by Randy Salem
She paid the man and went to the phone booth at the back of the shop. She dropped a dime in the slot and dialed Max's number.
After the tenth ring a voice croaked, "Yeah?"
"Max? This is Chris Hamilton."
"Where are you?"
"Downstairs."
"You got money?"
"Yes, I've got money."
"C'mon up."
Chris hung up the phone and left the store. She walked faster now, the headache for the moment forgotten.
CHAPTER 8
Chris turned left on Bedford and into the entrance of an apartment house next to an Italian grocery. White X’s on some of the windows marked the building condemned. In the store the fat grocer was exclaiming loudly in broken English about how he'd been here thirty years. His fat wife singsonged in mawkish chorus.
Inside was the smell of thirty years of garlic and more years of cabbage and grease and no garbage cans. The floor was grey with filth and smudged where someone had tracked a dog turd down the hall and up the stairs. Somebody else or maybe the same somebody had puked here long ago. The yellowish mess had dried to a crust on the wall and floor. A little boy stood among the ruins in grave dignity, relieving himself against the wall.
Chris swallowed hard. Every year it got worse. The first time she'd come here it was like being dropped into a garbage dump in July. That was eight years ago. There were no words anymore.
She climbed to the fifth floor and stopped at apartment twenty-one. Of all the dirty doors in the building, this was the dirtiest. She knew neither it nor the rooms inside had been cleaned in the eight years Max had had the place.
She bumped the door a couple of times with her foot. The door opened almost immediately.
Max Petersen was in his early fifties, a six-foot, potbellied, hairy, ape-like man. He had been handsome once, but now the tiny veins beneath his cheeks and around his eyes had broken and he looked like a sick purple chimpanzee. At the moment he was wearing a pair of filthy black trousers with a broken zipper, an undershirt and a thick stubble of beard.
Max swung open the door and bowed from the waist. "Chris, good to see you."
Chris took two steps into the room and stopped. Behind Max on the cot was a fat blonde in a brassiere. She was clutching the neck of a gin bottle in one hand. She was about twenty and had gorgeous green eyes.
The blonde looked straight back at Chris. She lifted the bottle and took a long drink. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.
"Excuse me," Chris said.
Max whirled to face the blonde. "For Pete's sake, Jennie, get some clothes on," he said savagely.
Jennie belched out a coarse sound. "What the hell for? That big dyke." She laughed nastily. "She's seen plenty o' this before."
"She didn't come here to look at you," Max said. "We got business to discuss."
Jennie got off the couch and came toward Chris, swinging the gin bottle. "How about it, handsome? I bet you'd rather talk business with me, huh?"
The smell of gin and sex and perspiration hung over the girl like a cloud. It moved with her as she sidled across the room. It surrounded the two of them as she came up to Chris and rubbed against her.
Chris flushed deeply. She had been approached by women like Jennie before, but never quite like this. Never with a straight man for an audience. Certainly not when the guy was the woman's lover and no doubt paying for her services. But she knew she had to be calm about it, not take the damn slut and bat her around like she deserved. She had to be polite about it.
Chris put three fingers on each of Jennie's shoulders and pushed her gently away. "No, thanks," she said.
"Big dumb bastard," Jennie said. "Big dumb bastard."
Max slammed the door behind Chris. He approached Jennie. His arm went up and back. The huge hand caught Jennie on the side of the head. She screamed and dropped the bottle. It smashed and the gin soaked into the bare wooden floor.
Jennie glared at Max with hatred. "Big dumb bastard," she said.
Max grabbed her by the shoulders and propelled her toward a door at the other end of the apartment.
"Now get out of here," he said.
Jennie went into the other room and slammed the door. "Big dumb bastards," she yelled.
Max pushed the broken bottle under the sink with his foot. It brushed against a paper bag. A plump cockroach emerged and scuttled away across the floor.
"I'm sorry about that, Chris," Max said. "She's not very bright."
"Or very sober," Chris added. "Forget it."
