The Dark of the Sun - Smith Wilbur - Страница 4

• Предыдущая
• 4/69
• Следующая

distinction of following the second oldest profession - we, the

mercenaries. "The oldest profession is better paid and much more fun,"

said Bruce and swung the truck into the driveway of a double-storeyed

residence, parked outside the front door and switched off the engine.

Not long ago the house had been the home of the chief accountant of

Union Mini&e du Haut, now it was the billet of V section, Special

Striker Force, commanded by Captain Bruce Curry.

Half a dozen of his black gendarmes were sitting on the low wall of the

verandah, and as Bruce came up the front steps they shouted the greeting

that had become traditional since the United Nations intervention.

"U. N. - Merde!"

"Ah!" Bruce grinned at them in the sense of companionship that had grown

up between them in the past months.

"The cream of the Army o Katanga I He offered his cigarettes around and

stood chatting idly for a few minutes before asking, "Where's Sergeant

Major?" One of the gendarmes jerked a thumb at the glass doors that led

into the lounge and Bruce went through with Mike behind him.

Equipment was piled haphazardly on the expensive furniture, the stone

fireplace was half filled with empty bottles, a gendarme lay snoring on

the Persian carpet, one of the oil paintings on the wall had been ripped

by a bayonet and the frame hung askew, the imbuia-wood coffee table

tilted drunkenly towards its broken leg, and the whole lounge smelled of

men and cheap tobacco.

"Hello, Ruffy, said Bruce.

"Just in time, boss." Sergeant Major Ruffararo grinned delightedly from

the armchair which he was overflowing.

"These goddam Arabs have run fresh out of folding stuff." He gestured at

the gendarmes that crowded about the table in front of him.

"Arab" was Ruffy's word of censure or contempt, and bore no relation to

a man's nationality.

Ruffy's accent was always a shock to Bruce. You never expected to hear

pure Americanese come rumbling out of that huge black frame. But three

years previously Ruffy had returned from a scholarship tour of the

United States with a command of the idiom, a diploma in land husbandry,

a prodigious thirst for bottled beer (preferably Schlitz, but any other

was acceptable) and a raving dose of the Old Joe.

The memory of this last, which had been a farewell gift from a high

yellow sophomore of U. C.L. A returned most painfully to Ruffararo when

he was in his cups; so painfully that it could be assuaged only by

throwing the nearest citizen of the United States.

Fortunately, it was only on rare occasions that an American and the

necessary five or six gallons of beer were assembled in the same

vicinity so that Ruffy's latent race antipathy could find expression.

A throwing by Ruffy was an unforgettable experience, both for the victim

and the spectators. Bruce vividly recalled that night at the

Hotel Lido when he had been a witness at one of Ruffy's most spectacular

throwings.

The victims, three of them, were journalists representing

publications of repute. As the evening wore on they talked louder; an

American accent has a carry like a well-hit golf ball and Ruffy

recognized it from across the terrace. He became silent, and in his

silence drank the last gallon which was necessary to tip the balance.

He wiped the froth from his upper lip and stood up with his eyes

fastened on the party of Americans.

"Ruffy, hold it. Hey!" - Bruce might not have spoken.

Ruffy started across the terrace. They saw him coming and fell

into an uneasy silence.

The first was in the nature of a practice throw; besides, the man was

not aero-dynamically constructed and his stomach had too much wind

resistance. A middling distance of twenty feet.

"Ruffy, leave them!" shouted Bruce.

On the next throw Ruffy was getting warmed up, but he put excessive loft

into it. Thirty feet; the journalist cleared the terrace and landed on

the lawn below with his empty glass still clutched in his hand.

"Run, you fool!" Bruce warned the third victim, but he was paralysed.

And this was Ruffy's best ever, he took a good grip neck and seat of the

pants - and put his whole weight into it. Ruffy must have known that he

had executed the perfect throw, for his shout of

"Gonorrhoea!"

as he launched his man had a ring of triumph to it.

Afterwards, when Bruce had soothed the three Americans, and they had

recovered sufficiently to appreciate the fact that they were privileged

by being party to a record throwing session, they all paced out the

distances. The three journalists developed an almost proprietary

affection for Ruffy and spent the rest of the evening buying him beers

and boasting to every newcomer in the bar. One of them, he who had been

thrown last and farthest, wanted to do an article on Ruffy - with

pictures. Towards the end of the evening he was talking wildly of

whipping up sufficient enthusiasm to have a man-throwing event included

in the Olympic Games.

Ruffy accepted both their praise and their beer with modest gratitude;

and when the third American offered to let Ruffy throw him again, he

declined the offer on the grounds that he never threw the same man

twice. All in all, it had been a memorable evening.

Apart from these occasional lapses, Ruffy had a more powerful body and

happier mind than any man Bruce had ever known, and Bruce could not

help liking him. He could not prevent himself smiling as he tried to

reject Ruffy's invitation to play cards.

"We've got work to do now, Ruffy. Some other time."

"Sit down, boss," Ruffy repeated, and Bruce grimaced resignedly and took

the chair opposite him.

"How much you going to bet?" Ruffy leaned forward.

Bruce laid a thousand-franc note on the table; "when that's gone, then

we go."

"No hurry," Ruffy soothed him. "We got all day." He dealt the three

cards face down. "The old Christian monarch is in there somewhere; all

you got to do is find him and it's the easiest mille you ever made."

"in the middle," whispered the gendarme standing beside Bruce's chair.

"That's him in the middle."

"Take no notice of that mad Arab - he's lost five mille already this

morning," Ruffy advised.

Bruce turned over the right-hand card.

"Mis-luck," crowed Ruffy. "You got yourself the queen of hearts."

He picked up the banknote and stuffed it into his breast pocket.

"She'll see you wrong every time, that sweetfaced little bitch."

Grinning, he turned over the middle card to expose the jack of spades

with his sly eyes and curly little mustache. "She's been shacked up

there with the jack right under the old king's nose." He turned the king

face up.

"Look you at that dozy old guy - he's not even facin in the right

direction." Bruce stared at the three cards and he felt that sickness in

his stomach again. The whole story was there; even the man's name

was right, but the jack should have worn a beard and driven a red Jaguar

and his queen of hearts never had such innocent eyes. Bruce spoke

abruptly. "That's it, Ruffy. I want you and ten men to come with me."

"Where we going?"

"Down to Ordinance - we're drawing special supplies."

• Предыдущая
• 4/69
• Следующая