The Sand Pebbles (24 page)

“I sure don’t envy Bronson tonight,” he said.

Bronson had shore patrol. He sat importantly by himself at one table, looking around and fingering his club and pistol and brassard. A barboy in a white coat came to Holman’s table and they ordered whisky. The boy brought the drinks from in back somewhere; there was no bar in the room. It had a low ceiling with one bare bulb dangling from a cord. The bulb burnt feebly red in the smoky haze, because the voltage was always low in Changsha, Burgoyne said. The floor was dusty, splintery wood, damp here and there with drink slops, and Chinese theater posters hung all around on the gray plaster walls. They were of pretty Chinese girls in red and green and gold and some had bare breasts. None of the girls at the tables were as pretty as the ones on the posters.

“That’s Mother Chunk.” Burgoyne pointed.

She had a broad red face and gray hair pulled back tightly and she wore a black silk jacket and trousers. She was swapping obscene insults with Crosley, Vincent and Waxer at the table next to Holman’s, and she was giving better than she got. They were trying to give her a bad time because she did not have any new girls in since last year.

“You all same goddam
Sampabble
sailah, whassamattah no likee all same gel?” she said. She whirled away from them, to Holman’s table. “Ho, Flenchy!” she greeted Burgoyne. “Whassamattah no takee gel topside?”

“Give me time, Mother. After while,” Burgoyne said.

“I tinkee you olo man, no can do.”

She made an obscene gesture. She had rings on her fingers and natural feet. Burgoyne grinned at her.

“I ain’t either,” he said. “You want to feel, Mother?”

She grabbed at him under the table and he pushed her laughing away. She turned her gaze on Holman.

“You belong new sailah,” she accused him. “What name you?”

“Holman.”

“Pitocki’s relief,” Burgoyne said. “He all same Pitocki.”

“Ho-mang.” She studied Holman. “Long time P’tocki come this side.” She lowered her voice. “Have got one piecee new gel topside. She jus’ now makee pitty.” Mother Chunk pantomimed powdering her face. “Young gel, school gel, too much flaid. Suppose bye-m-bye she come you table? Maskee?”

“Sure, maskee,” Holman said.

Mother Chunk winked at him and went on to trade insults with Farren and Red Dog.

“You’re in, Jake. Mother likes you,” Burgoyne said. “She always favored old Pitocki, too.”

They ordered new drinks. Rain started drizzling outside and it became darker, drunker and smokier inside. The Sand Pebbles had chow brought to their tables and they took the girls topside and came back and drank and ate some more. The room grew noisier with chairs scraping and falling over, voices quarreling, dice cups thumping and dice rattling as they rolled for drinks. Someone was always slapping a table and shouting “Boy!” Holman began feeling his whisky and thinking about chow. He noticed a civilian had come in and was sitting alone in one corner, at a table partially masked by a screen.

“That’s one of the German engineers from the smelter,” Burgoyne said. “We call that the German table.”

Some of the Germans in Changsha had houses at the upper end of the big sandbar, Burgoyne said, but they could not go to the club because they were not treaty people. They had lost their treaty rights in the war and now they were something like White Russians. They did not lose face if they came to the Red Candle.

“Kind of no-account, you might say,” Burgoyne said. “That old boy’s name is George Scharf, and he comes here right much. He’s a crazy old coot, you get him drunk enough to talk.”

“Talks English?”

“Better’n you and me. He’s educated.”

The German was drinking whisky and watching the sailors with a small, amused smile. He was tall and elderly, with thin brown hair and a long, lined face that looked sad behind his smile. He had
character, Holman decided. The room was quieting. Nobody had a girl topside. Holman wanted to eat, but not at the Red Candle. He felt restless.

“I feel like going someplace else,” he told Burgoyne. “Walk off a little of the whisky.” “Ain’t no place else.”

“Well, just a chow joint. Know any good ones?”

“Stick around,” Burgoyne said. “The guys are petering out. This is just the time Mother Chunk always pulls something.”

“All right. One more drink.”

“Don’t forget what Mother promised you, Jake.”

She was young and very pretty and afraid in a sleeveless yellow dress. Heads turned to look at her as she came toward Holman’s table. She had a handkerchief crumpled in her left hand and she looked straight ahead. Holman felt oddly embarrassed. He started to get up but Crosley was ahead of him, catching the girl’s arm and pulling her to a seat between himself and Waxer. Holman settled back.

