He looked up at their sound and smiled happily as they came down the last few steps and spread themselves fan-shaped before his counter. He came to his feet, dog-earing the book, laying it aside, grinning. English he had to perfection; he was a descendant of one of those American families that had migrated to Brazil after the Civil War, completely bilingual, and happy with Carnival even if he could not participate in it tonight. The following day in Guadeloupe he would be off duty, although in all honesty the French really didn’t have a clue as to what Carnival was all about.
“Hey, hey! Entertainment, eh?”
“Entertainment, yessir, mon. Real island music.”
“Very, very good.” The purser’s assistant grinned. “Very good. As good steel drum as I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you, sir, mon.”
The leader smiled back at him widely, teeth brilliant, and stopped playing abruptly. He reached behind him with one fluid motion, tucking his wrapped mallet sticks down into his waistband at the small of his back. The other three drummers, however, continued their throbbing music, spreading out in almost military precision without missing a note, one remounting the carpeted steps to the bend in the staircase where he could observe anyone descending, each of the other two taking a stance at the discharge end of the lee and starboard corridors leading tiltingly to the staterooms of the main deck.
The assistant purser suddenly didn’t like the look of things. He may have spoken English as if he had been born and bred in Savannah, but he was a Brazilian with five generations behind him, and he knew trouble when he saw it. And this was trouble. The fixed smile on the big black man’s face was too humorless; there was sudden tension in the other three, although no sign of it appeared in their music. The assistant purser studied them all a moment, his eyes moving from one to the other, his smile gone, wiped away by the circumstances; then he reached for the telephone on the counter beside him. His hand froze in midair as he found himself staring into the black circle of a revolver muzzle. Copper tips winked brightly in the light from the chambers visible on either side. Where the weapon had come from that suddenly the purser could not imagine. He attempted coolness, the shocked righteousness of the innocent bystander.
“Hey! What is this?”
“This? This is a gun, mon. You never seen a gun?”
“You know what I mean. You can’t get away with pulling a gun. What’s this business all about?”
“Entertainment, mon.” The big black man shrugged, his eyes flat. “Like we both agreed. Just entertainment. Only you providing it this time. And let’s keep our hands flat down on that countertop, like, eh, mon? Like you was holding down a couple of hole-cards in seven card stud poker, eh? That’s the ticket, mon. You gamble? Draw poker, stud poker? Good games.” The deep voice chilled convincingly. “Only don’t gamble now, mon. My word!”
The steel drum was whisked from his neck in one smooth motion, the pistol never wavering from the purser’s startled face during the exercise. The big man bent slowly, his hand firm with the gun, his eyes steady on the other, tilting his drum against the counter almost lovingly. He straightened up.
“Now let’s go visit the ship’s safe, eh, mon? What you say?”
“The safe?”
The young man swallowed, staring about the small square with its elevator doors closed and the pointer frozen someplace above, with its corridors covered and its stairway watched. The area echoed softly and insanely with a throbbing Carnival tune, expertly played by the silent three. The small square also echoed with loneliness and hopelessness. His eyes came back from their tour of desperation to the black face smiling at him through thick red lips, but the eyes facing him were not smiling. They were chips of black obsidian set in yellow topaz.
“The safe, remember, mon? And don’t make me ask you again. My word!”
The purser swallowed. A poor chance, but still he had to try. Otherwise it would be impossible to face the eventual inquiry. He wet his lips and shook his head, trying to sound confident.
“The safe? You made a mistake. You’re in the wrong place. All we handle is the ship’s mail, and messages, and the keys to the cabins and things like that. The ship’s safe is in the captain’s quarters next to the bridge. Where you can’t—”
“Mon! I said to you: don’t gamble!”
The thick muscular hand with the revolver snaked forward; the pistol was raised and raked heavily across the suddenly ashen face on the other side of the desk. The front sight was edged, a poor job of tumble-finishing at the factory or filed sharp since, possibly just for this purpose. It left a sharp cut across one cheek, gouged a deeper groove where it struck the bridge of the nose, skipped a bit of flesh, and then cut again. Blood began to well rapidly from the cuts, running down the purser’s face, gathering on his chin, dripping onto the countertop and his white summer uniform jacket. He started to reach for a handkerchief to staunch the flow but instead changed his mind, putting his hand back on the desk, letting it remain where it had been, pressing it tightly against the smooth formica top. He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily against the pain and then opened them, staring dully at the cold face and veiled eyes before him. The music played on without change in tempo or style, throbbing softly. The big man spoke, his velvet voice blending in with the music of the drums, almost taking its rhythm, its sing-song cadence from them.
“Mon, mon!” The tone was chiding. “Your momma never teach you what happen to little boys don’t never tell the truth? I’m sure she must have. You just forget, eh, mon?”
The young purser remained quiet, his eyes trapped. The cuts on his face hurt; the blood running down his thin cheeks itched. The white teeth of his assailant flashed.
“Well, now, mon — you don’t want to tell me, then supposing I tell you? It isn’t in the room behind you, because that door leads to the head. And that gangway over to the side leads to your boss’ stateroom. And off that stateroom to larboard is his office. And in that office I truly figure we going to find that ship’s safe you just went and lost. And you know what, mon?” He paused as if truly waiting for an answer; the purser remained quiet. “I tell you. If that safe isn’t open — and I don’t really expect it is — then you are going to open that safe for us. Because if you don’t, I’m going to kill you, mon. My word! I mean it and you know I mean it. But I don’t aim to kill you quick. Oh, no! First I’m going to wipe this gun back and forth across your face until you wish I’d give it up and pull that trigger.” His soft voice became even softer, more chilling. “Now, we wouldn’t want nothing like that to happen, would we? Of course not!”
He was behind the counter in one move before the purser could raise a hand. The gun was steady as rock, jammed into the young man’s kidneys. The big man pleasured at the involuntary wincing and pushed the gun harder than necessary.
“When you lift them hands off the countertop, you just lift them real easy, like, eh? And we’ll be going along now. Somebody comes down them steps won’t help, believe me. Just more people gets hurt, is all. There’s a gun strapped under every one of them other drums, believe me. And this gun I have here carries lot of bullets, you know. Just like in those cowboy movies on television, you know? Bullets? Bullets all day long, all night long. Never stop, never load. I’m telling you, that’s the truth, mon. My word!”