The Sand Pebbles (31 page)

“Thanks, Frenchy,” Stawski said.

Holman and Burgoyne bandaged and taped Po-han’s hands. He had much smaller hands than Stawski and the same length of tape would go around several more times. Holman worked carefully, laying firm figure eights around wrist and knuckles and criss-crossing
the back of the hand, casing and bracing all the wrist and hand bones, trying to build striking points solid from knuckles to elbow. Farren watched. Burgoyne talked in a low voice.

“They’re right drunk already, over there,” he said. “Shing and Big Chew are there. There’s a table of oil and tobacco men, too.”

News of the fight had seeped all over Changsha. Businessmen could not ordinarily come to the Red Candle, because they would lose face. But it was all right to come to see a fight.

“They got Maily with ’em and a couple of bottles on their table,” Burgoyne said. “They’re out to make a night of it.”

Holman was lacing up the gloves. Po-han sat hunched under the
pukow
, still with that false calm.

“I guess we’re all set,” Farren said. “Take your man in first, Holman. He’s the challenger.”

“Let’s go, Po-han,” Holman said.

It was warmer in the bar, very noisy and smoky, and the light was dim. The tables were jammed into one end and two strands of heaving line ran across to make a boxing ring of the blind end. It was about twenty feet square of splintery board floor. All the posters were off the walls. A yell went up as they led Po-han across to a chair in one far corner and made him sit down. Burgoyne had a bucket of water there, and a stack of short-time towels and bottles of ammonia and vinegar.

Holman went over the few simple things again with Po-han, in a low voice. He kept glancing at the tables. The businessmen were at far left, five men in the khaki and boots they wore when they went upcountry. They were pretty drunk. Maily had on her brown dress with the round white collar. A tall, good-looking man whom the others called Van was making Maily drink whisky he poured from one of the bottles on their table.

“Them bastards,” Burgoyne said. He was watching too.

The Sand Pebbles had the two tables on the right, and they were very drunk. Franks and Welbeck were there. Duckbutt Randall, on patrol, walked importantly back and forth swinging his club. He was a fat, fair man and he always waggled his rump when he walked.

“That’s Victor Shu, at the center table,” Burgoyne whispered.

It was Holman’s first sight of Shu. He was a big, coarse, dark man in dark European clothes, with a gold watch chain sagging between his vest pockets. Lop Eye Shing and Big Chew, in Chinese gowns, sat at Shu’s table. Shing had been made stakeholder for all the bets. Holman caught Big Chew’s eye and winked. Then the big yell went up.

Stawski was pushing his way through the girls and barboys behind the tables, Mother Chunk clearing a path for him. Stawski came grinning through into the ring and let the
pukow
slip from his shoulders and shook hands with himself over his head. He was big and pink and slabby with muscle, but not very hairy, for a white man. He pawed with his feet and thumbed at his nose and snorted. He was enjoying it. Perna and Crosley pulled him to the corner by the Sand Pebble table and sat him on a chair.

Red Dog was at that table, with a kettle and a big spoon. He was timekeeper. They were all yelling. Farren came over to Holman.

“Sure your man savvies all the rules, Jake? You ready?”

“He savvies. We’re ready.”

“Then send him out fighting.”

Farren signaled Red Dog, who said “Arf! Arf!” and whanged his kettle. Burgoyne lifted the
pukow
. Holman slapped Po-han’s shoulder. “Fight! Hit, hurt! Hit, hurt!” he said urgently.

It was no fight. Stawski clowned it. He was calling his shots, light, glancing blows on Po-han’s face. He started Po-han’s nose bleeding and cut his lips and they were laughing at all the tables. Po-han was not fighting. He bounced and jumped and flailed and slapped with open gloves and Stawski would brush them aside and land wherever he pleased. Po-han kept turning his head to look at Holman, and Stawski could have taken his head off at those times, but he did not want to win that way. “Hey! I’m the guy you’re fighting!” he told Po-han once, and it drew a big laugh. Stawski did a lot of fancy dancing and at the end of the round he went back to his corner puffing and grinning.

Holman and Burgoyne stopped Po-han’s nosebleed. They talked
fiercely to him. They could not stir him up, and they shook their heads at each other.

The next two rounds were about the same. Stawski was slowing, but he had Po-han bleeding above both eyes. Blood was all down Po-han’s front and all he could throw was looping, clubbing downswings that did not bother Stawski at all. Mother Chunk and the girls and the kitchen help crowded in between the tables and they made a solid wall of people yelling there. Farren kept the fight in the center of the cleared space. Po-han’s blood was all over the dusty floor and their leather shoes thumped and shuffled and Stawski’s gloves
splat-splatted
steadily on bloody flesh. Through all the noise Holman could hear Stawski puffing. Holman had insisted on three-minute rounds, hoping for that.

