He drove up the main street toward the river docks looking at the white stucco of the fine homes that belonged to the white river traders and tea planters, past the Jim Kana Club all lit up. He turned to his left up a foggy street, past the shops, past Wong’s Chinese restaurant, around the corner and up the alley, parking by Wong’s back door.
He got out of the jeep, locked the steering wheel with a chain and padlock, hid his flashlight under the seat, took the duffle bag and went up to the back door and knocked.
A very old, stringy goateed Chinee opened the door, squinting: “Ding How, Will,” he smiled showing brown and decayed teeth.
“Hi, Wong,” Ringa slipped into the kitchen the musty Chinese odor spilling over him.
There was a range to his right and two cooks behind the range and waiters moved in and out through beaded curtains. To his left there was a small round table and several chairs and on the wall at eye level were three Chinese calendars. Ringa threw the duffle bag on the floor in the corner near the table and went over and sat down. The old Chinese followed, his Mandarin slippers shuffling, and sat down across from him.
“You back velly soon, Will.”
“Special trip,” Ringa said. “How’s business?”
“Westuwant business no glood, Will. Too much flog, Will,” the old man tucked his arms into the purple brocade of his mandarin sleeves. “Gin business glood, Will.”
The warmth of the kitchen and the smell of the cooking food welled over Ringa: “How about some sweet and sour?”
“Velly glood. Sweet and sowel. Fwied wice too.”
“Yes,” Ringa considered. “And a couple of eggs, too. You got eggs?”
“Eggs velly hard, Will. But for you, Will. Fwesh eggs.” Wong’s eyes smiled.
“Good. I haven’t had eggs since I was here last.”
“You slay long, Will?”
“No. Just tonight,” Ringa removed his leather jacket and gloves, rising slightly in his seat. “I need two cases,” Ringa looked out through the beaded drapes seeing the brightly lit restaurant that was packed full. Negro soldiers waiting by the pay booth for tables. And Mr. Wong says restaurant business is no good.
“Gin up now, Will. Ten rupees.”
“Ten!”
“Ten, Will. Velley hard get wounapurs.”
“Junipers, hell,” Ringa ran his hand through his crewcut blond hair. “You’re just making too many contacts,” he paused looking at the old man. “Well, I’ll just have to raise the price myself. I don’t know if I can do business at that price though,” he shook his head despairingly, wondering what the Chinee would charge him if he knew that he was getting 75 to 100 rupees a bottle at the main base, depending on the time of month or how hard up the guys were.
“Glood gin, Will,” the old man smiled his decayed smile. “Best gin yet.”
“Yeh,” Ringa took out his wallet, counting out two hundred and forty rupees. He could get a hundred a bottle now. That was twentyfour hundred rupees. Almost a thousand bucks, he thought. “Pack the gin in that bag,” he pointed to the duffle bag on the floor. “Same as before, Wong. I’ll pick it up after I go to the whorehouse.”
“You go wholhouse, Will,” Wong reached for the money grinning.
“You get slick Will. Blig balls,” he shaped his hands the size of basketballs and giggled.
“I don’t give a shit if I do get sick.” Ringa looked at the moldy toothy grinning old man. “I’ll get medicine.”
“You glet medelcin, Will?” the Chinee leaned forward.
“Yeh.”
“You glet lots of medilcin?” Wong stroked his straggly goatee. “Wong get gin for Will. Will glet medelcin for Wong. Yes?” He nodded his head.
So he’s in that too, Ringa thought.
“Maybe,” Ringa said cagily. “How about some food?”
Wong hollered the order over to the range, then he picked up a long stem pipe from the table: “Glood medilcen, Will. Wong play glood pwice. Sulpha, Will? Mophin, Will? Velly glood pwice mophin.”
“I like you, Wong,” Ringa smelled the musty odor of Wong’s pipe. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Will velly smart young fellow,” Wong grinned. “Wong like you. You no bly dinner. Wong bly dinner for fwiend Will.”