Max pushed some rags that were probably clothes off a chair to the floor. He turned to Chris. "Sit down."
"Thanks," she said. She sat down without looking at the chair. It was easier that way. "Jonathan tells me you've got something that might interest us."
Max snorted. "What do you mean, might?"
Max pulled out a second chair and sat down by the table. He pulled a bottle toward him. "Drink?" he said.
"No, thanks," Chris said. "I'm on the wagon as of this morning's hangover."
"Wish I could say the same," he sighed. "It gets you after awhile." He poured some of the syrupy liquid into a glass with something on the bottom that looked like black coffee. He took a long drink.
Chris waited for a minute, then said, "So what have you got?"
Max leaned his chin on one hand and looked her straight in the eyes. "Ever seen a Glory-of-the-Seas?" he asked.
"Once, in a museum," she said. "There are only a couple of dozen of them around."
"Supposing I told you where you can find hundreds, maybe more?" Max said.
Chris felt an irresistible surge of curiosity. "Well," she said cautiously, "I might tell you you're drunk. Nobody's seen one alive since 1838. Or do you mean you've found the graveyard where all good little Glories went to die?"
"Alive, my dear, alive."
"Hundreds or more?" Chris said. "Alive? Let's hear it, Max."
Max leaned back against the chair. "Got a cigarette?”
Chris handed him one and held out a match. She left the pack on the table.
"Did you ever hear of a place called Tongariva?" he asked.
"Vaguely," she answered. “I could probably find it on a map."
He took a deep drag on the cigarette. "It's a small island in the south Pacific. It makes a triangle like this." He traced a triangle in the dust on the table top. "Here's Pago Pago, here's Tahiti," he pointed. "And up here at the top is Tongariva."
“I get the picture," Chris said. "So what? You know as well as I do that shell's only been found around the Philippines."
"That's ancient history," Max said.
"I'm listening."
“I'm telling you," he said. "I was working on a freighter out of Valparaiso. This is about six months back. We hit a storm—it was March tenth, in fact. Well, anyhow, we got blown off course and the damned boiler blew up. We had to pull into Tongariva to make repairs." He stopped to fill the glass again. "Still interested?”
"Go on, Max," Chris said.
"Well, the island itself didn't amount to much. But we had some of the natives helping us on the ship for a couple of days. One of them had this shell on a cord around his neck. Like a hunk of jewelry. I thought it was a Glory, but I couldn't believe it till I got him to take it off and let me have a look at it."
Chris picked up the pack of matches and began turning it over slowly in her fingers. She was no longer looking at Max. In the back of her mind she was already calculating how best to present this to Jonathan.
"Sure as hell," Max said, "there it was. You should have seen it, Chris." His eyes mellowed. "A big one, at least five inches. A pink pearly lip, perfect smooth. And deep brown flecks and tan, with a rich warm gold." He was silent for a minute. "I've seen three in my time," he went on, "but this was the most beautiful."
"You're sure, Max?" Chris said.
"Damn it, of course I'm sure. I knew this business before you were born, kid," he said angrily, "and don't you forget it."
"Okay, okay. Take it easy."
He took another drink.
Chris stirred restlessly in her chair and shifted her feet. She wanted him to go on.
Max burped and then continued. “I could make a little talk-talk with the natives. This one had picked up some pidgin English at Tahiti, so between us we managed. He told me that in a kind of lagoon off the southwest of the island were lots of these beautiful creatures. He said, 'Hull lot, like stars in sky!"'
"You just saw the one?" Chris asked.
"Yeah, sure. But this guy had nothing to gain by lying to me, after all," Max said. "He's not up on the par value of shells."
That sounded reasonable. "Go on," Chris said.
"There's not much more," he said. "Except that I went for a look at this lagoon. It's there, all right. I cruised the shore. Kicked up sand and looked under, rocks. I didn't find any of the shells."
"But you didn't do any diving?" Chris said. She took a cigarette from the pack and lit it. She saw that her fingers were trembling and she knew she was more excited than she wanted Max to realize.
"No."
