He walked out, and I returned to complete this page of my log. The ship is rolling worse than ever, and we are lucky to be in a modern tanker; liquid cargo has never been easy to transport by sea, but I’m guessing it was considerably worse twenty or thirty years ago.
And so another day ends, another begins. As we used to say: one more and one less.
SLUG JACOBS
Fireman
Slug Jacobs shuffled into the mess room and stared blankly at the night lunch. Cheese. Every night there was cheese. He picked up a slice of bread, buttered it thickly, and then turned over each piece of cheese until he found the largest and placed that carefully on the bread. He buttered another slice, and added another piece of cheese. Then he sat down at the table and began to eat.
Mahoney came in and joined him, drawing a cup of coffee, and drinking it in gulps. He looked up, staring at Slug. “What happened?”
“Huh?”
“I said, what happened? Yesterday.”
“Nothin’.”
“Yeah?” Mahoney was sarcastic. “I heard you near to got your guts cut out.”
“Aw, nothin’, nothin’. The Jones kid got smart. I tol’ him off, an’ I was goin’ t’ git him. Then Tex, he butt in. He had a knife.”
“An’ you was scared, huh? Whyn’t you hit him with the catsup bottle? You’re yella, that’s what. A big guy like you. That Jones, he’s McGuire’s fair-haired boy. Now, you gots to be scared of McGuire—he’s the tough guy in that crowd. He’s the one that’ll get you!”
“I ain’t scared of him,” Slug said defensively. “He ain’t so big.”
“He’s going to get you, Slug. You better watch him. That guy’ll kill you.”
Mahoney stopped talking as Pete came in, followed by Shorty. The two newcomers didn’t speak, but Mahoney glared at Pete. “Hi, Dutchie,” he said. “What’s the matter? Gettin’ the high hat?”
“This is goot ship, Mahoney. I know you, ant I know him.” Pete pointed at Jacobs. “I do not like fighting on ship. It is not right for shipmates to fight. Unt you look for troubles. You leaf me be, ya?”
They stared at each other for a minute, Pete very calm, very cool. There was no emotion on his face or in his eyes. Then he turned and walked out to the deck, buttoning on his oilskins.
“That’s good advice, Mahoney,” Shorty said. “The Dutchman is nobody to fool with.”
“Yeah? I’ll kill that bastard if he ever gets guts enough to fight!”
Shorty laughed. “Like you did with McGuire, huh?”
Mahoney got to his feet, his eyes gleaming. “Smart, huh? Everyone tellin’ me what to do.” He stepped past the table and came for Shorty.
Conrad crouched, his face white and tense. As Mahoney closed in, Conrad swung. The Irishman ducked low and kicked out. His foot caught Shorty in the groin, and the little seaman’s face went white. He clinched desperately, and then Mahoney jerked free and hooked his right fist hard to Shorty’s head.
Conrad gamely struggled to keep his feet. He tried a left that struck the Irishman’s mouth. Mahoney took it staggering, but before Conrad could follow it up, Jacobs stepped up behind him and slugged him behind the ear. Shorty tumbled to the floor, and Mahoney kicked and kicked again. Then the two backed into the passage, Mahoney swearing, dabbing at the blood on his lip. “That’ll show the bastards!” he muttered. “That’ll show ’em.”
* * *
—
John Harlan came up the ladder to the bridge, then walked into the chart room with Mr. Wesley. When they had finished estimating the ship’s position, taking into account the weather and the time since their last fix, Wesley came out and went down the ladder. Harlan walked over to the wheel. “How’s everything, Brouwer?”
“Ever’t’ing okay by me,” Pete said.
Harlan stepped out on the bridge, the wind striking him like a blow. Bending into the blast, he reached the canvas dodger. He looked over at Denny. Then he ran down the bridge wing as the ship tilted to port. “Where’s Conrad?” he shouted.
Denny shrugged. “Can’t imagine,” he yelled. He leaned closer. “Thought I saw a light off to port, about three points on the bow.”
For a tense minute they stared, but nothing revealed itself. Then Harlan turned and made his way into the wheelhouse. Pete looked up from the compass.
