South Pacific Affair

by Ed Lacy

  “What the hell is this, a handout?”

  “When a man is in need of a drink he should drink. Now be patient, I am very busy on this deal.”

  Henri left and I cooked a can of beans and went ashore. It was funny, maybe pathetic, to see the several hundred tourists decked out in flowers like walking corpses, haggling over trinkets, and then dumping dollars into the merchants' hands. My red beard was a big attraction and I must have been photographed a hundred times to the whispers of, “Look, a beachcomber!” Or: “He looks big enough to be an American.”

  All the bars were doing a big business and as I passed one a woman cried out with a slight drawl, “Herbert, you stop smiling at those nigga-gals!”

  I turned to see what this specimen looked like, and saw him. He was sitting alone at a table near the door, handsome face in profile toward me. He was wearing a new yachting cap at a rakish angle, a light blue silk jacket and a very white silk scarf knotted around his neck. He was toying with a lime and gin.

  It had to be Barry Kent. I knew that handsome face too well, and the outfit was exactly what he would wear. I wondered if Milly was with him. But somehow, from the way the empty chairs were close to the table, I knew he was alone. I stared at him for several uncertain minutes, wondering what I should do. He took out a pack of cigarettes and put the entire pack to his mouth, pulled the pack away, leaving a cigarette between his lips. That did it—it was Barry, all right; I'd seen him do that practiced movement too often.

  I saw myself in the dusty glass window of the bar. My sneakers were tom and without laces, my pants bleached a dirty tan by the sun and salt, my T-shirt was sweat-stained. My “yacht” cap was all out of shape, while my face looked as if a handful of red hair was hanging down over my chin. I looked exactly like what I was—a sea-going bum.

  Walking into the bar, I passed his table and he didn't recognize me. I came up behind him, swallowed, then asked as casually as I could, “Spare a cigarette, Barry?”

  I had to hand it to him, he didn't react the way I expected. He barely reacted at all—merely glanced up at me, his eyes widening a little but nothing else disturbing that groomed after-shaving-lotion face. Then he threw back his head and laughed, real deep laughter.

  I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Thought I looked a fright, not funny,” I said. ”

  “Ray Jundson! So this is where you've been staked out!” he said. His Dale Carnegie voice hadn't changed. “My God, I've looked all over the country for you, even hired a private dick. It's rather funny to stumble across you here! What are you doing in Tahiti?”

  “I didn't come on any cruise ship with a round trip ticket in my pocket,” I said, taking a cigarette out of his pack and lighting it. I still couldn't feel angry at the guy.

  He finished his drink, his eyes taking in all my torn and worn clothing. He held up his empty glass and I nodded. He ordered two. Barry said, “You look good. Weather-beaten face, body leaner. Just what are you doing here?”

  “Living the good life, the one we always bulled about. I'm a South Seas trader, with my own boat and all the rest of it. Or has the South Seas kick worn off for you?”

  “No, the dream is still there. Or I wouldn't be on this cruise. Ray, you really went and did it, like in the books?”

  “Yeah. The books were liars but it still is pretty good. I've even been to the house of Edmond Stewart.” The waiter put bur drinks before us and I grinned at Barry. “Like the old days, gassing about the islands over cocktails.”

  Barry pushed his hat back. “I can't believe it. Never thought you'd have the nerve.”

  “You gave me that,” I said, taking a drink. The gin was smooth and strong. “When I... uh ... found you and Milly, this seemed to be the ideal way of getting even. How is she?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “No, but how is she?”

  “Exactly as you left her, hard, tough, pushing. You know, Ray, I always thought of you as a good-natured dope. Not about Milly, but in general, a slob in a middle-class rut. But by God, you fixed me! I never thought you'd be here, living my dreams and ...”

  There was sincere envy in his voice and I enjoyed it. “Milly with you?”

  “Hell no, she certainly is not with me. Frankly, Ray, I kind of ran off. She's put me through a grinder this last year and when I lucked up on a small windfall, returned taxes, I simply chucked everything and left. Does she write you?”

  “Doesn't know where I am.”

  “You don't know she divorced you?”

  “Did she?”

  Barry slapped his hand on the table. “That bitch! Said she was in touch with you all the time. You were out west supposedly drinking your sorrow and getting ready to sue me, big scandal stuff. Milly even nicked me for a couple of grand to 'keep you quiet.' Then she insisted I get a divorce and marry her. I had to give my wife damn near every cent I had.”

  “This is mere curiosity—did you ever care for your wife, Barry?”

  “In a way. She was convenient, like a perfect maid. Ran my house exactly right, could be relied upon to say the correct things when we entertained. She was a wife in quotes, never came alive for me. Much as I hate Milly, in her own bitchy way she's real—all Milly. She secured a divorce, claimed with your consent—and by God, maybe her divorce isn't legal! Wire my lawyers to look into that. That would be the first piece of luck I've had since you pulled out.”

  “You and Milly are married?”

  He nodded. “Trapped would be a better word. She's got her hooks into everything I have, tied me up proper. Even pulled a phony pregnancy trick on me to make sure I married her. Milly is ... I didn't come to Tahiti to talk about Milly. Man, tell me the truth, how is it—really?”

