“I’m not sure yet. Most of the ways off Singapore by plane or a fast boat cost a hell of a lot more than I’ve got or could get on short notice-unless I want to commit a robbery or two, and I’m not up to that yet.”
“Couldn’t you get somebody to fly you out, say, on credit?”
“No way. Credit is the honest man’s albatross. The men who deal in human cargo can’t afford the luxury.”
“But there must be somebody…”
“One man, maybe-but you’d have to have collateral, and be willing to pony up both the fee and a bonus not long after he delivered you out. I don’t have anything for collateral, and I couldn’t make immediate payment.”
“Maybe if you went to him, pleaded with him…”
“Christ, little girl, do you think people like him are in the smuggling business for charitable reasons? He’d laugh in my face and kick my ass out the door.”
“Is he an American?”
I gave her a sharp look. “Why?”
“Well, I just thought-”
“It’s that goddam article again, isn’t it? You’re still trying to pump me for information.”
“Not…”
“The hell you’re not.”
“Oh all right!” she said with defensive anger. “I suppose I am, a little. I’ve helped you, after all, when you had no one else, and I don’t want much in return, just somewhere I can start on my article, and you flare up and act righteous like you’re my father or something! Well, I’m not as stupid as you think I am! I know what smuggling is and I’m prepared to take the chances involved. Now I think you owe me a favor and I don’t think what I’m asking is too much, Mr. Connell; you said yourself that smuggling was a dirty business in Singapore and if I can do my part to-”
“All right, Jesus, all right! You want a name, God damn it, I’ll give you a name: Steve Shannon, Irish-American, Johore Bahru. He’s killed two men that I know of in cold blood; he’s smuggled everything from heroin to Communist guerrillas; he’s a bastard and a lecher and half a dozen other things. Go to him, ask him questions; hell laugh in your face if he doesn’t rape you first. And he’s one of the better ones. All right? Are you satisfied?”
She clamped her mouth tightly closed, and a thick silence settled in the room. I took a couple of deep breaths. I knew I shouldn’t have told her about Shannon, even though I had laid it on about him a little heavy, but I was in no mood for pressured argument and I still needed her help with fresh clothing. And she was a big little girl now and I wasn’t her father and what the hell was the point in trying to act the saviour? My own life was in jeopardy, I couldn’t afford to concern myself with hers or anybody else’s.
I said, trying to keep the tightness out of my voice, “Have you got a cigarette?”
“In my purse.”
“I could use one, if you don’t mind.”
She got up from the table and went into the bedroom and came out again with a package of Marlboros. I broke the filter off one and lit the shortened cigarette with one of her matches. Watching me, Tina said, “Dan… I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m more concerned about you than my article, I want you to believe that.”
“Sure, I believe it.”
“What are you going to do if you can’t get help from this man Shannon?”
“There’s another way. Not good, but then not too bad either.”
“What is it?”
“It’s better that you don’t know what it is. For your sake as well as mine.”
“Where will you be going?”
I shrugged. “As far as I can get on the money I’ve got.”
Tina folded and unfolded a paper napkin between her long fingers. “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? I mean, wouldn’t it really be the best thing to just turn yourself in to the police? Innocent men don’t go to jail in this day and age.”
“Don’t they?” I asked sardonically. “You’ve got a lot to learn about life, little girl. Listen, I’m doing the only thing I can do under the circumstances. I don’t like the idea of it, but I’ve got no alternative. I want to keep on living, and if I have to run to do that, I’ll run.”
She sighed and pushed her chair back again. “I won’t try to change your mind,” she said. “It wouldn’t do any good anyway. Shall I go and buy those clothes for you now?”
“I think you’d better,” I told her. “Get me a gaudy sports shirt and one of those cheap jungle helmets and a pair of sunglasses. If you don’t want to attract attention in Singapore, the safest way to dress is like a tourist. Nobody pays any attention to tourists.”
Tina had removed my wallet and the few other things I had had in the pockets of my khakis and bush jacket. She produced them for me. There were one hundred and forty Straits dollars in the wallet-more than I usually carry, as a result of my two days of coolie labor at Harry Rutledge’s godown. I gave Tina thirty of that, and my clothing sizes, and she left for the small shops which line Geylang Road.
I propped myself up on the settee, wrapped in the goddam towel, and thought about Wong Sot.
A shriveled Straits Chinese with a face like a yellow prune, he was the owner of a small godown on Singapore River; and for seventy-five or a hundred dollars-depending on how well you bargained-he would hide you among the cargo on one of the small junks he serviced, bound up the coast of Malaya, or across the Straits of Malacca to Kundur Island or Rangsang Island or the coast of Sumatra. That was the extent of his aid; you were on your own once the junk put you ashore. But Wong Sot was a careful man-the inscrutable Chinese-and his operation was unknown to the Singapore authorities; they would have closed him down immediately if they had been aware of his lucrative sideline. And Wong Sot didn’t ask questions. If you had his price, he would smuggle you out. Period.
There was nothing in Sumatra for me, and yet, what was there anywhere else? In any place I would be an alien without valid identification. But I could get by in Sumatra; there are ways. Construction or road crews working the jungle hire men regularly, without demanding background or identification. I could get by-and I could live with myself, knowing that, essentially, Inspector Tiong had been wrong about me all the way down the line.
I got up after a while and had another of Tina’s cigarettes, then slowly paced the hot and silent room to keep the weakness from settling in my body. What I really wanted to do was to lie down, to sleep; my wounds and infirmities needed more time to heal. But time was something I didn’t have just now. Time was something I had not had in the past eighteen hours. I kept on pacing the room in slow cadence. You can endure a considerable amount of pain and discomfort if the situation warrants it; it’s surprising just how much you can endure..
Tina returned twenty minutes later carrying a large shopping bag. She had bought an ostentatious yellow-and-red batik shirt, the kind of white jungle helmet I had asked for, white duck trousers, and a pair of dark wraparound sunglasses. I went into the bedroom to change. The shirt had medium-length sleeves, and as long as I didn’t stretch my arms the bandaged wound above my right elbow was covered. The helmet, cocked low to one side, hid the patch above my temple.
“You really do look like a tourist,” Tina said when I came out again.
“I hope so.”
“Are you still feeling all right?”
“Sure. I’m fine.”
“Do you have to leave now? Wouldn’t it be better if you waited until dark?”
“It would be, but I can’t. I’ve got to make a telephone call as soon as possible.”
“Then-I guess you have to go.”
“The quicker I’m out of here, the better it is for you.”
“I suppose so.”
We went to the door. “Be careful,” she said, and it was one of those trite old lines that seem humorous seen in films or read in books but which are something else again said in earnest parting.
“Sure.”
“We won’t see each other again, will we?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry for that,” she said, and she moved up against me, with her hands gently on my shoulders, and kissed me — soft, moist, warm. “Goodbye, Dan.”