"So, in other words, if I go chasing off to Tongariva, it's possible that the only Glory I'll see is hanging around a native's neck on a cord."
"You don't believe that, Chris. Any more than I do," Max said. He wiped his nose on the back of his arm. "It's not very likely this native picked up the only Glory in the whole damned Pacific."
"I'm the cautious type."
"Look, according to this native, he found these things in the lagoon when he was out diving for oysters. He picked one up because it was pretty." He spread his hands. "They like trinkets and beads and stuff. You know. And if the animals were fit to eat, every native on the island would have a string of those shells around his neck. But they use other things, mostly cones, from snails they can eat. I don't have to tell you they don't have museums out there."
Chris smiled. She was inclined to agree with Max, as usual. He'd never been wrong yet. "Okay," she said, “I’ll buy that. What can you tell me about the lagoon?"
Max nodded. "I checked on that. As far as I could find out, it's pretty good for diving. A lot of coral and rock, but you're used to that. It's cut off from the open sea by a reef, so there's not much chance you'll run into anything dangerous."
Chris dropped the cigarette onto the floor and ground it out with her toe. There wasn't an ashtray in the place.
"It sounds okay," she said.
She stood up. She reached into her inside pocket and took out the wad of bills. She dropped it on the table.
"Five hundred," she said.
"You ought to be able to do better than that," Max said.
She shook her head. "Nothing doing," she said. "Brandt told you what we'd pay."
Chris heard the door open at the other end of the room and looked toward it. Jennie came out and stood, leaning against the jamb. She had added a pair of black lace panties to her costume.
Max folded his hand over the wad of bills and moved it to his pants' pocket. "Get the hell outta here," he said to the girl.
"Oh, shut up. Who needs you?" Jennie said. She was sober now, and nasty. She kept looking at Chris, her eyes slowly and appreciatively sizing her up. She closed one eye in an elaborate wink. She stood waiting for a reaction.
Chris wanted to turn and run away from the stench of Jennie, away from this filthy apartment and this degraded man.
Chris turned to look at Max. "Thanks,'' she said. "See you in about a year, I guess."
"Yeah," Max said. He got up from the chair and started toward the door.
"Leavin' so soon, big boy?" Jennie said to Chris. "Wait a minute and I'll go with you."
Chris felt her ears go hot. She knew they would be blazing red. She did not turn around.
Max stood facing the two of them, a malicious smirk in his bleary eyes. He watched Jennie undulate across the room to stand behind Chris.
Chris went rigid as Jennie's arms crept around her from behind. She felt the forehead against her back, the breasts, the thighs. Jennie's hands started at Chris' shoulders and began to trace down the outline of her body.
"I can show you a good time, big boy," the girl said in a throaty whisper.
Chris felt the cloud of gin and stench surrounding her. She gagged with revulsion deep inside herself. She reached up and grabbed the girl by the wrists and leaned forward sharply to propel the body away from her.
"Bastard," Jennie snarled.
Chris walked to the door, then stopped and turned to look at the girl. She grinned broadly. "Big dumb bastard," she said.
Max opened the door. "So long, Chris," he said.
"Right," Chris said. She went out through the doorway and beard a slam behind her. Then a slap. Then a scream.
Chris smiled to herself and shook her head sadly. It pained her to think that a guy like Max could get so fouled up on whiskey and women.
But she couldn't be bothered with philosophy. She had work to do. Jonathan was waiting to hear from her. And he'd take a lot of convincing.
CHAPTER 9
By the time she reached the street, Chris had already figured out most of the twenty questions Jonathan would ask her. And for most of them she had answers. But there were a couple of details she knew she'd better check on.
For all she knew Max might have invented the whole thing. He might never have seen Tongariva except on a map. She had nothing to go on except the story he'd told her. And Jonathan, before he doled out the museum's cash for an expedition, would want more than that.
