Ed Lacy - South Pacific Affair

“All the world is one big chum for you, it seems.” Eddie shook his head. “I don't know whether to feel sorry for Randall or bat him in his fat gut. The way he acts, as if this was real, he'd expect the islanders to fall all over him because he's a fat popaa with a few lousy trinkets.”

“Guess he means well. He just read to many phony books.”

“The islanders never read the books but they still get the wrong end of the stick. Got any rum?”

“No.”

“Good,” Eddie said. “Heru is itching for a shot, but beer will hold her. You're right, we're in this and we might as well take the dough. But this is the last time for me. See you when it gets dark.”

“Yes sir, acting chief.”

We both laughed and when Eddie paddled ashore I jumped over for a fast swim, then found more shade on the deck and went back to sleep. Henri awoke me. “The feast is about ready.”

It was twilight and I stared up at his sweaty shirt, dirty tie, the yellowed linen suit, asked, “Don't you ever put on clean clothes, take a bath?”

He swore in French. “What is eating you and your partner? All I get is insults.”

I sat up and slipped on my pants and a light sweater. “I was merely asking a polite question. By the way, don't let Heru lap up the beer. It's supposed to be a novelty to her— according to the script.”

“I will handle that bitch.”

“Bitch?” I repeated, pulling in the dinghy. “No way to talk about your meal ticket.”

Henri waved a modest hand. “Wasn't for me, silly little girls like Heru would be starving. I am her meal ticket.”

“You believe that?” I asked, as we got in the dinghy.

Henri gave me a fat-shouldered shrug for an answer.

Eddie amazed me; his feast was a first-rate job. We sat around palm leaves spread ner the fire pit, stuffed ourselves with tasty roast pig, fish baked in seaweed and lime juice, canned yams, a thick soup of some sort of greens, fish, rice, and shredded beef which was cooked and served steaming hot by the simple process of putting a hot stone into the pot.

Randall had a string of flowers around his thick neck, was wearing his seersucker suit but with the shirt open. He ate and sang and bragged about catching some of the fish we were eating, squeezed Heru's hand, “accidentally” touching her breasts now and then... the picture of a very happy fool.

I'd oiled my phonograph and we listened to scratchy music. When Eddie opened some beer bottles, Randall asked, “Beer? How did they get that?”

“My contribution to the feast,” I said.

“Say, that's right nice of you, Cap,” Brad said as he poured some into a coconut bowl and handed it to Heru. She took a sip, made a face, then spit the beer out as though she had never tasted the stuff before. Randall roared with idiotic laughter, downed the brew in one fast gulp.

Jack Pund, who had been watching Heru as if she was completely nuts, finished a bottle of beer and then stood up and did a crazy dance to the hill-billy record on my phonograph, throwing his arms and legs out as he spun around and around, finally hitting the ground and passing out.

Randall was impressed, said, “Seems an authentic war dance. Is he in a trance now?”

“Yes,” Henri told him. “And on the morrow he will be hung over from his trance. Well, we eat much, now we should sleep.”

Randall got up, went over and touched Jack Pund's heart. The old man immediately leaped up like a zombie, put a finger to his wet lips, then bounded off to return in a few minutes with his bug juice—an armful of fermented coconuts. These nuts must have been cooking since the first day we were on the islet and were powerful. Randall drank one, flushed, and a moment later joined Jack in a stupid dance, both of them lubbering about and trying to fling their feet high in the air.—

Henri, Eddie, and I watched the dance with pained looks —Heru was eyeing the rest of the fermented nuts. After a couple turns of this new dance, Jack hit the sand again, really out. Brad staggered around till Eddie led him to the hut, where he fell into a snoring sleep as soon as he touched the mats.

I tried one of the nuts and it immediately warmed my guts. Henri jerked Jack Pund to a sitting position, started bawling him out in French for making the bug juice. Since Pund couldn't understand much French, even if he was conscious, I thought it very funny—proving how strong the juice really was.

Henri was trying to twist Pund's ears when Eddie came over and said, “Let him go. He was only trying to be friendly.”

“Friendly?” Henri shouted, in Tahitian. “He almost spoiled everything!”

“Cut it,” Eddie said in English, “you give me more of a pain—”

“Watch it!” Henri screamed in Tahitian. “What are you saying?” and clapped a hand over Eddie's mouth.

Eddie pushed him away, sending Henri tumbling in the sand, then wiped his mouth, turned to me and asked, “What you standing like a dressmaker's dummy? Help me with Pund.”

We carried him over to the dinghy and I rowed him out to the Hooker, managed to roll Jack up onto the deck, then climbed aboard myself, full of food and drink. As I dozed off I could vaguely hear the tinny sound of the phonograph ashore, where Heru was sitting by the fire and playing records, marking time when Randall would come to and she could “sneak” into his hut. For a very short moment even in my drunken state it gave me a spooky feeling, a severe sense of wrong-doing. Then I told myself, so what, if he was in Papeete he'd be in her room anyway.

I had a nightmare in which I was arguing with Ruita on the porch of her house and she was saying, “If you go way, I shall go to Papeete.”

“You don't like Papeete.”

“I am still young, I can do things there.”

“What things?”

“You know what things.”

“You don't mean that. You're not like the... well.”

“Not like what?” Ruita asked. “Am I not a full-blooded islander? And is there anything finer for a native girl to do than whore around in Papeete bars?”

“Keep it up—you're saying this to annoy me.”

“Annoy you? You are leaving me, running out, and yet you accuse me of annoying you!”

I reached over and shook Ruita, saying, “All right, goddammit, stop it! Let's talk slowly—with sense.”

In my nightmare we went through this routine several times and when I was shaking her again, I awoke to see Jack Pund bending over me, his fat face almost in my whiskers.

He whispered one word, “Trouble!” As I sat up, I heard screaming on the islet and we both jumped into the dinghy, made for the shore.

It was quite a tableau: a nude Heru was sprawled on the sand, screaming and sobbing, one hand to her bruised face, her right cheek and eye swollen and cut. Eddie was kneeling beside her, trying to comfort Heru, although from the way she was beaten up, I was sure he must have socked her. Wearing his baby blue pajamas, Randall was yelling like an enraged bull at Henri, who was completely clothed as usual in his dirty linen suit.

From what I heard then—and later—it seemed Heru had finally gone to Randall's hut and after she left him snoring again, had lucked-up on a couple of Jack Pund's fermented coconuts. Then she kicked Henri awake and asked for her money. He had stupidly offered her the usual few francs, and she had blown her drunken top.

While she was cursing Henri for cheating her—in plain French and English—Dubon had hit her and she had screamed. The racket had aroused Eddie and Randall. Eddie went for Henri who pulled out his knife, and the two cussed each other out—all cuss words made in the USA. Of course Randall, hearing the three of them swearing at each other, realized he had been taken. Seeing Randall, Henri had put the knife away, tried to go on with the act.