“I like you Wong,” Ringa said earnestly. “Bring me a bottle of that gin now,” he said. Wong got up and Ringa followed him with his eyes, thinking that Wong must want that medicine awful bad. The tight son-of-a-bitch must really be able to turn a buck with that medicine. Springing for a dinner just to talk about it.
Wong brought the bottle and left immediately to go out front and take care of some business. Ringa looked at the bottle, studying the label, the picture of a DC-3 in white against a green background. Air-Plane Brand Gin, it read. He opened it. It was about time he got drunk. He could never go to a whorehouse sober. That was one of his biggest weaknesses. Not being able to go to a whorehouse sober.
Every man had his own sorrow. It was one thing he owned completely. That he could not sell or borrow on. And every man had his own way of killing it. A banker had a retreat in the country, feeling it gave him the mark of the common man, that the retreat was his cleanser, his purifier, his liberation, his escape from a meaningless existence. Sure. Ringa drank. The equalizer. The even-er-upper. The banker had his retreat in the country and Ringa had his drunk and his whorehouse.
It would be great when it was all over. This whorehouse of tonight. It was the part he liked best; sitting around with the other fellows knowing how badly they wanted to get their gun off and him not needing to. It set him apart from them. It made him feel different. Stronger.
But soon he would want to go again. He would want to go worse than ever before. As if he had never been to a whorehouse. As if what had happened had disappeared, so much dead mucous lying on the ground being baked by the sun until it dried and shrunk and disappeared. It was a treadmill. A circle. Ringa tipped the bottle. Everything in life was a goddamn circle. And how did you get out of the circle. How did you get to be like the Colonel, or a movie star, or an Al Capone.
The dinner came. Ringa gave Wong instructions to watch his jeep and got the directions to the new whorehouse. Then silently he ate and drank as Wong patiently puffed his pipe.
He finished eating and had a couple of more drinks, then stood up and looked down at Wong: “I’ll be back and pick up the gin, Wong,” he put on his jacket and gloves. “Thanks for the dinner. And I’ll find out what I can about the medicine.”
Ringa walked out the back door.
“Hee-he-hheeh,” he heard the old Chinese shrieking. “Have fun, Will. Have fun wholhouse, Will, heehe-he-hee-he-hee,” the laughter faded.
He walked up the alley to the corner, and around two Sikhs sleeping in the tired embrace of their love, and went down the street. The river mist hung very low and it was damp, chilling. He heard the muffled sounds of many voices in the fog, but could not see anyone, only a few Indians sleeping in the doorways of the shops.
He crossed an intersection feeling the sudden funnelled crosswinds, and checked his rear pocket for the switch knife he always carried there. Then he found the book store, faintly hearing the scratchy Oriental phonograph and the laughter as it came down from the second floor. He stopped in the dark of the stairway and drank heavily of the gin, then began to climb the stairs, his stomach fluttering. He stopped and drank again, then went on up and knocked. The door opened.
“Wong sent me,” he stared at a middleaged half-caste.
She looked down the stairs behind him and motioned him in, and as he passed her he saw, even in the red and orange of the dimly lit room, the streaks of grey in her dyed red hair. He stood on the grass floor mat, inhaled of the cheap jasmine scented perfume, and looked around at the old but comfortable wicker furniture.
“I am Memsahib Carol,” the halfcaste turned to him, speaking with a good English accent.
“Hello,” he said absently, glancing around the room, seeing the three Americans, one a
big negro, and an English soldier. “How long?” he looked back at her.
“It will be a while. A halfhour. Fortyfive minutes top,” she smiled and Ringa saw that one of her front teeth was very badly decayed.
“You have a drink?” she asked politely.
“Sure,” he took off his jacket, wrapped the gin bottle in the jacket.
She clapped her hands and from behind the beaded curtain a young white bloused, red turbaned bearer appeared. “Take the Sahib’s things and bring him a gin-tonic,” she ordered.
“Yes, Mem’sahib.” He took Ringa’s bundled jacket.
“You’re a pretty boy,” the halfcaste said.
“Yeh,” he lit a cigarette.
She reached a coarse hand up and felt his face: “Ahhh. When I was young my skin was like that.”