Perna and Crosley looked worried. They sent Stawski out to finish it in the fourth round. He began hitting Po-han as hard as he could. He was big and slabby and gasping and unmarked, except with Po-han’s blood. Po-han’s muscles were cleanly rounded, like separate living things under his blood-smeared skin, and he still bounced like a red rubber ball. Stawski was landing hard, knocking Po-han down now, but Po-han would not stay down long enough for Farren to start a count. He spat out a tooth and his eyes were so swollen that he probably only saw Stawski as a blur, but he landed several solid right hooks to Stawski’s ribs. They were the first real blows he had struck.

“Frenchy! If he can only keep up them hooks!” Holman said.

“Kill him! Kill him!” they were yelling from the tables. Stawski had his lips skinned back and his nostrils splayed and he was trying. Po-han caromed off the gray plaster, leaving bloody marks, and he rose from the bloody, splintery boards with slivers in his flesh, and Stawski slammed him down again. Po-han rose, windmilling blindly, not even facing Stawski. Stawski shrugged and looked at Farren. Farren walked over to raise Stawski’s hand and Red Dog whanged the kettle.

“You son of a bitch!” Perna screamed.

“Arf! Arf! Arf!”

Holman and Burgoyne worked on Po-han with towels and ammonia.
There was no use trying to stop the blood. Po-han spat out another tooth and he was trying to say something through his pulped lips.

“Hammah hammah hammah,” he was saying.

Farren came over. “Throw in the towel, Jake,” he said. “Your man’s dead on his feet.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll stop it. I don’t want him killed. I’m responsible.”

“Po-han’s just starting to fight,” Holman said.

Red Dog banged the kettle. Holman shouldered Farren aside and pushed Po-han out on the floor.

“Hammah hammah hammah!” he told him.

Stawski was shot. He could hardly keep his arms up. Po-han began the right hooking, and even when Stawski took it on his forearms it
thugged
and hurt. Stawski could not get set. It came to Holman what was happening. Po-han’s body was fighting, without any hindrance from his brain, and it was
sledging
Stawski. All the way from the toes, with the fist as striking point, it was pouring its momentum into Stawski and it was killing him. Po-han drove Stawski blindly, gasping and eye-bulging, against the walls and into the tables, spilling drinks, and they were smelling blood and death at the tables. “Kill him! Kill him!” they screamed and the room was one great, smoky scream as they danced and howled there. Stawski went to hands and knees for a nine count and got up again. Po-han doubled him over and, blindly as a machine, sledged him in the jaw. Stawski went down with a
crack
and a
thud
. It was very clear that he was not going to get up again.

Holman half carried Po-han across to the dressing room. Jennings, looking worried, was working on Stawski. He had someone call rickshaws and he took Stawski away to the mission hospital with a broken jaw. He did not have any time to look at Po-han but Tullio, his seaman striker, came to help. Tullio was half drunk but he was very careful and gentle as they sponged Po-han off and stopped the bleeding with collodion and gauze and bandaged him where they could. Tullio pulled out all the slivers with tweezers.

“He’ll have to have a dentist look at that mouth,” Tullio said. “I can’t do anything about that.” He was worried about Po-han. “I wish he’d come out of it,” he said. “He may have concussion.”

They got some whisky into Po-han’s battered mouth, but he would not come out of it. He could neither see nor talk, but he seemed to know Holman and he would do what Holman wanted him to do. They got him dressed and standing outside in the courtyard. It was very noisy across the way in the bar.

“Where can we take him?” Burgoyne asked.

“Back to the ship, I guess,” Holman said. “You want to stand by him while I round up rickshaws?”

Big Chew came out of the bar, walking with a roll and looking very happy.
“Ding hao!”
he said. “I sabby you luck-man, Ho-mang! Long time I sabby!”

“Must take Po-han shipside,” Holman said. “He no good.”

“How fashion shipside?” Big Chew was a bit drunk. “Takee homeside! He wife catch Chinee doctah, fix evahting!”

“Po-han’s got a wife?”

“Shoo, hab got wife! I sabby what side. My cheh takee he.”

Big Chew called out in Chinese and the two coolies squatting beside one of the sedan chairs at the upper end of the courtyard rose and brought it down beside the group. Big Chew gave them directions in Chinese and they had a noisy argument. Holman had not known that Po-han had a wife. He felt he should go along, but he would not be able to talk to them, and Po-han’s wife would probably be very angry. Or she might cry.

