King Rat

by James Clavell

  “Hole card” registered in the distance of Peter Marlowe’s memory. And he remembered. And now that he knew the game, he began to play with Grey. “Well,” he said worriedly, “it’s like any other poker game, Grey.”

  “Just explain how you play the game!” Grey thought that he had them in the lie.

  Peter Marlowe looked at him, his eyes flinty. The eggs were getting cold. “What are you trying to prove, Grey? Any fool knows that it’s four cards face up and one down—one in the hole.”

  A sigh fled through the room. Grey knew there was nothing he could do now. It would be his word against Marlowe’s, and he knew that even here in Changi he would have to do better than that. “That’s right,” he said grimly, looking from the King to Peter Marlowe. “Any fool knows that.” He handed the lighter back to the King. “See it’s put on the list.”

  “Yes, sir.” Now that it was over, the King allowed some of his relief to show.

  Grey looked at Peter Marlowe a last time, and the look was both a promise and a threat. “The old school tie would be very proud of you today,” he said with contempt, and he started out of the hut, Masters shuffling after him.

  Peter Marlowe stared after Grey, and when Grey had reached the door, he said just a little louder than was necessary to the King, still watching Grey, “Can I use your lighter—my fag’s out.” But Grey’s stride did not falter, nor did he look back. Good man, thought Peter Marlowe grimly, good nerves—good man to have on your side in a death battle. And an enemy to cherish.

  The King sat weakly in the electric silence and Peter Marlowe took the lighter from his slack hand and lit his cigarette. The King automatically found his packet of Kooas and stuck one in his lips and held it there, not feeling it. Peter Marlowe leaned across and snapped the lighter for the King. The King took a long time to focus on the flame and then he saw that Peter Marlowe’s hand was as unsteady as his own. He looked down the length of the hut where the men were like statues, staring back at him. He could feel the sweat-chill on his shoulders and the wetness of his shirt.

  There was a clattering of cans outside. Dino got up and looked out expectantly.

  “Chow,” he called out happily. The spell shattered and the men left the hut with their eating utensils. And Peter Marlowe and the King were quite alone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The two men sat for a moment, gathering themselves. Then Peter Marlowe said shakily, “God, that was close!”

  “Yes,” the King said after an unhurried pause. Involuntarily, he shuddered again, then found his wallet and took out two ten-dollar bills and put them on the table. “Here,” he said, “this’ll do for now. But you’re on the payroll from here on in. Twenty a week.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll give you twenty a week.” The King thought a moment. “Guess you’re right,” he said agreeably and smiled. “It is worth more. We’ll make it thirty.” Then his eyes noticed the armband, so he added, “Sir.”

  “You can still call me Peter,” Peter Marlowe said, his voice edged. “And just for the books—I don’t want your money.” He got up and began to leave. “Thanks for the cigarette.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” the King said, astonished. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

  Peter Marlowe stared down at the King and the anger flickered his eyes. “What the hell do you think I am? Take your money, and shove it.”

  “Something wrong with my money?”

  “No. Only your manners!”

  “Since when has manners got anything to do with money?”

  Peter Marlowe abruptly turned to go. The King jumped up and stood between Peter Marlowe and the door.

  “Just a minute,” he said and his voice was taut. “I want to know something. Why did you cover up for me?”

  “Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? I dropped you in the creek. I couldn’t leave you holding the baby. What do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to find out.”

  “It was my mistake. I’m sorry.”

  “You got nothing to be sorry about,” the King said sharply. “It was my mistake. I got stupid. Nothing to do with you.”

  “It makes no difference.” Peter Marlowe’s face was granite like his eyes. “But you must think me a complete shit if you expect me to let you be crucified. And a bigger one if you think I want money from you—when I’d been careless. I’m not taking that from anyone!”

  “Sit down a minute. Please.”

  “Why?”

  “Goddammit, because I want to talk to you.”

  Max hesitated at the door with the King’s mess cans.

  “Excuse me,” he said cautiously, “here’s your chow. You want some tea?”