“You missed out, Jake,” Burgoyne said. “You got to be right fast on your feet in this place.”

Holman shrugged. The girl had bobbed hair, shingled in back, and she was speaking very good English. Her voice sounded tight and artificially held low.

“I should warn you, I get a commission on what I drink. All I drink is cold tea, but you will pay for whisky.”

“Boy! Catch foh piecee whisky!” Crosley yelled.

Delight was all over his frog face. He knew the other Sand Pebbles were watching and envying him. The girl sat stiffly, her left hand in her lap, wearing a fixed smile that did not look natural. She had smooth, clear skin and a pretty, oval Chinese face with large, clear eyes.

“What the hell, Jake?” Burgoyne whispered. He tugged his mustache, his eyes on the girl.

“My name is Maily. I keep books for Mr. Shu and act as hostess,” she was saying. “I’m
so
pleased to meet all of you.”

“I’m Crosley. This here’s Waxer, and that’s Vincent across the
table,” Crosley said. “Never mind them bastards at the other tables. Tonight you’re mine, Loveyduck.”

“Hey, I want seconds!” Waxer said.

He was a very blond boy with pale eyes and no whiskers and he was always making a great show of proving his manhood on the whores.

“I’ll think about it,” Crosley told Waxer.

They questioned her. She wouldn’t say how she learned English or where she came from. “My secret,” was all she would say, with that smile. She did not act like a Chinese girl. She held her head high and showed her teeth when she smiled and talked. Except for her face, she was absolutely an American girl, Holman decided, pretty and clean and decent and scared, and that was what made the excitement in the room. It was like electricity in the smoky air.

Crosley had an arm around her, playing with her breast. She seemed to be pretending it was not happening to her, but her smile kept slipping and she would have to put it back. She had learned that Crosley was from New Jersey and she was trying to talk about Trenton and Washington crossing the Delaware. Of all things to talk about, Holman thought.

“That was before my time,” Crosley said.

Burgoyne was scowling. It was the first time Holman had ever seen him look angry. Waxer put his arm around the girl.

“As hostess, I’m supposed to divide my time among all the tables,” she said shakily. “It’s been very pleasant, but I must go now.”

She tried to get up. Crosley pulled her back down.

“Not till we been topside a couple of times, Loveyduck.”

“I don’t go upstairs. I’m only a hostess.”

Her bright, forced smile and voice seemed to be her only defense. Waxer and Crosley each had one hand under the table. She gasped and jerked and lost her smile and put it back again. She looked at Holman and Burgoyne and all around the room. There was no hope in her eyes.

“Jake, we got to get her loose from them bastards,” Burgoyne whispered.

Holman nodded. It was very old custom that you did not interfere with a shipmate and his woman. Guys off other ships, yes, and that was how many fights started. But not a shipmate. Burgoyne was an old-time Sand Pebble. It would be best to let him take the lead and then back his play, Holman decided.

The girl gasped and jerked again. “Please don’t do that, Mr. Crosley,” she said. Her voice was like a spring wound tight to snapping.

“Ah, now, Loveyduck,” Crosley said. His face was red.

Burgoyne stood up. “Let her come over here, Flagbag,” he said harshly. “It’s our turn now.”

“Go to hell, Frenchy,” Crosley said. “You won’t even get a wet deck on this little pig, not tonight you won’t.”

Holman stood up. He wanted to pick up Crosley and throw him twenty feet. “You heard Frenchy. Let her go,” he said. He put his feeling in his voice.

“Easy there, you two!” Bronson said. “Stand fast, Ho-mang!”

He moved in, twirling his club. He was Crosley’s buddy and his brassard made him navy authority for the moment. Holman looked at Branson’s fat, important face and hated him.

“Enough’s enough, Bronson,” he said. “You get that girl away from ’em, then.”

“This is a whorehouse, Ho-mang, in case you didn’t know,” Bronson said. “Whores got duties, just like sailors, in case you didn’t know that either.”

“You won’t always have shore patrol.”

“I got it now.”

“Please! I can’t stand it!” the girl said.

All three chairs scraped as she struggled. Crosley laughed. Burgoyne cursed and started around the table. Mother Chunk burst through the Sand Pebbles, all standing now. She was shrill-voiced and angry.

“Whassamattah you, Closs-eye? You wanchee
duhai
, pay money, go topside!”

