. He wore a new ring that looked like a sapphire, maybe five carats. His neat, clean, hairless face was honey-toned and his hair well-groomed. Yep, Cheng San was doing all right for himself. Now old Sutra, he’s not doing so good. His sarong’s old and tattered at the hem. No jewelry. Last time he had a gold ring. Now he hasn’t, and the crease mark where his ring had been worn was almost unnoticeable. That meant he hadn’t just taken it off for tonight’s show.

He heard the women off in the other part of the hut chattering softly, and outside, the quietness of the village by night. Through the glassless window came the smell of roasting pig. That meant the village was really in need of Cheng San—their black-market outlet for the fish the village was supposed to sell directly to the Japs—and were making him a gift of the pig. Or perhaps the old man who had just trapped a wild pig was having a party for his friends. But the crowd around the fire was waiting anxiously, just as anxiously as us. Sure, they’re hungry too. That means that things must be tough in Singapore. The village should be well stocked with food and drink and everything. Cheng San couldn’t be doing too well smuggling their fish to the markets. Maybe the Japs had their eye on him. Maybe he’s not long for this earth!

So maybe he needs the village more than the village needs him. And is putting on a show for them—clothes and jewelry. Maybe Sutra’s getting pissed off with lack of business and is ready to dump him for another blackmarketeer.

“Hey, Peter,” he said. “Ask Cheng San how’s the fish biz in Singapore.” Peter Marlowe translated the question.

“He says that business is fine. Food shortages are such that he is able to obtain the best prices on the island. But he says the Japs are clamping down heavily. It’s becoming harder to trade every day. And to break the market laws is becoming more and more expensive.”