  It took me a half a dozen drinks to tell him, and I told him pretty straight—about Olin and Buck and Forliga and Pella-Pella—puffing things up just a little, maybe forgetting about the copra stink and the bugs. Barry sopped it all up, envy on his face. And we both kept drinking gin and limes, were pretty crocked by the time I got around to Ruita.

  He said, “God, a beautiful girl and an island, too! But if you didn't know you were divorced how could you consider marrying her?”

  “Still have your suspicious mind, don't you Barry? Look, in the islands the marriage ceremony isn't important. People live together because they want to, not because a hunk of paper binds them together.”

  “But are you married to her or not?”

  “That is a question I've been trying to decide myself,” I said, staring at his expensive yacht cap: where the gold anchor was I saw a small TV screen and on the screen was the scene of Barry and Milly in my bed, me merely turning and walking out of the room without hitting him. I kept watching this scene, over and over, right on his cap—and knowing I was damn drunk—as I tried to explain my doubts about settling down with Ruita.

  When I finished, Barry stood up and swayed as he fought to keep his balance, announced, “Ray, you've been selling me a crock of bull. You have a dream girl on a beautiful island but you're worried about too much quiet! Know what I think? You haven't a boat, haven't a damn thing! You're on the bum here. By God� bet you've only been here a few days at that, probably thrown off some tramp freighter!”

  When he stood it was hard for me to see the scene on his cap. I stood up too, said, “Okay, I'll show you my boat. Pay for the drinks, executive.” Now the scene came into sharp focus. Barry on his stomach, Milly sitting up and saying, 'Well, Ray?' What a stupid, pained look on my puss as I turned and left the room, like a noble motion picture gentleman.

  Barry called the Chinese waiter over, grandly waved a twenty-dollar bill in his face as he said, “Here, keep the change. I know you're overcharging me, but I'd do the same if I was in your place. All right, let's see the alleged boat.”

  We staggered out into the street and down to the docks, holding onto each other like queers, for balance. We were the subject of much local giggling and camera snapping.

  “You still can't hold your l
iquor.” He took off the cap. “Stop staring at it. Here, I'll make you a present of it.”

  When he took the cap off my little private TV screen disappeared and I shouted, “No! Wear it. Damn it, Barry, put that cap on!”

  “Afraid I'll get sunstroke? Trade it for your cap.”

  I pushed his hand away from my head and he put his cap on, with a mock bow which nearly upset the both of us as he said, “Aye, aye, Captain. Ahoy, Captain. Captain Ray Jundson of Papeete—oh, God!”

  Soon as he put the cap at an angle, the tiny TV scene returned.

  The sun was dropping and it was fairly cool when we reached the quay. As we staggered up the gangplank of the Hooker I said proudly, “This is mine. Finest cutter afloat.”

  As if caressing a woman, Barry wandered around the ship, feeling the wheel, touching the rigging, the sails, looking into the cabin. He kept mumbling, “My, my, what a sweet job I Oh, what a honey!” Then he said loudly, curtly, “Ray, you're a lying swine. This can't be yours!”

  “Ill show you the papers,” I said, but Barry had walked off the gangplank and was standing on the quay, where he had a full view of the cutter's lines. He sat down and held his knees, stared at the Hooker.

  I staggered over. He was weeping. I sat beside him, so I could see the scene on his cap again, and asked, “You sick?”

  “Sick with jealousy,” Barry said, drunken tears slopping down his handsome face. “Listen to me, Ray, I have some money, let me stay here as your partner!”

  “Already have a partner. As for money, I tore up a check for fifty grand yesterday—no—that was over a month ago. A long lousy month!”

  “Ray, I'm sick of the States. Everything is all double-talk. Ray, we can buy a larger ship, a—”

  I shook my head and it almost came off. I hadn't had any gin in a long time and it was really kicking me. I was having a hard time keeping Barry's cap in focus; the picture of myself being so smart and noble. The perfect sap in...

  “Ray, you're not even listening to me. With my money we can get a better boat, do more business.”

  “I don't want a bigger boat and there isn't any better. Barry, go back to Chicago where you belong.”

  “Who the hell are you to tell me where I belong? Ray, please, maybe I can get a native girl and then the four...?”

  On this cap my face suddenly filled the screen, a close-up reflecting the painful resignation, the stupid cuckolded husband walking away from it all.

  I vaguely heard myself mumbling, “They are islanders, never call them natives...” Then I couldn't stand the picture of myself any longer: I swung on Barry.

  Even though I was sitting I managed to get enough weight behind the blow to knock him sideways. His lips were bloody as he scrambled to his feet. Barry looked fantastically big and tall standing over me, yelling, “Get up, you dumb bastard!”

  I started to get up. Something exploded on my right eye. I fell on my back. The punch rattled my brains, sobered me up. Of course there weren't any more pictures on his cap.

