captain would check in, but it wasn’t at all likely that Ryder had an ear in the State Department. Only the captain, reporting to harbor authorities right in New York-He hung onto that thought for a moment but then shook his head, almost as if snapping a whip.
Farfetched, all of it. The captain was gone, glad to be rid of his troubles, New York four thousand miles away, and the Ryder thing was really over.
But why would Remal forbid me the streets? And who’s trying to steal my cans? And why does everyone think that for one month I’ll dry out in the sun in Okar, goat-eyed, watching myself turn dry and blue?
Must learn to think clearly again. He felt sly and secretive.
Until they slowed down in the square by the warehouse Whitfield did not look over at Quinn. Whitfield had a headache and felt he should leave well enough alone. They slowed in the square and rolled to a stop by the warehouse, and Whitfield looked at Quinn sitting still for a moment, holding the wheel.
He used to look like something dumped out of a box, thought Whitfield, but no more. Something wide-eyed, maybe a little surprised, but not any more.
Because this was the first time that Quinn no longer felt entirely new but had the help of some of his of habits.
Chapter 8
A late half light was over the town and in a very short time the sudden dusk would fall and then night. Quinn stretched when he got out of the car, slammed the door. He watched a dog run away Run, he thought, or you’ll get eaten Whitfield still sat in his seat. When Quinn bent down to look into the window, Whitfield had the wine jug on his lap where it was making a stain.
“Dear Quinn,” said Whitfield, “this may surprise you, but in addition to everything else I am extremely hungry. Eat your headaches away, is what my sainted aunt used to say. You should have seen her. Which is to say, Quinn, can’t this entire maddening transaction with the goddamn cans wait till morning?”
“We’re here now.”
“I’m just afraid you might haggle with me.”
“Look,” said Quinn. “None of this means a damn to you. To me it does. Suddenly, to me there is nothing as important as getting what is mine. Those cans are mine. And any more…”
“Please, please. You’re quite right. None of this means anything to me,” and Whitfield got out of the car.
It was still fairly light over the water, the sea black and yellow, zebra striped. Inside the warehouse the bulbs had been turned on, six hard lights in clear glass, like hard, shiny drops on black strings hanging from the high ceiling.
“Ah!” Whitfield said, and his sigh was strong and genuine with the relief he felt. “Here is your treasure.”
The canisters, ten of then, lay in a corner. Whitfield sat down on one of them. Quinn stood and counted them, as he had often done before, though he couldn’t remember this. Now they were completely his and worth money, and even if it was pennies only, the difference was big. He had back one of his habits, namely, to let nobody think they could take advantage of him.
“Well, now,” said Whitfield, “I’ve heard about cases of this sort, of course, being a fascinated student of your country’s folklore.” He waved his arm and looked bright. “Here lies the start of it. The bent, bumped and humble beginnings of a great fortune, no less. And there you are, born in a box, raised in a gutter. Next he owns the gutter, next he owns everything that floats, crawls or swims in that gutter-Stop me, Quinn, something is making me feel ill.”
Surprisingly, Quinn smiled. He had no quarrel with Whitfield. Most of all, he did not take him seriously. He looked at his canisters which were lying around in a puddle of water. How considerate that they should have washed the cans.
“Let’s say a buck apiece,” said Quinn.
He didn’t look at Whitfield when he said this, but picked up a canister and turned it over. A little water ran out.
“My dear Quinn. A buck is a dollar. I understand, and in view of that fantastic price let me ask you what in the hell you think I’m going to do with all these cans.”
“I don’t know,” said Quinn, “but I need the money.”
He does sound simple again, thought Whitfield, but I no longer believe it. He watched Quinn pick up another can, lift it and hold it for a while with a look on his face which Whitfield thought was almost dreamy.
“Let’s say I give you five dollars for the lot,” said Whitfield, “which is a veritable fortune in Okar. And all because you were, so to speak, shipped to me and I feel responsible in a way, though don’t ask me why. It would sound too sentimental. I do, however, feel responsible, as I might, for example, were a little bird to land on my window sill, exhausted from travel.”
He liked that image and thought about it with his eyes closed. Then he heard Quinn laugh. But when he opened his eyes and looked at Quinn, he did not see a simple laugh, simple enjoyment of a tender comparison to a tired bird; in fact, the smile and the face were complicated. By God, thought Whitfield, if this simpleton isn’t getting amazingly versatile with his features. He watched the smile fade off and Quinn put the can back down.
“Price just went up, I think,” said Quinn.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Let me check first,” said Quinn, and he picked up three more canisters at random, one after the other, and seemed to hook into the open tops. “Yes, yes,” he said, “price went up.”
Whitfield waited, being sure that there was an explanation for all this somewhere.
“You drink, don’t you, Whitfield?” said Quinn and straightened up.
“Now Quinn, are you trying to reprimand me?”
Quinn smiled at Whitfield as if with affection. “I’m eight feet away from you, Whitfield, and you stink like a distillery.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Of course. I take it back because I was mistaken and you don’t smell like a distillery. Here, catch.” He reached for the can at his feet and made it sail in a slow arc toward Whitfield.
Whitfield caught the can because he did not want to get hit. He held the can in both hands and caught the damp wave of alcohol odor which came out of the hole in top. Goddamn those sloppy Arabs, he thought.
Quinn held out another can but Whitfield shook his head. Goddamn their disregard for the most elementary rules of cleanliness, such as to smell clean after cleaning.
“Explain this to me,” said Quinn and leaned against the wall.
“Very well. As you know, Quinn, I am a drinker. As a matter of fact, I have been a trained drinker…”
“Not from five-gallon cans, Whitfield. Your supply comes in a bottle, capped and sealed, like the one you brought from the office. Besides,” and Quinn nudged a can with his foot, “this smell here is alcohol, pure and simple, not gin.”
“I mix my own. I am a trained…”
“Not trained well enough,” said Quinn, “not enough to cover the racket I smell here.”
“Your instinct for the illegal is uncanny,” said Whitfield. “You must have been an excellent lawyer.”
Quinn smiled again and enjoyed it.
“Small port on the North African coast,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “Dock clerk and Big Brother Remal are natural friends. Ten useless cans lie around and get filled with raw alcohol. I want my cans back, so they quick get washed out-almost washed out-so they’re just cans again and not contraband carriers.” Quinn looked down at Whitfield and said, “Right?”
A lot, Quinn thought, depends on Whitfield’s answer. I have only conjectures, and they have holes. But Whitfield has a habit of not caring much “Uncanny,” said Whitfield, and he hurried to his office.
He was sipping a little bit of straight gin from a teacup when Quinn found him. And now he’ll crucify me with further questions, propositions and reprimands, Whitfield thought, making me feel like a schoolboy caught smoking for which I thank him not, the bully. Bottoms up.
Quinn watched Whitfield upend the cup and waited for him to catch his breath after the maneuver. He, by all
