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Turasan was politely holding his flashlight, the beam carefully dimmed and
focused on the table. They were in the "shop" as the King called it, just
outside the American hut. Now from the canvas overhang, another piece of
canvas fell neatly to the ground, screening the table and the benches from
ever-present eyes. It was forbidden for guards and prisoners to trade, by
Japanese - and therefore camp - order.
The King wore his "outsmarted-in-a-deal" expression and counted grimly.
"Okay," the King sighed finally as the notes totaled five hundred. "Ichi-bon!"
Turasan nodded. He was a small squat man with a flat moon face and a mouthful
of gold teeth. His rifle leaned carelessly against the hut wall behind him. He
picked up the Parker fountain pen and re-examined it carefully. The white spot
was there. The nib was gold. He held the pen closer to the screened light and
squinted to make sure, once more, that the14 carat was etched into the nib.
"Ichi-bon," he grunted at length, and sucked air between his teeth. He too
wore his "outsmarted-in-a-deal" expression, and he hid his pleasure. At five
hundred Japanese dollars the pen was an excellent buy and he knew it would
easily bring double that from the Chinese in Singapore.
"You goddam ichi-bon trader," the King said sullenly. "Next week, ichi-bon
watch maybe. But no goddam wong, no trade. I got to make some wong."
"Too plenty wong," Turasan said, nodding to the stack of notes. "Watch soon
maybe?"
"Maybe."
Turasan offered his cigarettes. The King accepted one and let Turasan light
it for him. Then Turasan sucked in his breath a last time and smiled his
golden smile. He shouldered his rifle, bowed courteously and slipped away into
the night.
The King beamed as he finished his smoke. A good night's work, he thought.
Fifty bucks for the pen, a hundred and fifty to the man who faked the white
spot and etched the nib: three hundred profit. That the color would fade off
the nib within a week didn't bother the King at all. He knew by that time
Turasan would have sold it to a Chinese.
The King climbed through the window of his hut. "Thanks, Max," he said
quietly, for most of the Americans in the hut were already asleep. "Here, you
can quit now." He peeled off two ten-dollar bills. "Give the other to Dino."
He did not usually pay his men so much for such a short work period. But
tonight he was full of largess.
"Gee, thanks." Max hurried out and told Dino to relax, giving him a
ten-dollar note.
The King set the coffeepot on the hot plate. He stripped off his clothes,
hung up his pants and put his shirt, underpants and socks in the dirty-laundry
bag. He slipped on a clean sun-bleached loincloth and ducked under his
mosquito net.
While he waited for the water to boil, he indexed the day's work. First the
Ronson. He had beaten Major Barry down to five hundred and fifty, less
fifty-five dollars, which was his ten percent commission, and had registered
the lighter with Captain Brough as a "win in poker." It was worth at least
nine hundred, easy, so that had been a good deal. The way inflation is going,
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he thought, it's wise to have the maximum amount of dough in merchandise.
The King had launched the treated tobacco enterprise with a sales conference.
It had gone according to plan. All the Americans had volunteered as salesmen,
and the King's Aussie and English contacts had bitched. But that was only
normal. He had already arranged to buy twenty pounds of Java weed from Ah Lee,
the Chinese who had the concession of the camp store, and he had got it at a
good discount. An Aussie cookhouse had agreed to set one of their ovens aside
daily for an hour, so the whole batch of tobacco could be cooked at one time
under Tex's supervision. Since all the men were working on percentage, the
King's only outlay was the cost of the tobacco. Tomorrow, the treated tobacco [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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