But the King knew anger was of no value when an important decision had to be made, and now that he had gotten over the first nauseating shock, he could be critical and analyze the situation.
First, he had to admit that although it had been bad business to risk so much, the risk had been successful. If Sutra hadn’t been good and ready to give Pete the radio he’d’ve ducked the issue and said, “Hell, there’s no radio hereabouts.” So no harm was done. And it had been a private deal between Pete and Sutra ’cause Cheng San had already left.
Second, a radio that he knew about and one that wasn’t in his hut would be more than useful. He could keep tabs on the situation and he’d know exactly when to make the break. So, all in all, there was no harm done — except that Peter had exceeded his authority. Now take that. If you trust a guy and hire him, you hire his brains. No point in having a guy around just to take orders and sit on his can. And Peter had sure been great during the negotiations. If and when the break came, well, Peter would be on the team. Got to have a guy to talk the lingo. Yeah, and Pete wasn’t scared. So all in all, the King knew he’d be crazy to rip into him before his mind told him to use the new situation in a businesslike way. Yep, he had blown his stack like a two-year-old.
“Pete.” He saw the challenging set to Peter Marlowe’s jaw. Wonder if I could take the son of a bitch. Sure. Got him by fifty — maybe eighty pounds.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry I blew my stack. The radio’s a good idea.”
“What?”
“I just said I was sorry. It’s a great idea.”
“I don’t understand you,” Peter Marlowe said helplessly. “One moment you’re a crazy man and the next you’re saying that it’s a good idea.”
The King liked this son of a bitch. Got guts. “Eh, radios give me the creeps, no future in them.” Then he laughed softly. “No resale value!”
“You’re really not fed up with me any more?”
“Hell no. We’re buddies.” He punched him playfully. “I was just put out that you didn’t tell me. That wasn’t good.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I apologize. It was ridiculous and unfair. Christ, I wouldn’t want to jeopardize you in any way. Truly I’m sorry.”
“Shake. I’m sorry I blew my stack. But next time, tell me before you do anything.”
Peter Marlowe shook his hand. “My word on it.”
“Good enough.” Well, thank God there was no sweat now. “So what the hell do you mean by condenser?”
Peter Marlowe told him about the three water bottles.
“So all Mac needs is the one condenser, right?”
“He said he thinks so.”
“You know what I think? I think it’d be better just to take out the condenser and dump the radio. Bury it here. It’d be safe. Then if yours doesn’t work we could always come back and get it. Mac could easily put the condenser back. To hide this radio in the camp’d be real tough, and it’d be a helluva temptation just to plug the goddam thing in, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.” Peter Marlowe looked at the King searchingly. “You’ll come back with me to get it?”
“Sure.”
“If — for any reason — I can’t come back, would you come for it? If Mac or Larkin asked you to?”
The King thought a moment. “Sure.”
“Your word?”
“Yes.” The King smiled faintly. “You put quite a store by the ‘word’ jazz, don’t you, Peter?”
“How else can you judge a man?”
It took Peter Marlowe only a moment to snap the two wires joining the condenser to the innards of the radio. Another minute and the radio was wrapped in its protective cloth and a small hole scraped away in the jungle earth. They put a flat stone on the bottom of the hole, then covered the radio with a good thickness of leaves and smoothed the earth back and pulled a tree trunk over the spot. A couple of weeks in the dampness of its tomb would destroy its usefulness, but two weeks would be enough time to come back and pick it up if the bottles still didn’t work.
Peter Marlowe wiped the sweat away, for a sudden layer of heat had settled on them and the sweat smell frenzied the increasing waves of insects clouding them. “These blasted bugs!” He looked up at the night sky, judging the time a little nervously. “Do you think we’d better go on now?”
“Not yet. It’s only four-fifteen. Our best time is just before dawn. We’d better wait another ten minutes, then we’ll be in position in plenty of time.” He grinned. “First time I went through the wire I was scared and anxious too. Coming back I had to wait at the wire. I had to wait half an hour or more before the coast was clear. Jesus! I sweated.” He waved his hands at the insects. “Goddam bugs.”
They sat awhile listening to the constant movement of the jungle. Swaths of fireflies cut patches of brilliance in the small rain ditches beside the path.
“Just like Broadway at night,” said the King.
“I saw a film once called Times Square. It was a newspaper yarn. Let me see. I think it was Cagney.”
“Don’t remember that one. But Broadway, you got to see it for real. It’s just like day in the middle of the night. Huge neon signs and lights all over the place.”
“Is that your home? New York?”
“No. I’ve been there a couple of times. Been all over.”
“Where’s your home?”
The King shrugged. “My pa moves around.”
“What’s his work?”
“That’s a good question. Little of this, little of that. He’s drunk most of the time.”
“Oh! That must be pretty rough.”
“Tough on a kid.”
“Do you have any family?”
“My ma’s dead. She died when I was three. Got no brothers or sisters. My pa brought me up. He’s a bum, but he taught me a lot about life. Number one, poverty’s a sickness. Number two, money’s everything. Number three, it doesn’t matter how you get it as long as you get it.”
“You know, I’ve never thought much about money. I suppose in the service — well, there’s always a monthly pay check, there’s always a certain standard of living, so money doesn’t mean much.”
“How much does your father make?”
“I don’t know exactly. I suppose around six hundred pounds a year.”
“Jesus. That’s only twenty-four hundred bucks. Why, I make thirteen hundred as a corporal myself. I sure as hell wouldn’t work for that nothing dough.”
“Perhaps it’s different in the States. But in England you can get by quite well. Of course our car is quite old, but that doesn’t matter, and at the end of your service you get a pension.”
“How much?”
“Half your pay approximately.”
“That seems to me to be nothing. Can’t understand why people go in the service. Guess because they’re failures as people.”
The King saw Peter Marlowe stiffen slightly. “Of course,” he added quickly, “that doesn’t apply in England. I was talking about the States.”
“The service is a good life — for a man. Enough money — an exciting life in all parts of the world. Social life’s good. Then, well, an officer always has a great deal of prestige.” Peter Marlowe added almost apologetically, “You know, tradition and all that.”
“You going to stay in after the war?”
“Of course.”
“Seems to me,” the King said, picking at his teeth with a little thread of bark, “that it’s too easy. There’s no excitement or future in taking orders from guys who are mostly bums. That’s the way it looks to me. And hell, you don’t get paid nothing. Why Pete, you should take a look at the States. There’s nothing like it in the world. No place. Every man for himself and every man’s as good as the next guy. And all you have to do is figure an angle and be better than the next guy. Now that’s excitement.”