Ed Lacy - South Pacific Affair

Buck took a ten franc coin from his pocket and neatly bent it between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He tossed the bent coin to Eddie. “I am sixty years old and have engaged in brawls in every port of the world. Remember that, Captain Romanos, should you ever consider hitting my nose. Now if you will excuse me, we are sailing soon.”

Heru got her slippers and we went out on deck. Mr. Teng was peering down the forward hold, a sheaf of papers in his hand. As we passed he nodded, as though nothing had happened.

As we walked toward the Hooker Eddie picked up two stones and flattened the coin. He gave it to Heru. “Have a cup of coffee on Buck.” As she laughed he said to me, “And sometime I'm going to splatter that beak.”

Henri was sitting on top of the cabin, the piece of fish held to his eye. His linen suit was drying on the rigging. “You get the money?”

Eddie counted out a thousand francs, handed them to Heru. Henri merely held out his hand and she gave him the money. He told her, “Get back to your room. Some of the regular customers will soon be coming around.”

“Let me have money for a taxi,” she said.

“Walk, my pet, the exercise is good for your figure.”

Henri still had the wad of money in his hand and Eddie yanked out a fifty franc note, gave it to Heru as he said, “Take a taxi and rest up.”

She giggled and we all watched her walk down the plank, the sway to her hips. Henri said sadly, “She will not take a taxi, only drink it up. And never take money from my hand again. I do not like that.”

“Didn't think you did,” Eddie said, stretching out in the sun beside him. He said to me, “Now that we have money I don't feel much like going ashore. But maybe I'll see a movie tonight.”

Henri shoved his money down his drawers, asked casually, “How much did you make for yourself?”

“Two million bucks,” Eddie said, putting on an old pair of sun glasses.

I lit a cigarette and sat down. Henri didn't say he Wanted a butt and I didn't offer him one. After a moment he asked, “This is your boat?”

He was still playing his silly game. “Eddie's and mine.”

“Good for a pleasure boat but too small for cargo. You smuggle rum?”

“No.”

He changed hands holding the fish, ran his free hand through his thin hair. “I know very well you don't run spirits. You are a couple of starving fools. You lack business sense.”

With his sun glasses on I couldn't tell if Eddie was sleeping or not, but now he jumped up and grabbed Henri— one hand on his hair and the other deep in his crotch. The Frenchman let out a shrill yell as Eddie ran him down the deck and over the gangplank, then tried to boot him along the quay but missed. Dubon looked silly in his drawers and when he had run a few yards he turned and saw Eddie return to the ship. Dubon yelled, “My clothes, please my clothes!”

Eddie took the linen suit, the shirt and tie from the rigging, tossed them ashore, heaving the briefcase as far as he could. Henri dressed quickly; then, with what might be called dignity, he came to the foot of the plank and said, “The fish for my eye, if you please.”

Eddie hurled the fish at him, missing, and Dubon picked it up, wet it, and walked away holding the fish delicately to his eye. We watched him for a second, then Eddie stretched out on the cabin and put his sun glasses on again.

“That stuffed goon,” Eddie said. “A lousy pimp trying to be a super pimp.”

“What makes a pretty girl like Heru hustle, and for a clown like Henri?” I asked, suddenly wondering if Ruita Adams was considered an islander or an outsider. Her mother was a popaa —a missionary, I'd heard. The switcheroo: the white woman missionary and the native man.

“Beats me,” Eddie said, shaking his head, then adjusting his sun glasses. He yawned. “Coming to the movies with me tonight?”

“Maybe. We ought to see about a cargo instead of going to the movies.”

“Hell, everybody knows we're in port—anybody needing a small boat will come to us. You want to look for a cargo, go ahead. I'm sleepy.”

Eddie dozed off and I lit a cigarette, considered going to the Post Office to see if there was any mail. But nobody knew I was here, or cared, and it was a luxurious feeling to be able to ignore the P.O. I knocked off a few hours sleep and awoke as this big English yacht came in the harbor. She was a pretty boat, about eighty feet, diesel powered and with beautiful lines. There was the cough of another diesel—the Shanghai was moving out under power. As the yacht passed her I saw several men playing cards on the deck suddenly point to the big schooner and laugh. I imagined they were saying, “Look at that old tramp tub—didn't think they still built them.” Of course they didn't know they were on an expensive toy and seeing a real ship. Mr. Teng was leaning over the rail and didn't wave as the schooner passed our berth.

I was hot and sweaty so I bathed by jumping in the harbor, and then ran up the sails which were still damp from the sea and rain, giving them a chance to dry. The noise woke Eddie. He lit a cigar and watched me, said, “Guess we should have done that the first thing this morning. We ever have to buy a new sail, we're sunk.”

Eddie went ashore for a chicken and a bottle. We had a big supper and got a little drunk and then went to the movies. There are two movie theaters in Papeete and one had a cowboy picture and I managed to talk Eddie out of that. The other showed a movie about a salesgirl who was probably making about forty-five dollars a week, take-home pay, but who somehow wore a fur coat, lived in an apartment with a dropped living room, and drove a fine car. Crazy as it may sound, I was glad I went to the movie for I was drunk enough to laugh like a loon at the “wrong” places. As the picture limped to its happy ending, I was full of a contented sense of freedom, felt I was my own master for I had a boat that would carry me anyplace there was wind and water. I sat there and watched the nonsense, even listened to the chatter around me, and thought of Ruita: glad I wasn't tied down.

Exactly what “tied down” meant I didn't try to think out. I didn't care. Sure, I knew the movie was only a movie, a dream, a caricature of life in the States. But it did remind me of my life with Milly, the dull hours I put in as a court reporter—at the keyhole of our society. At the moment I could have laughed in Barry Kent's face. I felt rather proud of myself that Barry had the motion picture name and looks, but I was really living the picture, and that's what counted.

As we left the theater I stuck my battered sea cap on my noggin at an angle and almost swaggered down the street, feeling every bit a hero. I suppose when a man is a hero to himself, that's something—for as long at it lasts.

Eddie went off to spend the night with some friends of his. I went back to the Hooker and had a drink. Suddenly I was sick of warm drinks. I went ashore for a whiskey with ice in it and didn't feel much better. There was a plump girl in the bar waiting to be picked up but I told myself we couldn't afford the money. Walking back to the Hooker I knew I didn't want a girl. A Heru was great for a few minutes, then you were sleeping with a stranger. I wanted Ruita, I wanted to talk and explain and argue, even fight with her. I wanted her badly.

The night breeze, the cool hupi which comes down from the mountains, made me glad to get under the blankets. I was sure I would dream of Ruita, but when I did dream it was of Barry's small smile, which seemed to say, “Sorry, old man, just one of those things.” In my dream I kept shouting at him, “Aita Peapea! Aita Peapea!” And somehow he knew what that meant; with a quiet smile he answered, “But Ray, old boy, it would seem some things do matter, at least to you.”