King Rat

“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 money 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.

“We got to have a brand name.” The King thought a moment. “I got it. How about Three Kings? One for King Royal Air Force, one for King Texas an’ one for me.”

“Not bad,” Tex said.

“We’ll start the factory tomorrow.”

Tex shook his head. “I’m on a work party.”

“The hell with it! I’ll get Dino to sub for you.”

“No. I’ll ask him.” Tex got up and smiled at Peter Marlowe. “Happy to know you, sir.”

“Forget the sir, will you?” Peter Marlowe said.

“Sure. Thanks.”

Peter Marlowe watched him go. “Funny,” he said quietly to the King. “I’ve never seen so many smiles in one hut before.”

“There’s no point in not smiling, is there? Things could be a lot worse. You get shot down flying the hump?”

“You mean the Calcutta-Chungking route? Over the Himalayas?”

“Yeah.” The King nodded at the tobacco. “Fill your box.”

“Thanks. I will if you don’t mind.”

“Anytime you’re short, come and help yourself.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that. You’re very kind.” Peter Marlowe wanted another cigarette but he knew that he was smoking too much. If he smoked another now, then the hunger would hurt more. Better go easy. He glanced at the sun-shadow and promised that he would not smoke again until the shadow had moved two inches. “I wasn’t shot down at all. My kite—my plane got hit in an air raid in Java. I couldn’t get it up. Rather a bore,” he added, and tried to hide the bitterness.

“That’s not so bad,” said the King. “You might’ve been in it. You’re alive and that’s what counts. What were you flying?”

“Hurricane. Single-seat fighter. But my regular plane’s a Spit—Spitfire.”

“I’ve heard about them—never seen one. You guys sure as hell made the Germans look sick.”

“Yes,” said Peter Marlowe softly. “We did, rather.”

The King was surprised. “You weren’t in the Battle of Britain, were you?”

“Yes. I got my wings in 1940—just in time.”

“How old were you?”

“Nineteen.”

“Huh, I’d’ve thought, looking at your face, you’d be at least thirty-eight, not twenty-four!”

“Up yours, brother!” Peter Marlowe laughed. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five. Son of a bitch,” the King said. “Best years of my life and I’m locked up in a stinking jail.”

“You’re hardly locked up. And it seems to me you’re doing very well.”

“We’re still locked up, whichever way you figure it. How long you think it’s going to last?”

“We’ve got the Germans on the run. That show should be over soon.”

“You believe that?”

Peter Marlowe shrugged. Careful, he told himself, you can never be too careful. “Yes, I think so. You can never tell about rumors.”

“And our war. What about ours?”

Because the question had been asked by a friend, Peter Marlowe talked freely. “I think ours will last forever. Oh, we’ll beat the Japs. I know that now. But for us, here? I don’t think we’ll get out.”

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t think the Japs’ll ever give in. That means we’ll have to land on the mainland. And when that happens, I think they’ll eliminate us here, all of us. If disease and sickness haven’t got us already.”

“Why the hell should they do that?”