“You’re late.”
“Bus was late, mon. Blame her, not me.”
The bartender didn’t bother to answer. He removed his apron, ducked under the counter and came up puffing, reaching for his jacket on a hook next to the mirror in the same motion.
“See you tomorrow.”
She nodded, watched him close the door behind him, then opened a cabinet door beneath the shelf of bottles under the mirror, stowing away her scarf and her handkerchief with her money wrapped in it, island style. She turned, moving gracefully toward McNeil, disregarding the hammering of glasses requesting her attention. She leaned over the bar, her blouse gaping, speaking softly.
“Hello, Bill.”
He had watched her entrance, his face showing animation for the first time that day. He smiled at her and reached out, taking her hand in his.
“Hello, Diana, sweet.”
“Your beer is flat, honey. Let me get you another. Or would you rather rum?”
“Rum, I think, now you’re here.” He released her hand and shook his head admiringly. “You know something, sweet? You get prettier every day. Every day!”
The other customers were getting restive, impatient. Not only was the man occupying the barmaid’s time a newcomer to town — one week, no more — but he was an ex-convict, fifteen years in a Brazilian jail, with a policeman on his heels day and night, a disgrace to the village. My word! But whether he was a newcomer or not, a jailbird or not — these weren’t the questions. The fact was that pub custom the world over demanded that attention from a barmaid be parceled out equally — and not just in service, but in smiles and jokes as well. Everybody knew that, or should. My word! One of the fishermen closest to the pair, young and handsome himself, leaned over the bar to impart this basic knowledge to these obviously uninformed persons.
“Look, sweetheart, more than one fish in this here ocean. We did a hard day on the boats, not loafing like some I could mention. Lots of us here anxious for a touch of grog.” His hand reached out, touching the girl’s cheek. “And a bright smile with it wouldn’t go amiss, neither.”
The fisherman suddenly found himself grasped, lifted bodily, and flung through the crowd, bouncing off the startled bystanders. He tripped and fell ignominiously, and then came to his feet instantly, his eyes narrowed, a fish-gutting knife suddenly in his hand with a gesture few had seen. The girl half-screamed.
“Bill!”
“Don’t you worry, honey.”
McNeil chuckled and shoved his way to the center of the room. A large circle instantly formed around the two men; those along the wall and in the booths stood on chairs and benches to get a better view. The fisherman in the center of the ring stood alert; the muscles of his opponent didn’t impress him at all. He had a razor-sharp knife and much practice in its use. And he knew he was thinner, younger, and faster than the other. With the knife it should be no problem. Still, to make the first move and miss could be disastrous; the big man looked mean and tough, and also not without experience. No, let him make the first move and blunder into death.
McNeil moved about the other slowly, flat-footedly, arms half-extended, fingers flexed; the fisherman pivoted on the balls of his feet in the center of the room, always facing the big man, the knife a constant threat, never wavering. The crowd held its breath. The knife was held waist-high, edge up, point slightly depressed. McNeil recognized the professionalism of the stance, but the death’s-head grin on his big black face never wavered.
Then, swift as a snake, he shot one of his huge arms forward and instantly retracted it. The fisherman had been expecting such a move, awaiting it; his response was equally swift, the knife slashing out expertly, and being brought back to the ready in almost the same motion. But the armed fisherman was not prepared for the result of his sudden riposte. He knew well that he had not touched the other, yet the big man was falling to the floor. The man with the knife hesitated a fraction of a second, confused; the time lost was his undoing. McNeil landed on his hands and twisted at the same time, shooting a leg up like a piston. It caught the other man under the jaw, knocking him sprawling and unconscious against one of the booths. He lay there, his arm flung wide, the knife drooping from it.
Utter silence, the silence of disbelief, had fallen on the bar. McNeil pivoted easily, rising to his feet. He walked over, smiling grimly at his fallen opponent, and then brutally kicked him alongside the jaw. There was a gasp from the crowd; he paid it no attention. He bent and picked up the knife, jabbed it deep into the oaken floor, and bent it until the blade snapped. This time the gasp was louder, somehow even more outraged; a fish-gutting knife cost the equivalent of two day’s earnings. McNeil tucked the useless weapon in the belt of the unconscious man and straightened up, facing the silent group.
“It’s fifteen years since I’ve been around here, and I guess everybody’s new, or you were all too young, or maybe everybody just forgot me. Well, now you’ll remember.” He looked down at the man on the floor; blood was running from his cheek where he had been kicked the second time. “One of the things you learn in a Brazilian quod,” he said coldly. “They call it capoeira. He’ll live. We don’t swing for no man, my word!” His eyes came up, challenging. “Now, anyone else here want to argue about the service I get here?”
The men remained still, frozen. He pushed his way back to the bar, the crowd parting easily before him. The girl was staring at him wide-eyed. He smiled at her.
“I’ll take that rum now, honey.”
She turned slowly to reach for a bottle. There was the beginning of a shuffling as the men came alive again. Three of them raised the unconscious man and carried him out the front door; most of the others followed. Several still had mugs of beer on the bar; they swallowed them hurriedly and left, their yellowish eyes veiled, their black faces expressionless. The girl poured the drink and put the bottle back on the shelf. When she turned, his smile had changed to a wide grin.
“Like that little exhibition, honey?”
“You didn’t have to kick him when he was through,” she said quietly.
“That breaks the mon’s spirit, honey. The truth. I don’t kick him, he gets another knife and comes after me tonight down at the shack when I’m asleep. This way he feels that lump on his jaw and thinks twice. Then he forgets all about it. You see?”
“And you drove all the custom away, too.” The girl’s voice was stubborn. “The boss’ll want to know where all the money is, come tomorrow.”
“Money?” McNeil laughed, his deep bass booming. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about money, sweet. I told you that before. Anyway, tonight I’ll drink enough to put the bloody till even. My word! Why, all those poor trash fishermen did was nurse a mug of ale all night. You call that custom? I’ll show you custom. I’ve got a fifteen-year-old thirst and the means to satisfy it, too!”
He laughed and slapped at the pocket where he kept his wallet. His laugh froze a moment and then disappeared; his grin swiftly changed to a scowl. He patted the pocket once again and then the rest of his pockets. His face became murderous.