“Do herself a damage,” said Smale.
“’orrible,” said Coony.
“This one’s all blokes,” said Yardley. “All sort of connected up. I wonder why that one’s wearing red socks.”
“Are there names for this sort of thing?” asked Yates.
“I’d call that one ‘The Bowling-Hold,’” said Frogget.
“Hey, Wally, come here,” said Yardley.
“Leave him alone,” I said.
“See what he does,” said Yardley.
Wallace Thumboo came over, grinning; he glanced down at the pictures, then looked away, into space.
“What do you think of that, Wally old boy?”
“Nice,” said Wally. He looked at the ceiling.
“Cut it out,” I said. “He doesn’t like them. I don’t blame you, Wally. They’re awful, aren’t they?”
“Little bit,” he said, and screwed up his face, making it plead.
“You said they were nice, you lying sod!” Yardley shouted. Wally wrung his hands. Yardley turned to me. “You’re a bloody hypocrite, Jack.”
“These photographs are shocking,” said Yates. “What kind of people—”
“And he’s the one who sells this rubbish!” said Yardley.
“Not this stuff,” I said. “The other stuff, but only if they ask.”
Edwin Shuck asked. He phoned me one morning at Hing’s and said, “You don’t know me—”
“Yes, I do,” I said, snappishly. I had wanted for a long time to put one of these yo-yos in his place, and this was the day to do it: out in the van a consignment of frozen meat for the Strode was going soft in the sun. Little Hing was double-parked on Beach Road and beeping the horn. The Strode had a right to refuse the meat if it wasn’t frozen solid, which meant we would have to sell it cheap to a hotel kitchen. “You met a horny feller somewhere who said he was a pal of mine, right?” I accused. “And he told you to look me up, right? You don’t want to take too much of my time, just have a drink, right? And after that—”
“Not so fast,” he said.
“Friend,” I said, “the only thing I don’t know about you is your name.”
“Why don’t we have lunch? Then I can tell you my name.”
“I’m busy.”
“After work.”
“For Christ’s sake, don’t you understand? My meat’s getting all thawed out!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My meat’s in the van,” I said.
“I won’t argue about it,” he said.
“So long, then,” I said.
“Give me a chance,” he said. “Surely the Bandung can spare you for one night.”
The Bandung was my private funk hole: “What is your name, friend?”
And: “Eddie Shuck, pleased to meet you,” he said that evening in the floodlit garden of the Adelphi. I had just come from the Strode, where I had spent the whole afternoon on a shady part of the breezy deck playing gin rummy with the chief steward.
“Hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” I said.
“Not at all,” said Shuck. “What’ll you have?”
“I usually have a pink gin about this time of day.”
“That’s a good navy drink,” he said, and he called out, “Boy!” to the waiter.
I found that objectionable, but something interested me about this Edwin Shuck. It was his lisp — not an ordinary lisp, the tongue lodged between the teeth, that gives the point to the joke about the doctor who examines the teen-age girl with a stethoscope and says, “Big breaths”; Shuck’s was the parted fishmouth: his folded tongue softened and wetted every sibilant into a spongy drunken buzz. He prolonged “Flowers” with the buzz, and what was endearing was that his lisp prevented him from saying his own name correctly.
“Got some homework, I see.”
“This?” I had a thick envelope on my lap, pornography from the Strode, a parting gift from the friendly steward. I said, “Filthy pictures.”
“Seriously?” Buzz, buzz; he lisped companionably.
“The real McCoy,” I said.
“Can I have a look?”
We were the only ones in the garden. I put the envelope on the table and pulled out the pictures. I said, “If anyone comes out here, turn them over, quick. We could be put in the cooler for these.”
“You’ve sure got enough of them!”
“They’re in sets. Get them in sequence. Ah, there we are. Starts off nice, all the folks in their skivvies having a cozy drink in the living room.”
“What’s the next one?” Shuck was impatient.
“Now we’re in the bedroom. A few preliminaries, I guess you could call that.”
“Kind of a group thing, huh? That gal—”
The waiter came over with our drinks. I flipped the large envelope over the pictures. I wasn’t afraid of being arrested for them, but the thought of that old polite Chinese waiter seeing them embarrassed me. Pornography affected me that way: I could not help thinking that whoever looked at the stuff was responsible for what was happening in the picture. That girl, that dog; those kneeling men and vaulting women; those flying bums. A single look included you in the act and completed it. Until you looked it was unfinished.
“Down the old canal,” said Shuck, guzzling his fresh lime. “Hey, is that the guy’s arm or what?”
“No, that’s his bugle.”
“His what?”
“Pecker, I think.” I turned it over. “Here are your Japanese ones.”
“You can’t see their faces,” he said. “How do you know they’re Japs?”
“By their feet. See? That’s your Japanese foot.”
“It’s in a damned strange position.”
“This one’s blurry. Can’t make heads or tails of it.”
“Wise guy.” Shuck laughed. “What else have you got?”
“I’ve seen this bunch before,” I said. “From some hamlet in Denmark.”
“I wonder why that guy’s wearing red socks?”
“Search me,” I said. “Got some more — here we are. God, I hate these. I really pity those poor animals.”
“Labrador retriever,” said Shuck. “Foaming at the mouth.”
“Poor bugger,” I said. “Well, that’s the lot.”
“Huh?” Shuck was surprised. He didn’t speak at once. He frowned and said thoughtfully, “Haven’t you got any where the guy’s on top and the girl’s on the bottom, and they’re — well, you know, screwing?”
“Funnily enough,” I said, “no. Not the missionary position.”
“That’s a riot,” said Shuck.
“It’s pitiful,” I said. “There’s not much call for that kind. Here, you can have these if you want. My compliments. Strictly for horror interest.”
“That’s mighty neighborly,” said Shuck. “Shall we eat here?”
“Up to you,” I said. “What time is your plane leaving?”
“I’m not taking any plane,” said Shuck. “I live here.”
“What business are you in? I’ve never seen you around town.”
“This and that,” he said. “I do a lot of traveling.”
“Where to?”
“K.L., Bangkok, Vientiane,” he said. “Sometimes Saigon. How about you? How long do you aim to stay in Singapore?”
“As long as my citronella holds out,” I said. “What’s Saigon like?”
“Not much,” said Shuck. “I was there when the balloon went up.”
I didn’t press him. He was either a spy and wouldn’t admit to it, of course; or he was a businessman who was ashamed to say so and took pleasure in trying to give me the impression he was a spy. In any case, hemming and hawing, a mediocre adventurer.
We had a meal at the Sikh restaurant on St. Gregory’s Place and then went on to a nightclub, the Eastern Palace, where Hing had taken me in my Allegro days. Shuck fed me questions — about hustling, the fantastic rumors (a new one: was I the feller who appeared in What’s-his-name’s novel?), the “meat run,” Dunroamin, short-time rates, all-nighters. It was the same interview I got from other fellers, the gabbing that was like a substitute for the real thing.