  “No. And Tex gets my soup today.” He took the mess can of rice and put it on the table.

  “Okay,” said Max, still hesitating, wondering if the King wanted a hand to beat hell out of the son of a bitch.

  “Beat it, Max. And tell the others to leave us alone for a minute.”

  “Sure.” Max went out agreeably. He thought the King was very wise to have no witnesses, not when you clobber an officer.

  The King looked back at Peter Marlowe. “I’m asking you. Will you sit down a minute? Please.”

  “All right,” said Peter Marlowe stiffly.

  “Look,” the King began patiently. “You got me out of the noose. You helped me—it’s only right I help you. I offered you the dough because I wanted to thank you. If you don’t want it, fine—but I didn’t mean to insult you. If I did, I apologize.”

  “Sorry,” Peter Marlowe said, softening. “I’ve got a bad temper. I didn’t understand.”

  The King stuck out his hand. “Shake on it.”

  Peter Marlowe shook hands.

  “You don’t like Grey, do you?” the King said carefully.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  Peter Marlowe shrugged. The King divided the rice carelessly and handed him the larger portion. “Let’s eat.”

  “But what about you?” said Peter Marlowe, gaping at the bigger helping.

  “I’m not hungry. My appetite went with the birds. Jesus, that was close. I thought we’d both had it.”

  “Yes,” Peter Marlowe said, with the beginning of a smile. “It was a lot of fun, wasn’t it?”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, the excitement. Haven’t enjoyed anything so much in years, I suppose. The danger-excitement.”

  “There are a lot of things I don’t understand about you,” the King said weakly. “You mean to say you enjoyed it?”

  “Certainly—didn’t you? I thought it was almost as good as flying a Spit. You know, at the time it frightens you, but at the same time doesn’t—and during and after you feel sort of lightheaded.”

  “I think you’re just out of your head.”

  “If you weren’t enjoying it then why the hell did you try to throw me with ‘stud’? I bloody nearly died.”

  “I didn’t try to throw you. Why the hell would I want to throw you?”

  “To make it more exciting and to test me.”

  The King bleakly wiped his eyes and his face. “You mean to say you think I did that deliberately?”

  “Of course. I did the same to you when I passed the questioning to you.”

  “Let’s get this straight. You did that just to test my nerves?” the King gasped.

  “Of course, old boy,” Peter Marlowe said. “I don’t understand what’s the matter.”

  “Jesus,” said the King, a nervous sweat beginning again. “We’re almost in the pokey and you play games!” The King paused for breath. “Crazy, just plain crazy, and when you hesitated after I’d fed you the ‘hole’ clue, I thought we were dead.”

  “Grey thought that too. I was just playing with him. I only finished it quickly because the eggs were getting cold. And you don’t see a fried egg like that every day. My word no.”

  “I thought you said it wasn’t any good.”

  “I said it wasn�
�t ‘bad.’” Peter Marlowe hesitated. “Look. Saying it’s ‘not bad’ means that it’s exceptional. That’s a way of paying a chap a compliment without embarrassing him.”

  “You’re out of your skull! You risk my neck—and your own—to add to the danger, you blow your stack when I offer you some money with no strings attached, and you say something’s ‘not bad’ when you mean it’s great. Jesus,” he added, stupefied, “I guess I’m simple or something.”

  He glanced up and saw the perplexed look on Peter Marlowe’s face and he had to laugh. Peter Marlowe began laughing too, and soon the two men were hysterical.

  Max peered into the hut and the other Americans were close behind.

  “What the hell’s gotten into him?” Max said gaping. “I thought by now he’d be beating his fucking head in.”

  “Madonna,” gasped Dino. “First the King nearly gets chopped, and now he’s laughing with the guy who fingered him.”

  “Don’t make sense.” Max’s stomach had been flapping ever since the warning whistle.

  The King looked up and saw the men staring at him. He pulled out the remains of the pack of cigarettes. “Here, Max. Pass these around. Celebration!”