“Pretty boy!” the big negro laughed. The two GIs on the couch laughed. There was an Indian girl about fourteen sitting between the two GI-s. She stared at Ringa. It was obvious that she did not understand what they were laughing at. “Pretty boy,” the big negro laughed again.
Ringa glowered at him.
“Come with me,” Mem’sahib Carol said taking him by the arm and leading him toward the bar at the other end of the room.
“Don’t call me pretty boy,” he said.
“Cheri, then,” she laughed. “I will call you Cheri because you are big and strong and you have such fine skin.”
“You want a drink?” he said looking at the floor.
“Thank you, Cheri,” she clapped her hands and the bearer came in at once.
They drank standing at the bar: “Come,” she said, “I’ll introduce you to the other boys and to little Karma.”
“How many girls do you have?” he asked as they crossed the room.
“Three,” she led him over to the young Indian girl.
One American had his hand on Karma’s firm little breast; the other on her thigh. She was very pretty, Ringa thought, with the red mark between her eyes and the small ring through her nose.
“Bill,” Mem’sahib Carol said, “meet Lefty,” she pointed to one of the men on the couch, “and Johnee.”
Johnny said hello and Lefty nodded.
“And this pretty little thing is Karma,” Mem’sahib Carol held out her arm. Karma stood up gracefully and bobbed, crossing her hands in front of her, smiling awkwardly. “And that big fellow over there is Hank,” she motioned toward the big negro. “Now everything is fine,” she smiled showing her decayed front tooth. “Now we all know each other.”
“Let’s have another drink,” Ringa turned toward the bar.
“Certainly, Cheri,” she said.
Karma got up and walked out of the room with Johnee. She was very graceful with a very Aryan face, Ringa observed, and the red and white silk sari she was wearing blended exquisitely with her small daintiness.
“You like her?” Mem’sahib Carol winked.
“Not bad.” Ringa picked up his glass, leaning on the bar, then looked back over at the couch.
“What’s your outfit, fellow?” Lefty asked.
“Around,” Ringa replied coolly, thinking he had seen him somewhere around Ledo, almost sure of it. Lefty looked ageless like a bellboy looked, Ringa thought, though he must have been pressing forty. How could he forget anyone with such a long crooked nose, and that small mouth, suddenly remembering Scrooge in the Christmas play in school when he was very small.
Two GIs came through the beaded curtain with two little Indian girls. He looked them over. They did not look as good as Karma, he thought, beginning to feel the gin all at once. The bearer let the GIs out the door and Lefty and the English soldier took the two girls back through the beaded curtain.
The phonograph stopped playing and the bearer put on some more squeaky Hindu records, then lit another piece of incense. Ringa had always disliked its cheap scent. He ordered another gin and went over and sat down, watching Mem’sahib Carol walk out of the room swinging her twenty year overworked ass unskillfully.
About twenty minutes later Mem’sahib Carol came back into the room all made up; very redly rouged and heavily perfumed. She had changed her dress to one with lots of silver sequins on it. She didn’t look so bad now, Ringa thought.
They had a drink together and he could really feel the gin. Karma came into the room. Ringa looked at her and he had a terrible urge to tear the ring out of her nose.
She walked towards the negro. Hank stood up and Ringa saw that he was at least six four with massive hands and very black. The negro looked so silly standing next to little Karma that Ringa began to laugh.
“You be careful of her, Hank,” Carol said. “You hurt her and it will be your last time here.”
“I’ll just spread her a little,” Hank winked, smiling whitely.
“I’m next,” Ringa said.
“How would you like to get really fixed up?” Carol said putting her hand on Ringa’s thigh. “I like your skin, Cheri,” she stroked his face. “I’ll fix you up myself. I hardly ever do that.”
He studied her momentarily. She didn’t look so bad now. He put his hand to her breast feeling it soft and loose and right now he knew he was ready. He nodded and they left the room.
He came out of the room through the beaded curtain and found the place empty, except for the turbaned bearer: “Get my things, childee,” he commanded, hoping he could make it out of there before she got dressed and he would not have to look at her straight in all this light.
