“Nigger,” Falconetti said, “I guess you didn’t hear me.” He strode over to where the man was sitting at the table, grabbed him under the armpits, carried him to the door and hurled him against the bulkhead. Nobody said or did anything. You took care of yourself on the Elga Andersen, and the next man took care of himself.
Falconetti owed money to half the crew. Theoretically they were, loans, but nobody expected to see his money again. If you didn’t lend Falconetti a five- or ten-dollar bill when he asked for it, he wouldn’t do anything about it at the time, but two or three days later, he would pick a fight with you and there would be black eyes and broken noses and teeth to spit out.
Falconetti hadn’t tried anything with Thomas, although he was much larger than Thomas. Thomas was not looking for trouble and stayed out of Falconetti’s way, but even though he was taciturn and pacific and kept to himself, there was something about Thomas’s manner that made Falconetti pick on easier targets.
But the first night out of Genoa, Falconetti, who was dealing a poker hand in the mess room, said, when Thomas and Dwyer came in together, “Ah, here come the love-birds,” and made a wet, kissing noise. The men at the table laughed, because it was dangerous not to laugh at Falconetti’s jokes. Dwyer turned red, but Thomas calmly poured himself a cup of coffee and picked up a copy of the Rome Daily American that was lying there, and began to read it.
“I’ll tell you what, Dwyer,” Falconetti said, “I’ll be your agent. It’s a long way home and the boys could use a nice piece of ass to while away the lonely hours. Couldn’t you, boys?”
There were little embarrassed murmurs of assent from the men around the table.
Thomas read his paper and sipped his coffee. He knew that Dwyer was trying to catch his eye, pleading, but until it got much worse he wasn’t going to get into a brawl.
“What’s the sense in giving it away free like you do, Dwyer,” Falconetti said, “when you could make a fortune and distribute happiness at the same time just by setting yourself up in business with my help. What we have to do is fix a scale—say five bucks for buggering, ten bucks for sucking. I’ll just take my ten per cent, like a regular Hollywood agent. What do you say, Dwyer?”
Dwyer jumped up and fled. The men at the table laughed. Thomas read his paper, although his hands were trembling. He had to control himself. If he beat up on a big thug like Falconetti, who had terrorized whole shiploads of men for years, somebody would begin to wonder who the hell he was and what made him so tough and it wouldn’t take too long for somebody to recognize his name or remember that he had seen him fight somewhere. And there were mob members or hangers-on everywhere along the waterfront, just waiting to rush to some higher-up with the news that he’d been spotted.
Read your goddamn newspaper, Thomas said to himself, and keep your mouth shut.
“Hey, lover.” Falconetti made the wet kissing noise again. “You going to let your boy friend cry himself to sleep all by his little itsy-bitsy self?”
Methodically, Thomas folded the paper, put it down. He walked slowly across the room, carrying his coffee cup. Falconetti looked at him from across the table, grinning. Thomas threw the coffee into Falconetti’s face. Falconetti didn’t move. There was dead silence at the table.
“If you make that noise once more,” Thomas said, “I’ll slug you every time I pass you on this ship from here to Hoboken.”
Falconetti stood up. “You’re for me, lover,” he said. He made the kissing noise again.
“I’ll be waiting for you on deck,” Thomas said. “And come alone.”
“I don’t need no help,” Falconetti said.
Thomas wheeled and went out onto the stern deck. There would be room to move around there. He didn’t want to have to tangle with a man Falconetti’s size in close quarters.
The sea was calm, the night balmy, the stars bright. Thomas groaned. My goddamn fists, he thought, always my goddamn fists.
He wasn’t worried about Falconetti. That big fat gut hanging over his belt wasn’t made for punishment.
He saw the door open onto the deck, Falconetti’s shadow thrown on the deck by the light in the gangway. Falconetti stepped on deck. He was alone.
Maybe I’m going to get away with it, Thomas thought. Nobody’s going to see me take him.
“I’m over here, you fat slob,” Thomas called. He wanted Falconetti to rush him, not take the chance of going in on him and perhaps being grappled by those huge arms and wrestled down. It was a cinch Falconetti wasn’t going to fight under Boxing Commission rules. “Come on, Fatso,” Thomas called. “I haven’t got all night.”
“You asked for it, Jordache,” Falconetti said and rushed at him, flailing his fists, big round house swings. Thomas stepped to one side and put all his strength into the one right hand to the gut. Falconetti sounded as though he was strangling, teetered back. Thomas stepped in and hit him again in the gut. Falconetti went down and lay writhing on the deck, a gurgling noise bubbling up from his throat. He wasn’t knocked out and his eyes were glaring up at Thomas as Thomas stood over him, but he couldn’t say anything.
It had been neat and quick, Thomas thought with satisfaction, and there wasn’t a mark on the man and if he didn’t say anything none of the crew would ever know what happened out on the deck. It was a cinch Thomas wasn’t going to do any talking. Falconetti had learned his lesson and it wouldn’t do his reputation any good to pass the news around.
“All right, slob,” Thomas said. “Now you know what it’s all about. Now you’ll keep that toilet of a mouth of yours shut.”
Falconetti made a sudden move and Thomas felt the big hand gripping at his ankle, bringing him down. There was a gleam in Falconetti’s other hand and Thomas saw the knife there. He gave suddenly and dropped onto Falconetti’s face with his knees, hard, grabbing at the hand with the knife, twisting. Falconetti was still fighting for his breath and the fingers holding the knife handle weakened quickly. Thomas, now with his knees pinning Falconetti’s arms to the deck, reached the knife, pushed it away. Then he methodically chopped at Falconetti’s face for two minutes.
Finally, he stood up. Falconetti lay inert on the deck, the blood black on the starlit deck around his head. Thomas picked up the knife and threw it overboard.
With a last look at Falconetti, he went in. He was breathing hard, but it wasn’t from the exertion of the fight. It was exultation. Goddamn it, he thought, I enjoyed it. I’m going to wind up a crazy old man fighting orderlies in the Old Folks’ Home.
He went into the mess room. The poker game had stopped, but there were more men in there than before, as the players who had seen the clash between Thomas and Falconetti had gone to tell their bunkmates and bring them back to the mess room to get the dope on the action. The room had been alive with talk, but when Thomas came in, calmly, breathing normally now, no one said a word.