A Shroud for Jesso by Peter Rabe

they had been far out to sea, they wouldn’t have bothered to close it. Instead they would have come for him to finish Kator’s end of the bargain.
    The ship rumbled with a rhythmic thump. They cleared the islands, at any rate.
    Jesso sat down again and waited. He tried to sleep a few times, but sleep wouldn’t come. His head ached, his legs were sore from the rawness where the skin had been scraped, and with each breath a shooting pain ran up the side of his ribs. After a while he tried to think of other things, how he would handle Kator, if there was time to handle Kator, and if perhaps his whole new hope was just the crazy wish of a man the night before his death.
    A thousand times he went over it in his mind. After a while a slow rage started to boil in him, and if someone had opened the door right then Jesso would have jumped up and killed him.
    But nobody came. For a long while there was nothing but the steady rumble of the ship, swaying now.
    Jesso was crouching by the slanting bulkhead when he heard the steps. He had been crouching for an eternity, not moving, but his breath came fast and hard. And when the door swung open there was an outlined shape standing there, but Jesso was up like a cat, out through the door, and then his balled knuckles made contact until the shape was down and moaning.
    Jesso stood blinking in the dim light from the companionway. He felt all right. He rubbed his knuckles, feeling nothing but the pleasant burn where his fists had hit.
    The other guy had stood back. He came out of the shadows now, first the Luger, then his long shape.
    “Don’t move,” he said, and his voice meant that he wished he would.
    Jesso waited. He put his hands in his pockets and stood still. “Bean Pole,” he said. “I want to see your master.”
    Bean Pole maneuvered around so he had Jesso against the light. “First you’re going to die,” he said.
    Jesso laughed. “Like hell. Show me Kator, Bean Pole. I got something to sell.”
    He couldn’t tell whether Bean Pole was taking his word for it, because all he said was, “Up the stairs.”
    Before Jesso went, he turned to look at the man on the floor. It was the one that had kicked him in the ribs. Jesso went up the stairs feeling better than ever.
    It was blowing strong and steady on deck, but except for the wind-ripped tips of the waves, the water seemed to move slowly; big glassy mountains of water that stood for a moment with foam like marble along their sides, and then slowly sank into themselves, becoming the dark floor of a valley.
    After the airless hold, Jesso felt suddenly cold and uncomfortable. When he stopped, the gun spiked him from behind and pushed.
    “Turn left,” said Bean Pole, “and walk as far as you can.”
    Jesso was out in the wind now. He felt his trouser legs whip back against his shins.
    “As far as you can,” Bean Pole had said. Fifty feet ahead was the round stern of the ship, with a low railing that sank below the black line of the horizon with a lazy dip, then climbed up again to stick out into the sky.
    Kator was there with two sailors. They looked very solemn at the stern of the ship.
    “There’s Mr. Kator,” said Bean Pole, “and just on the other side is where you go. Move.”
    Bean Pole needn’t have done that. The jab of his gun almost missed, because Jesso was already leaning against the wind and going toward Kator. When he got there the two men in pea jackets grabbed his arms as if they thought he might jump.
    Kator pursed his lips, but otherwise he made no movement. Only his black overcoat flapped at the bottom.
    “This is to finish my end of the bargain,” he said, and he nodded to the white water behind the ship.
    With the wind tearing at his words, Jesso leaned forward. “I got something for you.”
    Kator took an involuntary step backward. The two men held Jesso’s arms more tightly.
    “Since there is nothing personal in this, Jesso, you can save your breath. All right,” and he nodded at the two