The sweaty smell of the powdercaked old halfcaste welled over him and he felt sick. He looked down rubbing his finger tips against each other. They were still dirtily sensitive to the corrosive feel of her pock marked face. He felt the sweat coldly wet under his armpits, guiltily knowing that he must have been awful drunk to have taken her on. How did she ever hide those pits? The finger tips tingled again with an ugly awareness, sickeningly remembering how he had run them over and over her face fascinated.
The bearer brought his things and he bolted for the door, stumbling slightly on the top stair, he groped for the fresh smell of the wet night air, and began walking down the street, soberly, sanely now, thinking of hot showers, steaming hot showers and clean cool sheets and soft warm blankets.
He went into the restaurant and picked up his duffle bag. He came out of the back door and stood by the jeep and administered a prophylaxis, remembering the training film he had once seen on venereal disease.
He drove slowly through the fog now very thick and low, got on the main road, knowing at once from the mudsplattered asphalt that there was a convoy up ahead of him.
There was hardly any traffic on the road and he could only see about ten feet ahead, and sometimes when he hit a fog ball he couldn’t see at all. He knew it would be this way until he got at least five miles from the river. He began to shiver with the cold dampness.
There was still some gin in his open bottle he remembered, reaching for it. He drank and retched. He began to think of the halfcaste madam and accelerated slightly as he came into a thick pocket of the mist. The jeep smashed into something dully.
He heard a moaning in the ditch as he stopped. Ringa took out the flashlight and got out of the jeep, a weird hollow feeling enveloping him as he searched for the body in the dark and the fog.
“Mother, Oh mother,” he heard from his right, then under the round ray of the flashlight he saw a man lying on his stomach, his feet down the embankment in the ditch.
He reached down and rolled him over, examining the smashed and bleeding nose with cold eyes. It was that guy from the whorehouse, Ringa saw. Lefty, the guy that reminded him of Scrooge.
“Mother, Oh mother hold me,” Lefty whimpered staring crazily into the flashlight, his broken face purple with shock.
Ringa stood up and looked down at him. Lefty was drooling from his mouth, and drooling from the corners of his glazed, staring eyes. Leeches were crawling on his twisted arm where the bone came through. There was a leech attached just under his left nostril where the b
lood trickled out, and Ringa watched the leech as it swelled to four times it normal size.
He went back to the jeep. Stopped. Listened. Got a wrench and came back. He held the light on Lefty with his left hand and smashed down on his head with the wrench. Five times he smashed and harder each time. Then he picked him up, carrying and dragging the dead weight across the ditch and into the heavy jungle and dumped him. He examined the jeep and found a dent in the front fender, then he drove very carefully back to the airforce billet.
In the morning he stayed in the shower for over a half an hour, then after breakfast he started for the headquarters. When he was about a block from the Colonel’s quarters he slid the jeep into a ditch. He walked to the Colonel’s quarters and knocked. The Colonel answered the door and Ringa saluted: “Colonel, sir, I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Yes, Bill,” the Colonel stood quiet.
“Some guy in a truck just run me off the road just a little way from here. Didn’t hurt the jeep much. The front fender a little. He was taking the whole road,” Ringa said sheepishly. “I couldn’t help it, sir.”
“Forget it,” the Colonel said. “Get it towed out. I’ll call the motor pool and have them let you use another one while they fix yours up,” the Colonel reassured him.
“Thank you, sir,” Ringa saluted smiling.
“By the way, take your time, Bill. I won’t need you this morning. I was called away last night and didn’t have a chance to talk to the Father. We’ll be here most of the morning,” the Colonel explained. “Be here at noon, though. We’re lunching with the airforce.”
“Yes, sir,” Ringa snapped. “Thank you, sir.”
The Colonel shut the door and Ringa walked jauntily down the stairs whistling. It wasn’t such a bad day as yesterday. He wondered what the priest and the Colonel were talking about. The Colonel sure was seeing a lot of people lately. Important people. The Colonel’s driver ought to know a little more about such things. The other fellows at base expected the Colonel’s driver to know the more important things.
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