“Where’s Conrad?” Harlan asked. “It’s not like him to be late.”
Pete shook his head. “Ve vuss toget’er in t’e mess room, unt—” He stopped, and his face stiffened. “Maybe t’ere is trouble—he vuss mit Mahoney unt Yacobs vhen I left.”
John Harlan’s eyes narrowed. He stepped to the door and blew his whistle. McGuire was unable to hear his voice with the wind blowing as it was, but the sound brought him down the bridge as it canted steeply. “Yes, sir?”
“Go below and have a look for Shorty,” Harlan said. “Brouwer says he was in the mess room with Mahoney and Jacobs. They should be on now, but watch your step.”
Denny wheeled swiftly and dropped down the ladder. Clinging to the rail of the catwalk, he hurried aft. Water boiled and seethed around the pipes beneath his feet. To let go even for a minute might mean being thrown into the turmoil of water on the main deck. He was almost running when he reached the passage to the mess room. Shorty was sitting up when he got to the door. “What the hell?” Denny demanded. “Who did this?”
Shorty tried to stand, his face bloody and drawn with pain. “Mahoney. Then Jacobs slugged me from behind.”
Denny glanced back up the passage toward the entrance to the boiler room. “They go on watch?”
“Yeah,” Shorty nodded. “I guess so.”
“Then they got four hours,” Denny said. “How you feeling? Can you stand your trick?”
“Uh-huh. Yeah, I think so. I was doing okay until Jacobs slugged me.”
“Okay, you beat it for’rd.”
When Shorty left, Denny sat down suddenly. Ever since they shipped it had been coming. Left alone, Jacobs was too dumb to be truly dangerous, but the stocky, hard-bitten Mahoney kept him stirred up. Well, tomorrow was another day, and sooner or later things were going to have to be worked out. Denny got up and turned toward the fo’c’stle.
* * *
—
Slug Jacobs scrubbed at a burner, an isolated figure in the bottom of the tall, dimly lit stokehole. Behind him the fires roared from the fans of the forced draft. Steam pressure from the boilers turned the giant turbine that powered the ship. The burners had to be clean or they would drip and build up uncombusted oil. Then they wouldn’t work right and were even more of a mess to clean up. The second engineer didn’t tolerate mess. He didn’t tolerate uneven steam pressure either. Slug scrubbed harder. In a minute he’d have to check the fireboxes.
He set down the wire brush and opened and closed his fist. The scar on the back of his hand was no longer tight. He peered at it, dimly, then more clearly, remembering how it had happened…
* * *
—
He had come out of the woods at a shambling trot, stopping in a fringe of brush to stare at the road. He was wearing an old cracked leather jacket and khaki trousers, a battered felt hat on his head. He had slept outside the night before, and had traveled rapidly, keeping under the cover of darkness or brush most of the way.
Forty miles behind him, lying in a lonely farmhouse, was an old man. Slug had left him crumpled on the floor, his head crushed by the violence of a blow intended only to knock him out. For several minutes, Slug had stood staring dumbly at the slow red stream welling from the man’s skull. He licked his dry lips, and his big hands opened and closed.
The old man had come home while Slug was ransacking the place, looking for money. He hadn’t found any, and he couldn’t bring himself to check the old man’s pockets.
Turning, he fled. With animal cunning, he stayed off the highw
ays after that first ride. The driver had carried him ten miles, and then Slug had taken to the woods, hiking southward just out of sight within the line of brush and trees.
A creek blocked his way. He climbed the steep grade to the hard-surfaced road and, seeing nothing, started walking swiftly. From time to time he looked back, feeling exposed. Somewhere behind him, he heard the whine of a distant car. Dropping swiftly over the edge of the grade, he sought shelter in a culvert, and remained there, hunched and tense, until the car passed. Then he crawled out and started on. Later, when the traffic grew heavier, he curled up in the brush and slept through the day.
At dusk, he awakened and started on. It was heavy going, over plowed fields and through gullies. From time to time there was a fence to climb through. And it was already dark when he saw the light.