Not that she didn't trust Max. She did, or at least she almost did. Max had an uncanny way of hitting on things like the black pearl and the Glory-of-the-Seas, born out of a combination of curiosity and greed. As long as the curiosity remained the stronger, Chris could depend on Max and expect to find whatever he sent her after. But for years now she'd been waiting for him to slip, to invent something plausibly fantastic for the sake of a fast buck.
At the comer Chris picked up a late edition and dropped a nickel on the pile of papers. She walked rapidly back to the luncheonette and went inside. She took a seat at the counter.
"Coffee," she said.
"Reg'lar?"
"Yes."
She leafed through the paper from the back, then folded it open at the shipping news. She checked quickly down the list. Only one South American freighter had made port this morning. The Bolivar. Now all she had to do was find a sailor who had been on board.
Chris swallowed the coffee in three gulps and went back out to the street. She tossed the paper into a trash basket and hailed a cab.
Ten minutes later the cab stopped on South Street, in front of the Seamen's Home. Chris got out and hurried under the figurehead of Sir Galahad and inside. Emery Turtle was at the desk. He had helped her often before; had found her an assistant diver for the Tortugas deal.
"Good afternoon, Miss Hamilton," Emery said.
"Hello, Emery," Chris answered. She put her elbows the desk and leaned across, speaking quietly. "Emery," said, "I need some help for a change. I want to talk to somebody who shipped in on the Bolivar this morning."
"The Bolivar? Let me see now." Emery pulled out a heavy black book from the shelf under the desk. He opened it near the middle and ran a stubby finger down the list of names. He looked up at Chris. "Yes," he said. "We have a man here named, he says, Davy Jones." Emery made a face that indicated he had at least one Davy Jones around all the time.
"Can you get him down here?" Chris asked. Emery closed the book and slid it back on the shelf. "Take a seat in there," he said pointing to a sitting off the lobby. "Ill see what I can do.”
Chris turned away from the desk and walked into the lounge. It was empty except for a long-legged young merchant marine who sat at a table in the corner laboriously writing a letter. Chris sat down in a huge leather arm chair and took out a cigarette. She leaned back and relaxed, sending a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.
For a minute she watched
the young sailor nibble dolefully on the end of a wooden pen. Then her eyes moved upward to the shelf over his head and the model of a whaler under full sail. It was so perfectly done that she could see the belaying pin in the minute hand of a minute gob.
She heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall. She looked expectantly toward the doorway.
A giant of a man in a dirty T-shirt and bell-bottomed dungarees entered the room, paused for a moment at the door, then walked toward Chris. A tattoo of a naked woman with a snake wrapped around her neck peeked demurely through the thick black hair on one arm, like a mermaid playing it coy behind a lattice of sea weed.
He stopped in front of Chris and stood towering over her. "Lookin' for me?" he said. She could hear the roar of the sea in his big booming voice.
"You're Davy Jones?"
"Yeah."
"I understand you shipped on the Bolivar," Chris said.
"Yeah," he said.
"I'd like to ask you a couple of questions," Chris said.
Davy gave a short nod. He sat down in a straight-backed chair facing Chris. The chair was too dainty for his bulk. He shifted uncomfortably, then spread his knees and leaned his hands on them.
"First off," Chris said, "was a man by the name of Max Petersen on board?"
Davy grinned broadly. "The rummy, you mean," he said. "Yeah, he was there."
Chris stubbed out the cigarette and looked back at Davy. "Fine," she said. "I hear the ship ran into trouble."
"Yeah," Davy said. "Blew a boiler. Hell of a mess."
"And that you put into an island to make repairs," Chris continued.
Davy nodded. "Tongariva," he said. "Stinkin' little place with bugs. No Dorothy Lamours, nothin'. Stinkin' little place with bugs." He shrugged and spread his hands in obvious disgust.
Chris smiled. She knew exactly how he felt. She'd realized on her first trip to the islands that they forgot to put the bugs and the heat and the dysentery in the movies. And the closest thing she had seen to a hula girl was a saggy old dame with the itch.
"Did you get down to the lagoon?" Chris said. "Max tells me it's a good place for swimming."
