“You can go back with us and save the boat fare.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll save time with the boat.”
“Well,” I said. “What about a drink?”
“Fine,” said Johnson. “No hard feelings now, are there?”
“No, sir,” I told him. So the three of us sat there in the stern and drank a highball together.
The next day I worked around her all morning, changing the oil in her base and one thing and another. At noon I went uptown and ate at a Chink place where you get a good meal for forty cents, and then I bought some things to take home to my wife and our three girls. You know, perfume, a couple of fans and two of those high combs. When I finished I stopped in at Donovan’s and had a beer and talked with the old man and then walked back to the San Francisco docks, stopping in at three or four places for a beer on the way. I bought Frankie a couple at the Cunard bar and I came on board feeling pretty good. When I came on board I had just forty cents left. Frankie came on board with me, and while we sat and waited for Johnson I drank a couple of cold ones out of the ice box with Frankie.
Eddy hadn’t shown up all night or all day but I knew he would be around sooner or later, as soon as his credit ran out. Donovan told me he’d been in there the night before a little while with Johnson, and Eddy had been setting them up on credit. We waited and I began to wonder about Johnson not showing up. I’d left word at the dock for them to tell him to go on board and wait for me but they said he hadn’t come. Still, I figured he had been out late and probably didn’t get up till around noon. The banks were open until three-thirty. We saw the plane go out, and about five-thirty I was all over feeling good and was getting plenty worried.
At six o’clock I sent Frankie up to the hotel to see if Johnson was there. I still thought he might be out on a time or he might be there at the hotel feeling too bad to get up. I kept waiting and waiting until it was late. But I was getting plenty worried because he owed me eight hundred and twenty-five dollars.
Frankie was gone about a little over half an hour. When I saw him coming he was walking fast and shaking his head.
“He went on the plane,” he said.
All right. There it was. The consulate was closed. I had forty cents, and anyhow the plane was in Miami by now. I couldn’t even send a wire. Some Mr. Johnson, all right. It was my fault. I should have known better.
“Well,” I said to Frankie, “we might as well have a cold one. Mr. Johnson bought them.” There were three bottles of Tropical left.
Frankie felt as bad as I did. I don’t know how he could but he seemed to. He just kept slapping me on the back and shaking his head.
So there it was. I was broke. I’d lost five hundred and thirty dollars of the charter, and tackle I couldn’t replace for three hundred and fifty more. How some of that gang that hangs around the dock would be pleased at that, I thought. It certainly would make some conchs happy. And the day before I turned down three thousand dollars to land three aliens on the Keys. Anywhere, just to get them out of the country.
All right, what was I going to do now? I couldn’t bring in a load because you have to have money to buy the booze and besides there’s no money in it any more. The town is flooded with it and there’s nobody to buy it. But I was damned if I was going home broke and starve a summer in that town. Besides I’ve got a family. The clearance was paid when we came in. You usually pay the broker in advance and he enters you and clears you. Hell, I didn’t even have enough money to put in gas. It was a hell of a note, all right. Some Mr. Johnson.
“I’ve got to carry something, Frankie,” I said. “I’ve got to make some money.”
“I’ll see,” said Frankie. He hangs around the water front and does odd jobs and is pretty deaf and drinks too much every night. But you never saw a fellow more loyal nor with a better heart. I’ve known him since I first started to run over there. He used to help me load plenty of times. Then when I got handling stuff and went party-boating and broke out this swordfishing in Cuba I used to see him a lot around the dock and around the café. He seems dumb and he usually smiles instead of talking but that’s because he’s deaf.
“You carry anything?” Frankie asked.
“Sure,” I said. “I can’t choose now.”
“Anything?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll see,” Frankie said. “Where will you be?”
“I’ll be at the Perla,” I told him. “I have to eat.”
You can get a good meal at the Perla for twenty-five cents. Everything on the menu is a dime except soup, and that is a nickel. I walked as far as there with Frankie, and I went in and he went on. Before he went he shook me by the hand and clapped me on the back again.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Me Frankie much politics. Much business. Much drinking. No money. But big friend. Don’t worry.”
“So long, Frankie,” I said. “Don’t you worry either, boy.”
I went in the Perla and sat down at a table. They had a new pane of glass in the window that had been shot up and the show case was all fixed up. There were a lot of gallegos drinking at the bar and some eating. One table was playing dominoes already. I had black bean soup and a beef stew with boiled potatoes for fifteen cents. A bottle of Hatuey beer brought it up to a quarter. When I spoke to the waiter about the shooting he wouldn’t say anything. They were all plenty scared.
I finished the meal and sat back and smoked a cigarette and worried my head off. Then I saw Frankie coming in the door with someone behind him. Yellow stuff, I thought to myself. So it’s yellow stuff.
“This is Mr. Sing,” Frankie said, and he smiled. He’d been pretty fast all right and he knew it.
“How do you do?” said Mr. Sing.
Mr. Sing was about the smoothest-looking thing I’d ever seen. He was a Chink all right, but he talked like an Englishman and he was dressed in a white suit with a silk shirt and black tie and one of those hundred-and-twenty-five-dollar Panama hats.
