Ed Lacy - South Pacific Affair

There was something terribly pitiful about Randall's frantic rage as he called Henri every kind of miserable bastard; Brad seemed on the verge of an hysterical explosion. When I told him to take it easy, he turned on me and shouted, “You! You call yourself an American! My God, last night I envied you. You—you're as much scum as this crummy pimp!”

“Aw relax, big boy,” Henri said in straight English, minus the tourist accent. “What you getting into an uproar about? Sure it's all a fake, so what? So much noise is old hat. You wanted 'romance' with all the fancy trimmings, and that's what you got. It cost more than you're used to paying, but we did put on a hell of a show for you, a package deal which—”

Randall drew back his fist, swung like a hammer-thrower. He hit Henri high on the forehead. I was certain he'd busted his hand. The force of the wild blow made Dubon do a rubber-legged dance before landing on his back.

Dubon wasn't out. “It was a deal worth the money!” Henri wailed. He sat up and rubbed his head.

“You lice! You damn perverts!” Randall screamed, his voice breaking as he began to sob. “Who cares about the goddamn money! Don't you see what you've done to me? Don't you see what you've done!” He sprang on Henri and started choking him. Brad may have been an elderly man but he was also big, heavy and powerful. Even in the moonlight I could see Henri's face turning pasty pale as he clawed at Randall's hands.

I pulled at Brad's hands but couldn't get him loose. I grunted for Eddie. He came over and hit him in his heaving gut, a short little punch which not only made Randall let go of Henri, but roll over on the sand, grasping his belly, his mouth open wide as he could possibly get it.

Henri made it to his feet, his clothes a mess, blood streaming from nose and mouth. He stared down at Randall, who was still on his back like an overturned turtle, then sent a glob of bloody spit down on Randall as he said, “You crazy old—”

I pushed Dubon away. “Leave him alone. We've done him enough harm.”

Dubon put a hand to his nose to stem the blood, which started down his sleeve, as he said in Tahitian, “Sorry, something went wrong. But we have his money. And suckers never run to the police or tell others about—”

“Stop talking, you damn fool!” I yelled. If the whole thing had seemed cheap before, what we had done to Randall was now sheer tragedy. I felt crummy; not even thinking about socking Barry could shake the crummy feeling.

While I was standing there, staring at everybody and seeing no one, Randall sat up, his heavy face still wet with tears, lines of pain around his open mouth. I was about to say I was sorry, but no words came out of my dry mouth. Heru came over, one hand to her puffed eye. Her good eye stared solemnly down at Randall.

Henri, who had been stuffing his shirt in his pants, straightening out his clothes, turned on Heru with tiger-speed, shrilled, “You're the cause of all this, you dirty drunken—”

It was an all-around bad night for Henri. Eddie's left hook flicked through the air and crumbled Henri into a heap. No staggering or falling backwards; the clean sound of the fist hitting and Henri went down. It was the hardest punch I'd ever seen. I was positive Dubon was dead.

Randall moaned, “Oh, my, my...” while Eddie rubbed his knuckles and said, “There's something I been waiting to do for a long time. The slimy... slimy—” Eddie walked down to the water and carefully washed his knuckles.

Jack Pund bent over Dubon, said softly, “This one will never arise again.”

I pulled Randall to his feet, told him, “Look, Mr. Randall, there isn't much I can say. I know how you must feel, and I'm sorry. Sorry isn't much of a word but... Well, you'll get your money back.”

“It doesn't matter,” Brad said in a whisper. He rubbed his stomach, looked down at Dubon, muttered, “He's a pug, isn't he?” He nodded at Eddie who was coming towards us, shaking his wet hands.

“Used to be. He had to hit you or you would have murdered Dubon.”

“You're all thugs! Where's my clothes?” Randall turned and slowly walked to the hut, rubbing Henri's bloody spit off the side of his face. Heru shivered and put an arm across her bare breasts. The little cut over her eye had stopped bleeding. Eddie told her to get dressed, added, “I will get some raw fish for your eye.”

Jack Pund was still squatting over Dubon and I told him to move, knelt, and felt of Henri's heart—it was under the wallet in his inside pocket. He was still alive. I took out the wallet, old, sweat-stained, and thick. He had all the francs I'd given him plus a fat rubber-banded bundle of one thousand franc notes and several American twenties. Beside his identity card, there were a few scribbled addresses I couldn't make out, an old army PX card, and a faded hunk of newspaper— an ad for a correspondence course in public speaking.

Randall returned, wearing his seersucker suit over his pajamas, carrying his pigskin overnight bag, sport cap stuck on his head sideways. I held out Henri's wallet. “I'll give you the three hundred we took you for.”

He shoved my hand aside. “How soon can I reach Papeete?”

“Probably by morning. Take the money, please.”

He pushed by me, went down to the dinghy and sat on the stern seat. Heru came out of one of the lean-tos wearing her gaudy dress, high heeled shoes slung around her neck. Eddie was walking beside her, holding a hunk of raw fish to her purple eye. I gave her Henri's wallet, told her to keep it. Then I took a thousand franc note out, handed it to Jack Pund. “Forget what happened here. And when he wakes,” I said, pointing at Henri with my foot, “paddle him to the mainland of Huahine.”

He grabbed the money eagerly, shoved it into his loin cloth, asked, “When you return with my red ash tray?”

“You can buy a dozen of them with that money,” I said.

“You no return?” Pund asked sadly.

“No, the show is over. Don't forget, take care of him.”

Eddie said, “Why not let the louse stay here till a passing canoe picks him up? Maybe he'll even starve!”

“Stop it,” I said, suddenly feeling very weary. “We're as much in this as Henri. Let's get out of here.”

We three walked down to the dinghy and got in, nearly swamping it. As I rowed I faced Randall and I told him, “You really don't know what happened here tonight. I'd like to—”

“Goddamn you, can't you shut up!” he snapped. “You think I Worry about the money, that I was rooked? I don't!”

“I want to explain what—”

“When a fellow is young and has some sense, he dreams, then settles down to hard work, making money,” Brad went on. “When he's too old for living he realizes he should have paid more attention to his dreams, they are important as money, maybe more important. Even if this was a fake, why did you have to spoil it? Ruin the greatest thing ever happened, to me? If I had left there still thinking this was all real, I'd have been the happiest man in the world! But you pimps, this cheap whore....”

“Sure she's cheap—she didn't get any new car!” I cut in. “Look, Randall, Henri isn't any more to blame than we are, and by we I mean all of us, including you. In a sense we're all trying, in our own way, to find the same dream you were chasing, even Dubon. We came here too late—Eddie and Heru should have been born two hundred years ago. All of us are the ugly by-products of too many years of cruel exploitation, double-crossing, and greed. We've been dreaming in a sewer. I thought sailing around in my own boat was clean and good, especially yesterday after I met up with them —the point is, I thought it the best life possible, but now that's dirtied up, too. I don't know if I'm making myself clean and good, especially yesterday after I met up with Kent responsibility for this mess.”