your own — to add to the danger, you blow your stack when I offer you some money with no strings attached, and you say something’s ‘not bad’ when you mean it’s great. Jesus,” he added, stupefied, “I guess I’m simple or something.”
He glanced up and saw the perplexed look on Peter Marlowe’s face and he had to laugh. Peter Marlowe began laughing too, and soon the two men were hysterical.
Max peered into the hut and the other Americans were close behind.
“What the hell’s gotten into him?” Max said gaping. “I thought by now he’d be beating his fucking head in.”
“Madonna,” gasped Dino. “First the King nearly gets chopped, and now he’s laughing with the guy who fingered him.”
“Don’t make sense.” Max’s stomach had been flapping ever since the warning whistle.
The King looked up and saw the men staring at him. He pulled out the remains of the pack of cigarettes. “Here, Max. Pass these around. Celebration!”
“Gee, thanks.” Max took the pack. “Wow! That was a close one. We’re all so happy for you.”
The King read the grins. Some were good and he marked those. Some were false and he knew those anyway. The men echoed Max’s thanks.
Max herded the men outside once more and began to divide the treasure. “It’s shock,” he said quietly. “Must be. Like shell shock. Any moment he’ll be tearing the Limey’s head off.” He stared off as another burst of laughter came from the hut, then shrugged.
“He’s off his head — and no wonder.”
“For God’s sake,” Peter Marlowe was saying, holding his stomach. “Let’s eat. If I don’t soon, I won’t be able to.”
So they began to eat. Between laughter spasms. Peter Marlowe regretted that the eggs were cold, but the laughter warmed the eggs and made them superb. “They need a little salt, don’t you think?” he said, trying to keep his voice flat. “Gee, I guess so. I thought I’d used enough.” The King frowned and turned for the salt and then he saw the crinkling eyes.
“What the hell’s up now?” he asked, beginning to laugh in spite of himself.
“That was a joke, for God’s sake. You Americans don’t have much of a sense of humor, do you?”
“Go to hell! And for Chrissake stop laughing!”
When they had finished the eggs, the King put some coffee on the hot plate and searched for his cigarettes. Then he remembered he had given them away, so he reached down and unlocked the black box.
“Here, try some of this,” Peter Marlowe said, offering his tobacco box.
“Thanks, but I can’t stand the stuff. It plays hell with my throat.”
“Try it. It’s been treated. I learned how from some Javanese.”
Dubiously the King took the cigarette box. The tobacco was the same cheap weed, but instead of being straw-yellow it was dark golden; instead of being dry it was moist and had a texture; instead of being odorless it smelled like tobacco, sweet-strong. He found his packet of rice papers and took an overgenerous amount of the treated weed. He rolled a sloppy tube and nipped off the protruding ends, dropping the excess tobacco carelessly on the floor.
Godalmighty, thought Peter Marlowe, I said try it, not take the bloody lot. He knew he should have picked up the shreds of tobacco and put them back in the box, but he did not. Some things a chap can’t do, he thought again.
The King snapped the lighter and they grinned together at the sight of it. The King took a careful puff, then another. Then a deep inhale. “But it’s great,” he said astonished. “Not as good as a Kooa - but this’s —“ He stopped and corrected himself. “I mean it’s not bad.”
“It’s not bad at all.” Peter Marlowe laughed.
“How the hell do you do it?”
“Trade secret.”
The King knew he had a gold mine in his hands. “I guess it’s a long and involved process,” he said delicately.
“Oh, actually it’s quite easy. You just soak the raw weed in tea, then squeeze it out. Then you
He glanced up and saw the perplexed look on Peter Marlowe’s face and he had to laugh. Peter Marlowe began laughing too, and soon the two men were hysterical.
Max peered into the hut and the other Americans were close behind.
“What the hell’s gotten into him?” Max said gaping. “I thought by now he’d be beating his fucking head in.”
“Madonna,” gasped Dino. “First the King nearly gets chopped, and now he’s laughing with the guy who fingered him.”
“Don’t make sense.” Max’s stomach had been flapping ever since the warning whistle.
The King looked up and saw the men staring at him. He pulled out the remains of the pack of cigarettes. “Here, Max. Pass these around. Celebration!”
“Gee, thanks.” Max took the pack. “Wow! That was a close one. We’re all so happy for you.”
The King read the grins. Some were good and he marked those. Some were false and he knew those anyway. The men echoed Max’s thanks.
Max herded the men outside once more and began to divide the treasure. “It’s shock,” he said quietly. “Must be. Like shell shock. Any moment he’ll be tearing the Limey’s head off.” He stared off as another burst of laughter came from the hut, then shrugged.
“He’s off his head — and no wonder.”
“For God’s sake,” Peter Marlowe was saying, holding his stomach. “Let’s eat. If I don’t soon, I won’t be able to.”
So they began to eat. Between laughter spasms. Peter Marlowe regretted that the eggs were cold, but the laughter warmed the eggs and made them superb. “They need a little salt, don’t you think?” he said, trying to keep his voice flat. “Gee, I guess so. I thought I’d used enough.” The King frowned and turned for the salt and then he saw the crinkling eyes.
“What the hell’s up now?” he asked, beginning to laugh in spite of himself.
“That was a joke, for God’s sake. You Americans don’t have much of a sense of humor, do you?”
“Go to hell! And for Chrissake stop laughing!”
When they had finished the eggs, the King put some coffee on the hot plate and searched for his cigarettes. Then he remembered he had given them away, so he reached down and unlocked the black box.
“Here, try some of this,” Peter Marlowe said, offering his tobacco box.
“Thanks, but I can’t stand the stuff. It plays hell with my throat.”
“Try it. It’s been treated. I learned how from some Javanese.”
Dubiously the King took the cigarette box. The tobacco was the same cheap weed, but instead of being straw-yellow it was dark golden; instead of being dry it was moist and had a texture; instead of being odorless it smelled like tobacco, sweet-strong. He found his packet of rice papers and took an overgenerous amount of the treated weed. He rolled a sloppy tube and nipped off the protruding ends, dropping the excess tobacco carelessly on the floor.
Godalmighty, thought Peter Marlowe, I said try it, not take the bloody lot. He knew he should have picked up the shreds of tobacco and put them back in the box, but he did not. Some things a chap can’t do, he thought again.
The King snapped the lighter and they grinned together at the sight of it. The King took a careful puff, then another. Then a deep inhale. “But it’s great,” he said astonished. “Not as good as a Kooa - but this’s —“ He stopped and corrected himself. “I mean it’s not bad.”
“It’s not bad at all.” Peter Marlowe laughed.
“How the hell do you do it?”
“Trade secret.”
The King knew he had a gold mine in his hands. “I guess it’s a long and involved process,” he said delicately.
“Oh, actually it’s quite easy. You just soak the raw weed in tea, then squeeze it out. Then you
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