“You will have some coffee?” he asked me.
“If you do.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Sing. “We are quite alone here?”
“Except for everybody in the café,” I told him.
“That is all right,” Mr. Sing said. “You have a boat?”
“Thirty-eight feet,” I said. “Hundred horse Kermath.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Sing. “I had imagined it was a lugger.”
“It can carry two hundred and sixty-five cases without being loaded.”
“Would you care to charter it to me?”
“On what terms?”
“You need not go. I will provide a captain and a crew.”
“No,” I said. “I go on her wherever she goes.”
“I see,” said Mr. Sing. “Would you mind leaving us?” he said to Frankie. Frankie looked as interested as ever and smiled at him.
“He’s deaf,” I said. “He doesn’t understand much English.”
“I see,” said Mr. Sing. “You speak Spanish. Tell him to rejoin us later.”
I motioned to Frankie with my thumb. He got up and went over to the bar.
“You don’t speak Spanish?” I said.
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Sing. “Now what are the circumstances that would—that have made you consider …”
“I’m broke.”
“I see,” said Mr. Sing. “Does the boat owe any money? Can she be libeled?”
“No.”
“Quite so,” Mr. Sing said. “How many of my unfortunate compatriots could your boat accommodate?”
“You mean carry?”
“That’s it.”
“How far?”
“A day’s voyage.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She can take a dozen if they didn’t have any baggage.”
“They would not have baggage.”
“Where do you want to carry them?”
“I’d leave that to you,” Mr. Sing said.
“You mean where to land them?”
“You would embark them for the Tortugas where a schooner would pick them up.”
“Listen,” I said. “There’s a lighthouse at the Tortugas on Loggerhead Key with a radio that works both ways.”
“Quite,” said Mr. Sing. “It would certainly be very silly to land them there.”
“Then what?”
“I said you would embark them for there. That is what their passage calls for.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You would land them wherever your best judgment dictated.”
“Will the schooner come to Tortugas to get them?”
“Of course not,” said Mr. Sing. “How silly.”
“How much are they worth a head?”
“Fifty dollars,” said Mr. Sing.
“No.”
“How would seventy-five do?”
“What do you get a head?”
“Oh, that’s quite beside the point. You see, there are a great many facets, or shall we say angles, to my issuing the tickets. It doesn’t stop there.”
“Yes,” I said. “And what I’m supposed to do doesn’t have to be paid for, either. Eh?”
“I see your point absolutely,” said Mr. Sing. “Should we say a hundred dollars apiece?”
“Listen,” I said. “Do you know how long I would go to jail if they pick me up on this?”
“Ten years,” said Mr. Sing. “Ten years at least. But there is no reason to go to jail, my dear Captain. You run only one risk—when you load your passengers. Everything else is left to your discretion.”
“And if they come back on your hands?”
“That’s quite simple. I would accuse you to them of having betrayed me. I will make a partial refund and ship them out again. They realize, of course, that it is a difficult voyage.”
“What about me?”
“I suppose I should send some word to the consulate.”
“I see.”
“Twelve hundred dollars, Captain, is not to be despised at present.”
“When would I get the money?”
“Two hundred when you agree and a thousand when you load.”
“If I would go off with the two hundred?”
“I could do nothing, of course,” he smiled. “But I know you wouldn’t do such a thing, Captain.”
“Have you got the two hundred with you?”
“Of course.”
“Put it under the plate.” He did. “All right,” I said. “I’ll clear in the morning and pull out at dark. Now, where do we load?”
“How would Bacuranao be?”
“All right. Have you got it fixed?”
“Of course.”
“Now, about the loading,” I said. “You show two lights, one above the other, at the point. I’ll come in when I see them. You come out in a boat and load from the boat. You come yourself and you bring the money. I won’t take one on board until I have it.”
“No,” he said; “one-half when you start to load and the other when you are finished.”
“All right,” I said. “That’s reasonable.”
“So everything is understood?”
“I guess so,” I said. “There’s no baggage and no arms. No guns, knives, or razors; nothing. I have to know about that.”
“Captain,” said Mr. Sing, “have you no trust in me? Don’t you see our interests are identical?”
“You’ll make sure?”
“Please do not embarrass me,” he said. “Do you not see how our interests coincide?”
“All right,” I told him. “What time will you be there?”
“Before midnight.”
“All right,” I said. “I guess that’s all.”
“How do you want the money?”
“In hundreds is all right.”
He stood up and I watched him go out. Frankie smiled at him as he went. He was a smooth-looking Chink all right. Some Chink.
Frankie came over to the table. “Well?” he said.
“Where did you know Mr. Sing?”
“He ships Chinamen,” Frankie said. “Big business.”
“How long you know him?”
“He’s here about two years,” Frankie said. “Another one ship them before him. Somebody kill him.”
“Somebody will kill Mr. Sing, too.”
“Sure,” said Frankie. “Why not? Plenty big business.”
“Some business,” I said.
“Big business,” said Frankie. “Ship Chinamen never come back. Other Chinamen write letters say everything fine.”
