He tapped the ashes out of his pipe for emphasis. “Eels too, I don’t like. Lobsters, now there’s something pretty about lobsters. You take a big fifteen-pound bull and watch him flopping around, he looks kinda noble. No sneaking suckers on him, by God.”
“What was the take yesterday?” George said.
“Not so good. I figure this way, somebody’s been robbing our pots, and it ain’t just starfish and eels and octopuses, it’s human. So help me Jesus, if I ever catch them I’ll use the gaff on them. Last time we only brought in eight hundred pounds.”
“Did you settle up with Vasco yesterday?”
“Sure.”
“How much?”
“Jesus, I don’t ask you how much you—”
“I need some cash until tomorrow.”
“We may be going out tomorrow.”
“Don’t kid me,” George said. “You wouldn’t go out without putting the money in the bank and by the time the bank’s open you’ll have your money back, Boy Scout’s honor.”
“I used to be a Boy Scout,” Mix said reminiscently. “Back in St. Louis. The pride of Troop Twenty-Two, and look at me now. I haven’t had a bath in a month. I wash, sure, but washing’s not like having a hot bath. Maybe some day I’ll get me a nice little apartment in town with a bathroom and a kitchen with a refrigerator, cook myself some decent meals for a change. Like this morning, you know what Pete and I had for breakfast? We figured on bacon and eggs, see, with toast. We bring out the bacon and it’s moldy. No butter, no lard. The bread don’t look so good and the eggs are getting kinda old. So Pete cooks them anyway, scrambles them in Dago red to hide the flavor. Sweet Jesus, it’s a wonder my stomach ain’t rotting away.”
“How do you know it’s not?” George said.
“I’m feeling pretty good. I feel pretty good all over except my hand is sore.” He pulled up his shirt and unfastened the money belt he wore around his middle. “How much do you want?”
“Four hundred and fifty-three dollars.”
“I’ll see if I got that much.”
He counted his money, while George watched him, amused. Mix knew down to a cent how much money he had in the belt. When he wasn’t drinking he was inclined to be careful of money, and George knew that Mix, like a lot of other fishermen around the dock who looked like bums, had a very pretty bank balance.
“Yeah,” Mix said. “Yeah, I think I got that much.”
“You know damn well you have.”
“I have to be sure, don’t I? Here. That’s four fifty-seven. Now you give me an I. O. U.”
George wrote an I. O. U. on the back of an envelope. Mix folded the envelope and put it in his money belt with the air of a man who has made a very bad bargain.
“You’ll have it back tomorrow,” George said. “On the honor of Troop Twenty-Two.”
He showed signs of wanting to leave, but Mix pretended not to notice. Mix was in a conversational mood. Often when he was alone on the boat or at one of the fishing camps over in the islands, he planned conversations. He seldom had a chance to use them because the right situation never turned up and it was hard finding a good listener.
“With me,” Mix said, “with me money is a very personal thing. I’m not tight, don’t get that idea.”
“God forbid.”
“No sir. It’s like this. When you make money the hard way like I do, you get kinda interested in what happens to it. I mean, you own it, see, you hold it in your hands maybe a couple of days and then off it goes. Maybe you put it in the bank or lend it to somebody or spend it. No matter what, you have a real personal interest in what happens to it because it belongs to you. For example, if I put a hundred dollars in the bank I like to think of all those bills working and accumulating interest, bringing home the bacon to Poppa. It’s almost like they were kids I was sending out into the world. See what I mean, George?”
“I think so.”
“It don’t sound nuts to you?”
“No.” George patted the pocket containing his wallet. “These kids of yours are going on a trip.”
Mix was pleased.
“Yeah? Where?”
“Missouri.”
“Missouri? Well, I’ll be goddamned, that’s where I come from, St. Louis. Going on an airplane, even?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned.” Mix shook his head. “How’s that for a coincidence, me coming from Missouri and my money going to Missouri. On a plane, too. I never been on a plane.”
“I’ve gotta shove off now, Mix.”
“What’s your hurry?”
“Well, the plane’s leaving pretty soon and the kids here don’t want to miss it. They’re raising hell in my pocket.”
Mix threw back his head and roared. As soon as George left Mix tried to tell a couple of dockhands about the joke, but even though he explained it right from the beginning and told them how funny it was, they didn’t laugh.
George walked carefully across the wharf toward the Beachcomber. The money in his pocket felt heavy and he had half a notion to give it back to Mix, but he couldn’t think of any logical explanation to offer Hazeclass="underline" Listen, Hazel, I’ve got a funny feeling about this money, we shouldn’t mess with it, I’ve got a hunch...
Although it was not yet nine o’clock the Beachcomber was open and Willie was behind the bar straining a martini for the lone customer, an elderly man wearing rimless spectacles and a wrinkled tuxedo.
Neither Willie nor the man paid any attention to George. They were both intent on the work in progress like alchemists about to test the results of a new formula.
“Here you are,” Willie said. “Very dry, like you asked for, Judge.”
“I did not say very dry. My exact words were very, very dry. Subtle difference there, lad.”
“Yes sir, but a martini can only get so dry. When it gets drier, it’s straight gin.”
“Mere rhetoric. A splitting of the hair of the dog that bit me.” Judge Bowridge laughed softly to himself. “You forgot the olives, lad. Three, if you please, on the side.”
“Yes sir.”
“One should never drink without eating. I learned that at my mother’s knee. Anton, she said, Anton, promise me by your dear dead father’s mustache, that you will never drink a martini without olives on the side. I have never violated that sacred trust.”
He picked up the first olive, slipped it off the toothpick and swallowed it whole like an aspirin. It made a little squeaking noise as it passed down his throat.
“Delicious,” he said.
Willie went down to the other end of the counter where George was changing into his white coat. He meant to say something unpleasant and cutting to George for running out on the business the night before but he was afraid to. Instead, he glanced back sourly at Bowridge. “He was sitting on the steps outside when I opened up. I had to let him in.”
“How’d he get here?”
“God knows. His car’s not around.”