He started toward it. There was no one in sight. A small house located a quarter of a mile back from the highway. For a time he crouched behind some rosebushes and watched the building. There was no car nearby and apparently no dog.
The door opened, throwing a sharp rectangle of light across the yard and silhouetting the pump under a flat roofed shelter. Then a girl came from the house carrying a bucket. When she bent to work the pump handle, her dress drew tight across her hips, and Slug shifted uneasily in the darkness. Then the girl straightened, took her bucket of water, and walked back to the house.
Careful to make no sound, Slug Jacobs started forward. The earth was soft and moist, the darkness wrapped around him like a cloak. He stopped before stepping onto the small platform at the back door, and peered through the dirty pane of glass. The girl was alone and setting the table. He stared, the thoughts of food competing with other, and less understood, desires. Then he opened the door. He was just stepping inside when the girl looked up.
Her eyes widened and she straightened. Obviously, she was frightened. Slug stopped, in the bright light his small eyes blinked. Bits of leaves and grass clung to his clothes, and on his sleeve there were some flecks of blood from the old man’s head.
“Who—who are you? What do you mean, coming in here like that?” The girl’s voice was surprisingly steady, and Slug stared, wetting his lips.
“You’re purty,” Slug said. Then, not knowing how to go on from there, “I’m hungry. Gi’ me somethin’ t’ eat.”
“You get out of here, and get out right now!”
“C’mere,” he said.
He started for her, and she stepped back. He grabbed, and her sleeve tore, ripping her dress over one white, rounded breast. He lunged, but she jerked a drawer open, and before he guessed what was happening, he found a gun pointed at him.
He stopped, surprised. “You put that down,” he said. “You put that down or I’ll hurt you!”
Her hand was steady. “Get out,” she said. “Get out of here and stay out or I’ll shoot!”
He started toward her. “No you won’t,” he said, grabbing at her again. She swung around the table, and the little gun spat.
With a cry, he leaped back. Blood was running from the back of his hand where the bullet had cut a groove across it. He stared, whimpering like a hurt child.
“Now get out,” the girl said. “Get out quick!”
Stumbling, he backed toward the door, and when he was safely outside in the darkness, he turned and ran. Twice, he stopped to stare back at the house and to touch his wounded hand to his mouth. Then he ran on into the darkness.
* * *
—
It was nearly dawn when the truck picked him up outside of Bakersfield. Slug had been riding half the night in an empty boxcar, and then had walked a couple of miles. The big truck ground to a halt, and the driver motioned him up. “Might as well ride,” he said, grinning. “I need somebody to keep me awake. I been drivin’ sixteen hours straight now. The name’s Mike.”
“T’anks. Gees, I sure am glad for the ride. I been hoofin’ it too long.”
“Here”—the driver fished an apple from a sack near him—“eat this.”
“Yeah, t’anks. I sure am hungry. I ain’t eat nothin’ all day. No, two days.”
“Come far?”
“Uh-huh.” Slug bit off a big mouthful of apple, and nodded. “From Truckee.”
* * *
—
Eventually, the outskirts of Bakersfield appeared, and they drove down the streets in the first light of morning. The sky was very clear, and the buildings stood stark in the morning air. A woman was buying some cabbages from a man with an old truck. A boy in a white apron was sweeping the walk in front of a café with a small neon sign.
“Listen,” Mike said, “you want to make four bits? I ain’t makin’ much wit’ this buggy, but if you want to help me unload I’ll give you half a buck an’ buy you breakfast.”
“Sure t’ing. I’ll help. Gees, four bits is a lot of dough when a guy’s flat.”
“Okay, then. Let’s eat.”
In a swirl of dust the truck drew to a stop in the lot beside the café and the two climbed down, stamping about to loosen their stiffened legs. The driver looked worn and tired. They walked inside.
“Give me a stack of wheats an’ coffee,” Mike said. “An’ let me have the coffee right now.” He turned to Slug. “What’ll you have?”
“Okay, the same.” Slug rubbed his face sleepily. His new friend gulped the scalding coffee and stared blankly at the deflated-looking frosted snails and bear claws in the chrome and glass display cabinet. A man in overalls was eating at the far end of the counter. He held a morning paper, half-propped against a catsup bottle.