“Wonderful,” I said.
“This kind of Chinamen no understand write. Chinamen can write all rich. Eat nothing. Live on rice. Hundred thousand Chinamen here. Only three Chinese women.”
“Why?”
“Government no let.”
“Hell of a situation,” I said.
“You do business him?”
“Maybe.”
“Good business,” said Frankie. “Better than politics. Much money. Plenty big business.”
“Have a bottle of beer,” I told him.
“You not worry any more?”
“Hell no,” I said. “Plenty big business. Much obliged.”
“Good,” said Frankie and patted me on the back. “Make me happier than nothing. All I want is you happy. Chinamen good business, eh?”
“Wonderful.”
“Make me happy,” said Frankie. I saw he was about ready to cry because he was so pleased everything was all right, so I patted him on the back. Some Frankie.
First thing in the morning I got hold of the broker and told him to clear us. He wanted the crew list and I told him nobody.
“You’re going to cross alone, Captain?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s become of your mate?”
“He’s on a drunk,” I told him.
“It’s very dangerous to go alone.”
“It’s only ninety miles,” I said. “Do you think having a rummy on board makes any difference?”
I ran her over to the Standard Oil dock across the harbor and filled up both the tanks. She held nearly two hundred gallons when I had her full. I hated to buy it at twenty-eight cents a gallon but I didn’t know where we might go.
Ever since I’d seen the Chink and taken the money I’d been worrying about the business. I don’t think I slept all night. I brought her back to the San Francisco dock, and there was Eddy waiting on the dock for me.
“Hello, Harry,” he said to me and waved. I threw him the stern line and he made her fast, and then came aboard; longer, blearier, drunker than ever. I didn’t say anything to him.
“What do you think about that fellow Johnson going off like that, Harry?” he asked me. “What do you know about that?”
“Get out of here,” I told him. “You’re poison to me.”
“Brother, don’t I feel as bad about it as you do?”
“Get off of her,” I told him.
He just settled back in the chair and stretched his legs out. “I hear we’re going across today,” he said. “Well, I guess there isn’t any use to stay around.”
“You’re not going.”
“What’s the matter, Harry? There’s no sense to get plugged with me.”
“No? Get off her.”
“Oh, take it easy.”
I hit him in the face and he stood up and then climbed up onto the dock.
“I wouldn’t do a thing like that to you, Harry,” he said.
“I’m not going to carry you,” I told him. “That’s all.”
“Well, what did you have to hit me for?”
“So you’d believe it.”
“What do you want me to do? Stay here and starve?”
“Starve, hell,” I said. “You can get work on the ferry. You can work your way back.”
“You aren’t treating me square,” he said.
“Who did you treat square, you rummy?” I told him. “You’d double-cross your own mother.”
That was true, too. But I felt
bad about hitting him. You know how you feel when you hit a drunk. But I wouldn’t carry him the way things were now, not even if I wanted to.
He started to walk off down the dock looking longer than a day without breakfast. Then he turned and came back.
“How’s to let me take a couple of dollars, Harry?”
I gave him a five-dollar bill of the Chink’s.
“I always knew you were my pal. Harry, why don’t you carry me?”
“You’re bad luck.”
“You’re just plugged,” he said. “Never mind, old pal. You’ll be glad to see me yet.”
Now he had money he went off a good deal faster but I tell you it was poison to see him walk, even. He walked just like his joints were backwards.
I went up to the Perla and met the broker and he gave me the papers and I bought him a drink. Then I had lunch and Frankie came in.
“Fellow gave me this for you,” he said and handed me a rolled-up sort of tube wrapped in paper and tied with a piece of red string. It looked like a photograph when I unwrapped it and I unrolled it thinking it was maybe a picture someone around the dock had taken of the boat.
All right. It was a close-up picture of the head and chest of a dead nigger with his throat cut clear across from ear to ear and then stitched up neat and a card on his chest saying in Spanish: “This is what we do to lenguas largas.”
“Who gave it to you?” I asked Frankie.
He pointed out a Spanish boy that works around the docks who is just about gone with the con. This kid was standing at the lunch counter.
“Ask him to come over.”
The kid came over. He said two young fellows gave it to him about eleven o’clock. They asked him if he knew me and he said yes. Then he gave it to Frankie for me. They gave him a dollar to see that I got it. They were well dressed, he said.
“Politics,” Frankie said.
“Oh, yes,” I said.
“They think you told the police you were meeting those boys here that morning.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Bad politics,” Frankie said. “Good thing you go.”
“Did they leave any message?” I asked the Spanish boy.
“No,” he said. “Just to give you that.”
“I’m going to have to leave now,” I said to Frankie.
“Bad politics,” Frankie said. “Very bad politics.”
I had all the papers in a bunch that the broker had given me and I paid the bill and walked out of that café and across the square and through the gate and I was plenty glad to come through the warehouse and get out on the dock. Those kids had me spooked all right. They were just dumb enough to think I’d tipped somebody off about that other bunch. Those kids were like Pancho. When they were scared they got excited, and when they got excited they wanted to kill somebody.
The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway Page 48