  Getting half-way up, I tackled Barry and we rolled over and over, throwing short punches at each other. I tasted blood in my mouth but blood was running from his nose and mouth, his fancy scarf was ripped, his hair was mussed—the first time I could remember seeing it that way; even in bed it had been perfectly combed—and above all, the panic in Barry's eyes was the sweetest thing I ever saw.

  Even though we were both puffing and grunting, I knew I was in better shape—till Barry got a knee working in my stomach and I blacked out for a split second. I vomited up all the lime and gins, over the both of us, and had a moment of wild relief as I got my shoulders off the sand and belted Barry on the nose.

  Blood spread over the lower part of his face and he rolled off me, gasped, “Okay, Ray, I've had it.”

  We lay flat on our backs, breathing hard. Oddly enough, not a soul was standing around or watching us. Barry stuffed the torn ends of his scarf up his nose to stop the bleeding. “What did I say that was wrong? What started this?”

  “I've been thinking about smacking you for a long time. This is what I should have done when I found you with Milly.”

  He shook his head and a little blood started from his stuffed nose. “I don't get it. Even if you felt that way, what's the point in slugging me now?”

  “Has a lot of point, for me. Trite as this may sound, now that I've hit you there's a big load off my chest.”

  Barry said, “Oh, for Chrissakes, this climate is softening your head!” and got to his feet. “Where can I wash up? Use the bathroom on your boat?”

  “The bathroom on my boat is right here,” I told him, pointing to the water's edge.

  We washed our heads and faces, went aboard the Hooker and made some bad coffee. My eyes was turning purple and my lower lip was puffed, while Barry couldn't stop the blood trickling from his nose, had a bruise on his cheek, a nasty cut on his forehead, plus a torn shirt and scarf. When we finished our coffee he said, “I have to buy some clothes, cant go back like this.”

  “Why not? You'll be the hero of the cruise, battled a beachcomber and all that derelict stuff.”

  He said, “Ray, you know you've become a mean bastard?”

  “No, I never could get mean enough, I guess. Look, to buy clothes you'll have to go to a Chinese store, the others will be shut by now. Come on, I'll show you.”

  I took him down through one of the Chinese streets. He bought a white sport shirt and a new cap, threw his old ones away. We stopped for a sandwich and more coffee. When we hit the street I told him, “I have to return to the ship, expecting a joker on a deal.” And I thought how hysterical it would be if Henri's sucker turned out to be Barry.

  Kent said, “Look here, Ray, I may have been drunk awhile back, but I meant that about going in with you.”

  “No dice. Hell, nobody stopping you from going to the States, taking what cash you have and returning.”

  “It wouldn't work. I'd have to make the break now or never.”

  “That's right,” I told him, “and for you it will be never. Just as well. You're not ready for anything but armchair sailing.”

  “Damn, you've become a smug bastard as well as a mean sonofabitch!”

  I laughed at him. “I been eating crow for a long year, maybe all my life. Let me be smug for tonight.”

  Barry told me to do something to myself and walked away. From the rear, in his new clothes, he looked as smooth and confident as ever.

  Chapter X

  I walked back to the quay, feeling jerky, childish... and wonderful. As I approached the Hooker I saw two men standing beside the gangplank. As it was growing dark I couldn't make them out, but a second later Henri called out in his tourist special thick accent, “Ah, Cap-a-tan Ray, there you are!”

  He had a tall stout man in tow who looked in his late fifties and everything about him—the carefully brushed silver-grey hair, well-fed pink face, seersucker suit, and thin nylon shirt—shouted money, folding money.

  I said, “Hello, Henri. Come aboard,” and walked up the gangplank ahead of them.

  In this cockeyed broken English Dubon said, “Cap-a-tan, I am tres glad to zee you. You have been in zee fights?”

  “Nothing much. Who's your friend?”

  Henri hit himself across the chest and bowed to the stout man. “Excuse my man-hairs I Cap-a-tan Ray, these is most good friend of mine, Monsieur Brad Randall. He, too, is from zee America.”

  We shook hands and Randall said, “We Americans sure get around. Thought Dubon was stringing me when he said there was a Yankee running a trading schooner here.”

  “Not exactly a schooner but a good enough boat. What business are you in, Mr. Randall?”

  “Hardware.”

  “Don't say. If you have any goods with you, nails, hammers, pliers, screws—all good for trading in the islands.”

  Randall slipped me a deep chuckle. “I also sell sporting goods and you look like a prospect for a headguard—or is the other guy cut worse?”


  “Guess it was a draw. Seriously, if you have goods...”

  Again the chuckle that rocked his stomach. “This is strictly a vacation trip for me. I was having a drink with Dubon here and he mentioned this island that...”

  I cut him off by turning on Henri, asking, “What you telling people about that island for?”

  “I do wrong? Monsieur Randall is most interested in zee islands. So I happen to say zee petit island you tell me.”

  Randall asked anxiously, “It is true, isn't it—this untouched island?”

  “Yes. Nothing there but a few people. No copra or shell to make it worthwhile for trading. It's off a larger island, but regarded as taboo for some reason, so the islet people are rarely visited, and of course never by a ship. I heard about it by pure accident.”