“Help me get him in the chair, Jake,” Burgoyne said.

As soon as he felt Holman’s hands, Po-han climbed obediently into the chair. The coolies hoisted it and moved off.

“Frenchy, I hate to just leave him go like that,” Holman said.

“He maskee!” Big Chew said. “Come inside, talkee Shing, catch money!”

“That’s right. Lop Eye’s holding stakes,” Burgoyne said.

“I jus’ now catch plenty money!” Big Chew patted his waist.

“Did you bet on Po-han? Who with?”

“I bet Lop Eye Shing,” Big Chew said. “I takee all he money.”

“I hope not quite all,” Burgoyne said. “Come on, Jake. Let’s us go get ours.”

The bar had a hair-trigger atmosphere that Holman didn’t like. They were all glassy-eyed and all talking at once in voices hoarse from yelling, and they were not listening to each other. Shing was still at Victor Shu’s table. Shu was leaning back and smoking a cigar, his thumbs in his vest pockets. Pleasantly enough, Lop Eye Shing paid off. He gave Burgoyne almost a thousand Mex in new Hankow bills. At one of the Sand Pebble tables someone noticed, and a yell went up.

“Frenchy’s going to buy Maily!”

“Let’s all of us take ’em topside and put ’em to bed!” Perna said.

“Shivaree! Shivaree!” Vincent yelled. They were all on their feet and yelling. “Make ’em dance in their skivvies!” Crosley shouted. They were all ready to go, like gunpowder. It was ugly.

“Get her in back, quick, Frenchy!” Holman said. “I’ll hold ’em here, if I can.” He turned. “Frenchy’s buying drinks for the house!” he yelled. “All you want, on Frenchy! Sit down, guys! Order up!” He waved his arms.

They did not sit down. Holman remembered a glimpse of Maily’s face during the fight, horrified and yet fascinated, and a kind of looseness about her mouth. They had been making her drink. He turned, and Maily was standing up. Her face was white and scared. Burgoyne had one of her wrists and the tall one, Van, had the other.

“Not so fast. Not … so … fast, sailor!” Van was saying. “She’s going to a hotel with us, when we break up here.” Burgoyne said something. “How do you know we won’t pay two hundred and ten?” Van asked.

“I spoke first and the price is already set,” Burgoyne said.

“Prices are set by competition in a free market, eh, Quinn?”

“You tell ’em, Van!” a chunky, snub-nosed civilian said. “You got yourself some competition, sailor,” he told Burgoyne.

“How about it, Mr. Shu? Two-ten takes her, right?” Van said.

Shu rolled his cigar. “Maybe the sailor can pay that much. He did speak first.”

The Sand Pebbles were crowding in close, jostling Holman. All the khaki-clad civilians were standing up, bunching behind Van. Only Shu’s table separated them. It was not good. Duckbutt Randall pushed through and beat on Shu’s table with his club.

“All right, all right, break it up!” he shouted. “Spread back, you guys! Let go of that girl!”

“You got no authority over me,” Van told Duckbutt. “This is still a free country.”

Duckbutt sputtered. “This is a free and independent whorehouse and Victor Shu owns it,” he said. “What Mr. Shu says goes. Anybody don’t like it, they can go back where they come from!”

He scowled at Van. He knew civilians had no business in the Red Candle. Duckbutt liked to feel important, and he was in his glory.

“All right, I’ll pay two-ten,” Burgoyne said angrily.

“Two-twenty,” Van said.

“Auction! Auction!” Quinn yelled. “How about it, Mr. Shu? Make it an auction?”

Shu puffed blue smoke and shrugged. “Why not?”

It took the Sand Pebbles’ drunken fancy and the explosion faded back. “Hey! Hey! Auction!” they yelled, and helped Quinn pull a table out into the cleared space. They lifted Maily up on it and Quinn climbed up beside her. Maily’s lips were trembling and she kept closing her eyes. Burgoyne looked very angry.

“Hey day! Hey day!” Quinn shouted. “Just
look
at this merchandise! What am I bid for this fine piece of girl flesh?”

“Two-thirty,” Burgoyne said.

“And forty,” Van said.

“Three hundred,” Burgoyne said.

They loosed a cheer. Maily had her hands clenched beside her, her head back and her eyes closed. She had blue cloth shoes and no stockings and her knees were trembling. All eyes were on her and Holman felt the change in the crowd. They were remembering all over again that she was a virgin in a whorehouse. Van was hesitating,