“No sheep here, Johnny.”
“Stone-crab herder’s madness then,” Johnny said. “We don’t want to have you have to be netted or anything. Try one of these chiles.”
“I have,” Thomas Hudson said.
“Oh I know your past,” he said. “Don’t pull your illustrious past on me. You probably invented them. I know. Probably the man who introduced them into Patagonia on Yak-back. But I represent modern times. Listen Tommy. I have these chiles stuffed with salmon. Stuffed with bacalao. Stuffed with Chilean bonito. Stuffed with Mexican turtledoves’ breasts. Stuffed with turkey meat and mole. They’ll stuff them with anything and I buy them. Makes me feel like a damned potentate. But all that’s a perversion. Just this long, drooping, uninspiring, unstuffed, unpromising old chile with the brown chupango sauce is the best. You bastard,” he blew out through his pursed tongue again, “I got too much of you that time.”
He took a really long pull at the Tom Collins.
“They give me a reason for drinking,” he explained. “Have to cool my damned mouth. What are you having?”
“I might take one more gin and tonic.”
“Boy,” Johnny called. “One more gin and tonic for Bwana M’Kubwa.”
Fred, one of the island boys Johnny’s captain had hired, brought in the drink.
“Here it is, Mr. Tom.”
“Thank you, Fred,” Thomas Hudson said. “The Queen, God bless her,” and they drank.
“Where’s the old whoremaster?”
“Up at his house. He’ll be down.”
He ate some more of the chile without commenting on it, finished his drink, and said, “How are you really, old Tom?”
“OK,” Thomas Hudson said. “I’ve learned how to live by myself pretty well and I work hard.”
“Do you like it here? I mean for all the time.”
“Yes. I got sick of moving around with it. I’d rather have it here. I get along well enough here, Johnny. Pretty damn well.”
“It’s a good place,” said Johnny. “It’s a good place for a guy like you that’s got some sort of inner resources. Hell of a place for a guy like me that keeps chasing it or running away from it. Is it true that Roger’s gone Red on us?”
“So they’re saying that already.”
“That’s what I heard on the coast.”
“What happened to him out there?”
“I don’t know all of it. But it was something pretty bad.”
“Really bad?”
“They’ve got different ideas of what’s bad out there. It wasn’t St. Quentin quail if that’s what you mean. Anyway out there with that climate and the fresh vegetables and everything it’s like the size of their football players. Hell, girls fifteen look twenty-four. At twenty-four they’re Dame May Whitty. If you’re not a marrying man you better look at their teeth pretty close. And of course you can’t tell a damn thing from their teeth. And they’ve all got mothers and fathers or one or the other and they’re all hungry. Climate gives them appetite, too, of course. Trouble is, people get enthusiastic sometimes and don’t ask for their driving licenses or their social security cards. I think they ought to measure it by size and weight and general capabilities and not just by age. Wreaks too many injustices just going by age. All around. Precocity isn’t penalized in any other sport. Other way around. Apprentice allowance claimed would be the fairest. Same as racing. They had me pretty well boxed on that rap. But that wasn’t what they got old Roger on.”
“What did they get me on?” Roger Davis asked.
He had dropped down from the dock onto the deck in his rope-soled shoes without making any noise and he stood there looking awfully big in a sweatshirt three sizes too large for him and a pair of tight old dungarees.
“Hi,” said Johnny. “Didn’t hear you ring. I was telling Tom I didn’t know what they got you on but that it wasn’t jailbait.”
“Good,” said Roger. “Let’s drop the subject.”
“Don’t be so powerful,” Johnny said.
“I’m not being powerful,” Roger said. “I asked politely. Do you drink on this boat?” He looked at the cabin cruiser that lay with her stern toward them. “Who’s that?”
“The people at the Ponce. Didn’t you hear?”
“Oh,” said Roger. “Well, let’s have a drink anyway even though they have set us a bad example.”
“Boy,” Johnny called. Fred came out of the cabin. “Yes sir,” he said.
“Enquire what the pleasure of these Sahibs is.”
“Gentlemen?” Fred asked.
“I’ll take whatever Mr. Tom is drinking,” Roger said. “He’s my guide and counselor.”
“Many boys at camp this year?” Johnny asked.
“Just two so far,” Roger said. “My counselor and I.”
“My counselor and me,” Johnny said. “How the hell do you write books?”
“I can always hire someone to put in the grammar.”
“Or get someone free,” Johnny said. “I’ve been talking with your counselor.”
“Counselor says he’s quite happy and contented here. He’s hit the beach for good.”
“You ought to see the place,” Tom told him. “He lets me come in for a drink once in a while.”
“Womens?”
“No womens.”
“What do you boys do?”
“I’ve been doing it all day.”
“But you were here before. What did you do then?”
“Swim, eat, drink. Tom works, read, talk, read, fish, fish, swim, drink, sleep—”
“No womens?”
“Still no womens.”
“Sounds unhealthy to me. Sort of unwholesome atmosphere. You boys smoke much opium?”
“Tom?” Roger asked.
“Only the best,” Thomas Hudson said.
“Got a nice stand of marijuana planted?”
“Any planted, Tom?” Roger asked.
“Was a bad year,” Thomas Hudson said. “Rain gave the crop hell.”
“Whole thing sounds unwholesome,” Johnny drank. “Only saving aspect is you still take a drink. You boys gone in for religion? Has Tom Seen The Light?”
“Tom?” Roger asked.
“Relations with the Deity about the same,” Thomas Hudson said.
“Cordial?”
“We are tolerant,” Thomas Hudson said. “Practice any faith you wish. Got a ball field up the island where you can practice.”
“I’ll give the Deity a fast one high and inside if he crowds the plate,” Roger said.
“Roger,” said Johnny reproachfully. “It’s after dark. Didn’t you see twilight fall and dusk set in and darkness come? And you a writer. Never a good idea to speak slightingly of the Deity after dark. He’s liable to be right behind you with his bat poised.”
“I’ll bet he’d crowd the plate, too,” Roger said. “I’ve seen him crowding it lately.”
“Yes sir,” Johnny said. “And he’d step into your fast one and knock your brains out. I’ve seen him hit.”
“Yes, I guess you have,” Roger agreed. “So has Tom and so have I. But I’d still try and get my fast ball by him.”
“Let’s cut out the theological discussion,” Johnny said. “And get something to eat.”
“That decrepit old man you keep to tool this thing around the ocean still know how to cook?” Thomas Hudson asked.
“Chowder,” Johnny said. “And a yellow rice tonight with plover. Golden plover.”
“You sound like a damned Interior decorator,” Tom said. “There’s no gold on them this time of year, anyway. Where’d you shoot the plover?”
“On South Island when we went in to anchor and swim. I whistled the flock back twice and kept knocking them down. There’s two apiece.”
It was a fine night and after they had eaten dinner they sat out in the stern with coffee and cigars, and a couple of other people, both worthless sporting characters, came over from one of the other boats with a guitar and a banjo and the Negroes gathered on the dock and there was some sporadic singing. In the dark, up on the dock, the boys would lead off with a song and then Fred Wilson, who had the guitar, would sing and Frank Hart would fake along on the banjo. Thomas Hudson could not sing, so he sat back in the dark and listened.