  “Gee, thanks.” Max took the pack. “Wow! That was a close one. We’re all so happy for you.”

  The King read the grins. Some were good and he marked those. Some were false and he knew those anyway. The men echoed Max’s thanks.

  Max herded the men outside once more and began to divide the treasure. “It’s shock,” he said quietly. “Must be. Like shell shock. Any moment he’ll be tearing the Limey’s head off.” He stared off as another burst of laughter came from the hut, then shrugged.

  “He’s off his head—and no wonder.”

  “For God’s sake,” Peter Marlowe was saying, holding his stomach. “Let’s eat. If I don’t soon, I won’t be able to.”

  So they began to eat. Between laughter spasms. Peter Marlowe regretted that the eggs were cold, but the laughter warmed the eggs and made them superb. “They need a little salt, don’t you think?” he said, trying to keep his voice flat.

  “Gee, I guess so. I thought I’d used enough.” The King frowned and turned for the salt and then he saw the crinkling eyes.

  “What the hell’s up now?” he asked, beginning to laugh in spite of himself.

  “That was a joke, for God’s sake. You Americans don’t have much of a sense of humor, do you?”

  “Go to hell! And for Chrissake stop laughing!”

  When they had finished the eggs, the King put some coffee on the hot plate and searched for his cigarettes. Then he remembered he had given them away, so he reached down and unlocked the black box.

  “Here, try some of this,” Peter Marlowe said, offering his tobacco box.

  “Thanks, but I can’t stand the stuff. It plays hell with my throat.”

  “Try it. It’s been treated. I learned how from some Javanese.”

  Dubiously the King took the cigarette box. The tobacco was the same cheap weed, but instead of being straw-yellow it was dark golden; instead of being dry it was moist and had a texture; instead of being odorless it smelled like tobacco, sweet-strong. He found his packet of rice papers and took an overgenerous amount of the treated weed. He rolled a sloppy tube and nipped off the protruding ends, dropping the excess tobacco carelessly on the floor.

  Godalmighty, thought Peter Marlowe, I said try it, not take the bloody lot. He knew he should have picked up the shreds of tobacco and put them back in the box, but he did not. Some things a chap can’t do, he thought again.

  The King snapped the lighter and they grinned together at the sight of it. The King took a careful puff, then another. Then a deep inhale. “But it’s great,” he said astonished. “Not as good as a Kooa—but this’s—” He stopped and corrected himself. “I mean it’s not bad.”

  “It’s not bad at all.” Peter Marlowe laughed.

  “How the hell do you do it?”

  “Trade secret.”

  The King knew he had a gold mine in his hands. “I guess it’s a long and involved process,” he said delicately.

  “Oh, actually it’s quite easy. You just soak the raw weed in tea, then squeeze it out. Then you sprinkle a little white sugar over it and knead it in, and when it’s all absorbed, cook it gently in a frying pan over a low heat. Keep turning it over or it’ll spoil. You’ve got to get it just right. Not too dry and not too moist.”

  The King was surprised that Peter Marlowe had told him the process so easily—without making a deal first. Of course, he thought, he’s just whetting my appetite. Can’t be that easy or everyone’d be doing it. And he probably knows I’m the only one who could handle the deal.

  “Just like that?” the King said smiling.

  “Yes. Nothing to it really.”

  The King could see a thriving business. Legitimate too. “I suppose everyone in your hut cures their tobacco the same way.”

  Peter Marlowe shook his head. “I just do it for my unit. I’ve been teasing them for months, telling them all sorts of stories, but they’ve never worked out the exact way.”

  The King’s smile was huge. “Then you’re the only one who knows how to do it!”

  “Oh no,” said Peter Marlowe and the King’s heart sank. “It’s a native custom. They do it all over Java.”

  The King brightened. “But no one here knows about it, do they?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve really never thought about it.”

  The King let the smoke dribble out of his nostrils and his mind worked rapidly. Oh yes, he told himself, this is my lucky day.

  “Tell you what, Peter. I got a business proposition for you. You show me exactly how to do it, and I’ll cut you in for—” He hesitated. “Ten percent.”