He looked up at the cook. “Hey, Joe”—he pointed at the paper—“a murder up by Lodi. Somebody bashed an old man’s skull in.”
“Yeah? Rob him?”
“Hell, no! Just wanted to kiss him, I guess.” The man took a swallow of coffee. “The guy didn’t have nothin’ anyway. It was some drifter, they think.”
Slug turned his head on his thick neck and stared impassively at the man. The trucker was paying no attention. The man with the paper had a thin face and a long nose. He took a swallow of coffee. “Hit him with tremendous force, the paper says. What d’ you think of that? A man ain’t safe nowhere these days!”
Slug Jacobs drenched his hotcakes with syrup and cut off a healthy chunk. He ate silently, listening to the man reading the paper only in intervals. Finally, Mike nudged him. “Let’s go,” he said. “We got to take this stuff across town yet. We better get started.”
The truck roared into life and pulled back into the street. “Hear what that guy was readin’?” Mike commented. “Some ol’ guy got killed up near Lodi.”
Slug said nothing for a moment, then, “I wonner—I wonner who done it.”
“They don’t know, I guess.”
The truck backed up to a loading bay and stopped. The driver set the brake. “Here we go, pal. We got a lot of wheat to unload.”
When the truck was opened Slug stepped inside and picked up a sack in each hand, carrying them by the loose fabric at the top. Mike stared. “Boy, you’re sure husky. I wish I had you with me all the time!”
“Huh?” Slug looked puzzled. Then he looked down at the sacks. “Oh? Yeah, yeah.” He walked on inside with the two sacks, and continued carrying two to the trucker’s one until the big trailer was emptied. Then he stopped and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. He wasn’t tired. He liked to work.
“Listen, pal.” The truck driver tapped him on the shoulder. “Why not stick with me. I got a load for L.A.”
“Me? Yeah, all right.” He walked into the truck and kicked some old sacks together. “I want to sleep. When you’re ready, holler.”
Late that evening he left the truck in Los Angeles, and crept down the side streets until he reached Main. Mike had given him another dollar when they parted. The trucker had a load to drive to Long Beach, bu
t that wasn’t for two days and Slug wanted to keep moving. He ate in a grease joint, and then caught the Pacific Electric for San Pedro.
Beacon Street was bright with lights when he crossed from the PE station and started for the Shanghai Red Cafe. The Salvation Army was on the corner singing to a group of weather-beaten drifters and waterfront characters. Most of the seamen kept moving. Slug stopped for a few minutes, and then when a cop came along, he turned and wandered off. In the morning he would register at the Slave Market, and maybe he could pick up a ship. He’d only been ashore two months from his last trip. After he had a drink he would walk over to Happy Valley and find Fitzpatrick; he always had a plan to strong-arm some money out of someone.
* * *
—
Slug worked methodically, checking the fireboxes, breaking up masses of congealed oil with a long bar. His big body moved easily with the roll of the ship. The wound on his hand was healed now, and the old man in the lonely farmhouse near Lodi almost forgotten.
Mahoney came over at four bells. Slug looked up to see Mahoney’s hard eyes watching him. Underneath it all, even while he believed Mahoney to be his friend, there was something about his short, blocky body and square jaw, blue with beard, that reminded him of someone who had once made him afraid.
“You better watch your step when you go up top,” Mahoney told him. “McGuire’ll get you. He’s tellin’ ever’body he’ll kill you if he gets a chance. You better get him first.”
“Aw”—Slug was worried, but doubtful—“he won’t do nothin’. He ain’t said nothin’ to me. Maybe I shouldn’t a hit Shorty. I don’t know.”
“You pigheaded fool! You goin’ to let them run over you an’ make fun of you all the time? Mr. Full-of-His-Self McGuire’s sayin’ you’re stupid and useless. He’s just waitin’, that’s all. He’ll just wait until you come on top some night an’ then dump you over the side. Don’t be a sap all your life! A big, husky guy like you, afraid of him?”
No Traveller Returns (Lost Treasures) Page 16