Torusumi was obviously chagrined. Through Peter Marlowe, they talked about the weather and the lack of food, and Torusumi showed them a creased and battered photo of his wife and three children and told them a little about his life in his village just outside Seoul and how he earned his living as a farmer, even though he had a minor university degree, and how he hated war. He told them how he himself hated the Japanese, how all the Koreans hated their Japanese overlords. Koreans are not even allowed in the Japanese army, he said. They’re second-class citizens and have no voice in anything and can be kicked about at the whim of the lowest Japanese.
And so they talked until at length Torusumi got up. He took his rifle back from Peter Marlowe, who all the time had held it, obsessed with the thought that it was loaded and how easy it would be to kill. But for what reason? And what then?
“I will tell my friend one last thing, because I don’t like to see thee empty-handed with no profit on this stench-filled night, and would ask thee to consult with the greedy owner of this miserable watch. Twenty-one hundred!”
“But with respect, I must remind my friend that the miserable owner, who is a colonel, and as such a man of no humor, said he would only take twenty-six. I know you would not wish for him to spit upon me.”
“True. But with deference I would suggest that at least thou shouldst allow him the opportunity to refuse a last offer, given in true friendship, wherein I have no profit myself. And perhaps give him the opportunity to recant his uncouthness.”
“I will try because thou art my friend.”
The King left Peter Marlowe and the Korean. The time passed and they waited. Peter Marlowe listened to the story of how Torusumi was pressed into the service and how he had no stomach for war.
Then the King climbed down from the window.
“The man is a pig, a whore of no honor. He spat upon me and said he would spread the word that I was a bad businessman, that he would put me in jail before he would accept less than twenty-four — ”
Torusumi raved and threatened. The King sat quietly and thought, Jesus, I’ve lost my touch, I pushed him too far this time, and Peter Marlowe thought, Christ, why the hell did I have to get mixed up in this?
“Twenty-two,” Torusumi spat.
The King shrugged helplessly, beaten.
“Tell him okay,” he grumbled to Peter Marlowe. “He’s too tough for me. Tell him I’ll have to give up my goddamned commission to make up the difference. The son of a bitch won’t accept a penny less. But where the hell’s my profit in that?”
“Thou art a man of iron,” Peter Marlowe said for the King. “I will tell the miserable owner colonel that he can have his price, but to do this I will have to give up my commission to make up the difference between the price that thou hast offered and the price that he, miserable man, will accept. But where is my profit in that? Business is honorable, but even between friends there should be profit on both sides.”
“Because thou art my friend, I will add one hundred. Then thy face is saved and the next time thou needst not take the business of so avaricious and miserly a patron.”
“I thank thee. Thou art cleverer than I.”
The King handed over the watch in its little chamois case and counted the money from the huge roll of new counterfeit bills. Twenty-two hundred were in a neat pile. Then Torusumi handed over the extra hundred. Smiling. He had outsmarted the King, whose reputation as a fine businessman was common knowledge among all the guards. He could sell the Omega easily for five thousand dollars. Well, at least three-five. Not a bad profit for one guard duty.
Torusumi left the opened pack of Kooas and another full pack as compensation for the bad deal the King had made. After all, he thought, there’s a long war ahead, and business is good. And if the war is short — well, either way, the King would be a useful ally.
“You did very well, Peter.”
“I thought he was going to bust.”
“So did I. Make yourself at home, I’ll be back in a minute.”
The King found Prouty still in the shadows. He gave him nine hundred dollars, the amount that the bitterly unhappy major had reluctantly agreed to, and collected his commission, ninety dollars.
“Things are getting tougher every day,” the King said.
Yes, they are, you bastard, Prouty thought to himself. Still, eight-ten isn’t too bad for a phony Omega. He chuckled to himself that he’d taken the King.
“Terribly disappointed, Corporal. Last thing I owned.” Let’s see, he thought happily, it’ll take us a couple of weeks to get another in shape. Timsen, the Aussie, can handle the next sale.
Suddenly Prouty saw Grey approaching. He scuttled into the maze of huts, melding with the shadows, safe. The King vaulted through a window into the American hut and joined the poker game and hissed at Peter Marlowe, “Pick up the cards for Chrissake.” The two men whose places they had taken calmly kibitzed the game and watched the King deal out the stack of bills until there was a small pile in front of each man, and Grey stood in the doorway.
No one paid him any attention until the King looked up pleasantly. “Good evening. Sir.”
“Evening.” The sweat was running down Grey’s face. “That’s a lot of money.” Mother of God, I haven’t seen so much money in my life. Not all in one place. And what I couldn’t do with just a portion of it.
“We like to gamble, sir.”
Grey turned back into the night. God damn Samson to hell!
The men played a few hands until the all-clear was sounded. Then the King scooped up the money and gave each man a ten and they chorused their thanks. He gave Dino ten for each of the outside guards, jerked his head at Peter, and together they went back to his end of the hut.
“We deserve a cuppa Joe.” The King was a little tired. The strain of being on top was fatiguing. He stretched out on the bed and Peter Marlowe made the coffee.
“I feel I didn’t bring you much luck,” Peter Marlowe said quietly.
“Huh?”
“The sale. It didn’t go too well, did it?”
The King roared. “According to plan. Here,” he said, and peeled off a hundred and ten dollars and gave them to Peter Marlowe. “You owe me two bucks.”
“Two bucks?” He looked at the money. “What’s this for?”
“It’s your commission.”
“For what?”
“Jesus, you don’t think I’d put you to work for nothing, do you? What d’you take me for?”
“I said I was happy to do it. I’m not entitled to anything just for interpreting.”
“You’re crazy. A hundred and eight bucks — ten percent. It isn’t a handout. It’s yours. You earned it.”
“You’re the one who’s crazy. How in the hell can I earn a hundred and eight dollars from a sale of two thousand, two hundred dollars when that was the total price and there was no profit? I’m not taking the money he gave you.”
“You can’t use it? You or Mac or Larkin?”
“Of course I can. But that’s not fair. And I don’t understand why a hundred and eight dollars.”
“Peter, I don’t know how you’ve survived in this world up to now. Look, I’ll make it simple for you. I made ten hundred and eighty bucks on the deal. Ten percent is one hundred and eight. A hundred and ten less two is one hundred and eight. I gave you one hundred and ten. You owe me two bucks.”
“How in the hell did you make all that when — ”
“I’ll tell you. Lesson number one in business. You buy cheap and sell dear, if you can. Take tonight, for instance.” The King happily explained how he had outfoxed Prouty. When he finished, Peter Marlowe was silent for a long time. Then he said, “It seems — well, that seems dishonest.”