“I’ll pay, Mother,” Crosley said. “I’m ready for a cruise topside. I got one a cat couldn’t scratch.”

He clinked two Mex dollars on the table. Mother Chunk pushed them away scornfully.

“This gel first time piecee,” she said. “Mus’ pay two hundah dollah.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Crosley didn’t want to believe it. “I’ll pay ten Mex. Maskee?” He dug in his pocket.

“Shu talkee two hundah dollah!” Mother Chunk insisted. “Golo money!”

“Two hundred dollars
gold
, for God’s sake?” Crosley’s frog face and hoarse voice were outraged. “Nobody’s
ever
going to have that much money, Mother,” he said plaintively.

“Bye-m-bye somebody catch,” she assured him.

“Well, God damn it!”

Crosley looked around for sympathy. The Sand Pebbles were beginning to smile. Crosley looked at the other girls, but his gaze did not linger on them. His face was turning ugly.

“Well, by God, she can still drink with me!” he said.

“She go oddah table now.”

“You can’t change house rules like that, God damn you, Mother! Long as I got money to buy her drinks, I keep her!”

“She’s coming to my table,” Burgoyne said.

“Like hell!” Crosley said.

“Watch it, Frenchy! You too, Ho-mang!”

Bronson laid his club like a bar across Holman’s chest, nudging him back. He had little pale dimples at his mouth corners. The girl was standing up, with her frozen smile, and Burgoyne and Crosley each grasped one of her arms. The air was very tense again. Red Dog came up and patted the girl on the head.

“That’s the Seal of the Red Dog,” he told her. “Now if anybody so much as puts a hand on you, something terrible will happen to ’em.” He turned to Crosley. “Hands off her, Flagbag!”

“Stand clear, Shanahan! You too, Burgoyne!” Bronson snapped. “That’s a military order! You want to be put under arrest?”

Crosley screamed and jumped forward, releasing the girl. He turned, rubbing his buttocks with both hands, and glared at Red Dog.

“Arf! Arf! Arf!” Red Dog said.

Crosley lowered his head and rushed, fists milling. Red Dog darted out an arm and Crosley stopped. He sank slowly to his knees, hands waving feebly. Red Dog was pinching his nose, and it was hurting him so badly that it took his strength away. His eyes were popping and his loose-lipped mouth gaped and he went “Ah … ah … ah …” in a high, strangled tone.

“Stop that, Shanahan! You’re under arrest!” Bronson roared.

“Will you protect me from this violent person, sir?” Red Dog asked. Impish delight was all over his face.

“I’ll club you down!”

Bronson raised his club. Holman set himself to intercept it. Red Dog twisted and pushed and then stepped back, his hands up. Crosley arose, breathing hoarsely through his mouth. All his fight was gone. He raised his hand unbelievingly to his nose and blood gushed out of his nose and down the front of his white jumper, as if he had opened a tap. Mother Chunk laughed. Then they were all laughing, howling and roaring off the tension. Bronson led Crosley back to the head. It was all over.

She sat at Holman’s table, between Farren and Burgoyne, and they laughed about Crosley. They were all being careful of their language, and it did not seem like a whorehouse any longer. She could not talk naturally, and neither could the sailors. She smiled and talked like someone reciting from a history or a geography book. But she was exciting them just by her clean, strange presence, and the fact that she was a virgin in a whorehouse. All the Sand Pebbles tried to crowd chairs around the one table and one by one they slipped away again to take one of the other girls for a cruise topside. They were all drinking freely and the room was once more full of happy noise.

Holman was not happy. He was excited, but when he looked at the other girls they looked frowzy and flabby and not clean enough. Crosley came out with cotton stuffed in his swollen nose and left without looking at anybody. The girl tried to talk across the table to Holman, asking about the geography of Nevada, and he gave her
short answers. She seemed to be trying to pay him special attention, and he could not respond. Too much whisky on an empty stomach, he thought. He called the boy and ordered shrimps and rice.

When the boy brought the chow, it was too crowded to eat at that table. Holman stood up, and all the other tables were dirty with spilled food and drinks and cigarette ashes. The only clean one was the German table. Holman walked over there.

“Mind if I eat some chow at your table?” he asked the German engineer. “It’s the only clean place left.”

“Of course not,” the German said. “Please sit down.”

Holman ate in silence. The German watched the sailors with his one-sided little smile. Red Dog had started them all singing. Holman finished.