He muttered darkly to himself, deep in alcoholic melancholy. Every few minutes he would test the edge of the knife with his thumb and scowl around the room. Nobody took any notice of him.
Chubby sat on the other side of me, grinning like a great brown toad - exposing a set of huge startlingly white teeth with pink plastic gums.
“Harry,” he told me expansively, one thick muscled arm around my neck. “You are a good boy, Harry. You know what, Harry, I’m going to tell you now what I never told you before.” He nodded wisely as he gathered himself for the declaration he made every pay day. “Harry, I love you man. I love you better than my own brother.”
I lifted the stained cap and lightly caressed the bald brown dome of his head. “And you are my favourite eggshell blond,” I told him.
He held me at arm’s length for a moment, studying my face, then burst into a lion’s roar of laughter. It was completely infectious and we were both still laughing when Fred Coker walked in and sat down at the table. He adjusted his pince-nez and said primly, “Mister Harry, I have just received a special delivery from London. Your charter cancelled.” I stopped laughing.
“What the hell!” I said. Two weeks without a charter in the middle of high season and only a lousy two- hundreddollar reservation fee.
“Mr. Coker, you have got to get me a party.” I had three hundred dollars left in my pocket from Chuck’s charter. “You got to get me a party,” I repeated, and Angelo picked up his knife and with a crash drove the point deeply into the table top. Nobody took any notice of him, and he scowled angrily around the room.
“I’ll try,” said Fred Coker, “but it’s a bit late now.”
“Cable the parties we had to turn down.”
“Who will pay for the cables?” Fred asked delicately.
“The hell with it, I’ll pay.” And he nodded and went out. I heard the hearse start up outside.
“Don’t worry, Harry,” said Chubby. “I still love you, man.”
Suddenly beside me Angelo went to sleep. He fell forward and his forehead hit the table top with a resounding crack. I rolled his head so that he would not drown in the puddle of spilled liquor, returned the knife to its sheath, and took charge of his bank roll to protect him from the girls who were hovering close.
Chubby ordered another round and began to sing a rambling, mumbling shanty in island patois, while I sat and worried.
Once again I was stretched out neatly on the financial rack. God how I hate money - or rather the lack of it. Those two weeks would make all the difference as to whether or not Dancer and I could survive the offseason, and still keep our good resolutions. I knew we couldn’t. I knew we would have to go on the night run again.
The hell with it, if we had to do it, we might as well do it now.
I would pass the word that Harry was ready to do a deal. Having made the decision, I felt again that pleasurable tightening of the nerves, the gut thing that goes with danger. The two weeks of cancelled time might not be wasted after all.
I joined Chubby in song, not entirely certain that we were singing the same number, for I seemed to reach the end of each chorus a long time before Chubby.
It was probably this musical feast that called up the law. On St. Mary’s this takes the form of an Inspector and four troopers, which is more than adequate for the island. Apart from a great deal of “carnal knowledge under the age of consent” and a little wife-beating, there is no crime worthy of the name.
Inspector Peter Daly was a young man with a blond moustache, a high English colour on smooth cheeks and pale blue eyes set close together like those of a sewer rat. He wore the uniform of the British, colonial police, the cap with the silver badge and shiny patent leather peak, the khaki drill starched and ironed until it crackled softly as he walked, the polished leather belt and Sam Browne cross straps. He carried a malacca cane swagger stick which was also covered with polished leather. Except for the green and yellow St. Mary’s shoulder flashes, he looked like the Empire’s pride, but like the Empire the men who wore the uniform had also crumbled.
mr Fletcher he said, standing over our table and slapping the swagger stick lightly against his Palm. “I hope we are not going to have any trouble tonight.”
Sir I prompted him. Inspector Daly and I were never friends - I don’t like bullies, or persons who in Positions of trust supplement a perfectly adequate salary with bribes and kick-backs. He had taken a lot of my hard-won gold from me in the past, which was his most unforgivable sin.
His mouth hardened under the blond moustache and his colour came up quickly. “Sir,” he repeated reluctantly.
Now it is true that once or twice in the remote past Chubby and I had given way to an excess of boyish high spirits when we had just hung a Moses fish - however, this did not give Inspector Daly any excuse for talking like that. He was after all a mere expatriate out on the island for a three-year contract - which I knew from the President himself would not be renewed.
Inspector, am I correct in my belief that this is a public place - and that neither my friends nor I are committing a trespass?”
That is so.” Then Am I also correct in thinking that singing of decent songs in a public place does not constitute a criminal act?”
Well, that is true, but, - Inspector, piss off I told him pleasantly. He hesitated, looking at Chubby and me. Between the two of us we make up a lot of muscle, and he could see the unholy battle gleam in our eyes. You could see he wished he had his troopers with him.
“I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” he said and, clutching at his dignity like a beggar’s rags, he left us. Chubby, you sing like an angel,” I said and he beamed at me.
“Harry, I’m going to buy you a drink.” And Fred Coker arrived in time to be included in the round. He drank lager and lime juice which turned my stomach a little, but his tidings were an effective antidote.
“Mister Harry, I got you a party.”
“Mister Coker, I love you.” “I love you too,” said Chubby, but deep down I felt a twinge of disappointment. I had been looking forward to another night run.
“When are they arriving?” I asked.
“They are here already - they were waiting for me at my office when I got back.”
“No kidding.”
“They knew that your first party had cancelled, and they asked for you by name. They must have come in on the same plane as the special delivery.”
My thinking was a little muzzy right then or I might have pondered a moment how neatly one party had with, drawn and another had stepped in.
“They are staying up at the Hilton.”
“Do they want me to pick them up?”
“No, they’ll meet you at Admiralty Wharf ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
I was grateful that the party had asked for such a late starting time. That morning Dancer was crewed by zombies. Angelo groaned and turned a light chocolate colour every time he bent over to coil a rope or rig the rods and Chubby sweated neat alcohol and his expression was truly terrifying. He had not spoken a word all morning.
I wasn’t feeling all that cheerful myself. Dancer was snugged up alongside the wharf and I leaned on the rail of the flying bridge with my darkest pair of Polaroids over my eyes and although MY scalp itched I was afraid to take Off my cap In case the top of my skull came with it.
The island’s single taxi, a “62 Citroin, came down Drake Street and stopped at the top end of the wharf to deposit my party-There were two of them, and I had expected three, Coker had definitely said a party of three.
They started down the long stone-Paved wharf, walking side by side, and I straightened up slowly as I watched them. I felt my physical distress fade into the realm of the inconsequential, to be replaced by that gut thing again, the slow coiling and clenching within, and the little tickling feeling along the back of my arms and in the nape of the neck.
One was tall and walked with that loose easy gait of a professional athlete. He was bare-headed and his hair was pale gingery and combed carefully across a prematurely balding pate so the pink scalp showed through. However, he was lean around the belly and hips, and he was aware. It was the only word to describe the charged sense of readiness that emanated from him.
It takes one to recognize one. This was a man trained to live with and by violence-He was muscle, a soldier,