  “What?”

  “All right. Twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-five?”

  “All right,” the King said, looking at Peter Marlowe with new respect. “You’re a hard trader and that’s great. I’ll organize the whole deal. We’ll buy in bulk. We’ll have to set up a factory. You can oversee production and I’ll look after sales.” He stuck out his hand. “We’ll be partners—split right down the middle, fifty-fifty. It’s a deal.”

  Peter Marlowe stared down at the King’s hand. Then he looked into his face. “Oh no it’s not!” he said decisively.

  “Goddammit,” the King exploded. “That’s the fairest offer you’ll ever get. What could be fairer? I’m putting up the dough. I’ll have to—” A sudden thought stopped him. “Peter,” he said after a moment, hurt but not showing it, “no one has to know we’re partners. You just show me how to do it, and I’ll see you get your share. You can trust me.”

  “I know that,” Peter Marlowe said.

  “Then we’ll split fifty-fifty.” The King beamed.

  “No we won’t.”

  “Jesus Christ,” the King said as he felt the screws applied. But he held his temper and thought about the deal. And the more he thought—He looked around to make sure that no one was listening. Then he dropped his voice and said hoarsely, “Sixty-forty, and I’ve never offered that to anyone in my life. Sixty-forty it is.”

  “No it isn’t.”

  “Isn’t?” the King burst out, shocked. “I’ve got to get something out of the deal. What the hell do you want for the process? Cash on the line?”

  “I don’t want anything,” said Peter Marlowe.

  “Nothing?” The King sat down feebly, wrecked.

  Peter Marlowe was bewildered. “You know,” he said hesitantly, “I don’t understand why you get so excited about certain things. The process isn’t mine to sell. It’s a simple native custom. I couldn’t possibly take anything from you. That wouldn’t be right. Not at all. And anyway, I—” Peter Marlowe stopped and said quickly, “Would you like me to show you now?”

  “Just a minute. You mean to tell me you want nothing for showing me the process? When I’ve offered to split sixty-forty with you? When I tell you I can make mo
ney out of the deal?” Peter Marlowe nodded. “That’s crazy,” the King said helplessly. “It’s wrong. I don’t understand.”

  “Nothing to understand,” Peter Marlowe said, smiling faintly. “Put it down to sunstroke.”

  The King studied him a long moment. “Will you give me a straight answer to a straight question?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

  The words hung in the heat between them.

  “No,” said Peter Marlowe, breaking the silence.

  And there was truth between them.

  An hour later Peter Marlowe was watching Tex cook the second batch of tobacco. This time Tex was doing it without help, and the King was clucking around like an old hen.

  “You sure he put in the right amount of sugar?” the King asked Peter Marlowe anxiously.

  “Exactly right.”

  “How long will it be now?”

  “How long do you think, Tex?”

  Tex smiled back at Peter Marlowe and stretched his gangling six-foot three. “Five, maybe six minutes, thereabouts.”

  Peter Marlowe got up. “Where’s the place? The loo?”

  “The john? Around the back.” The King pointed. “But can’t you wait till Tex’s finished? I want to make sure he’s got it right.”

  “Tex’s doing fine,” Peter Marlowe said and walked out.

  When he came back Tex took the frypan off the stove. “Now,” he said nervously and glanced at Peter Marlowe to check if his timing was right.

  “Just right,” said Peter Marlowe, examining the treated tobacco.

  Excitedly the King rolled a cigarette in rice paper. So did Tex and Peter Marlowe. They lit up. With the Ronson. Another delighted laugh. Then silence as each man became a connoisseur.

  “Jolly good,” said Peter Marlowe decisively. “I told you it was quite simple, Tex.”

  Tex breathed a sigh of relief.

  “It’s not bad,” said the King thoughtfully.

  “What the hell’re you talking about,” Tex said, flaring. “It’s goddam good!”

  Peter Marlowe and the King were convulsed. They explained why and then Tex too was laughing.