Big Kiss-Off

The six men, so much clay on the tide-swept mud lump, were dead. They had been dead some days, Cade imagined, dead of thirst and starvation.

Cade raised his eyes to a low-lying fringe of green, misty in the brightening dawn; the mainland, less than eighteen miles away. But so far as the men on the barren mud lump were concerned, it might have been eighteen hundred miles! Few boats ever came here. Now and then a fisherman taking a short cut to Grande Terre or Barataria Bay, or an occasional guided party of sports down from New Orleans after tarpon or ducks.

A small man, compactly built, barefooted, wearing only a pair of old dungarees, Cade lighted the pressure stove in the galley and put a pot of coffee to boil. Then, sucking at his first cigarette of the day, he returned to the open cockpit of the cruiser and resumed his study of the bodies. Morning was warm. Day was going to be hot. It was so still on the motionless water that the hollow silence subtly disturbed him. As closely as Cade could ascertain without breaking out the dinghy and rowing ashore, two of the dead had been Chinese. The other four could have been nationals of any country.

Cade spat on the glasslike surface of the water. Some of the boys, it would seem, were still in business. He wished he’d picked another anchorage last night, when it had been far too dark to make out the bodies. He wished he’d
stood further out in the Gulf. If he had known, he wouldn’t have come within forty miles of the south mud lump.

When the coffee had boiled, he forced himself to drain a cup of it black, smoking a second cigarette, sitting in one of the fancy fishing chairs bolted to the deck plates. He tried to concentrate on admiring the trim lines of his new thirty-eight-foot cruiser. He tried to think of how nice it was to sit in the sun, to feel the sea air on his face, how nice to be able to come and go as he pleased. Yalu, Pyongyang, Panmunjom were fast becoming just names, names of far places out of a bitter dream.

But his mind kept returning to windward. After two years of millet and rice and fish heads and dysentery, his stomach was queasy enough without this. It was surprising that the men caught in the tangle of grass and dead trees and driftwood had stayed on the flat as long as they had. The next flood tide would sweep them out to sea and there would be nothing on the green surface of the Gulf but mud and dead trees and silence.

Cade poured a second cup of coffee but before he could raise it to his lips he lost the first cup he’d drunk.

When the retching ceased, he swore softly under his breath. Always one bad oyster in a barrel. So a government cutter had gotten too close and some of the boys had almost been caught with a hot cargo. They’d been well paid to take that chance.

Depressed, he tinkered with the misfiring engine which had caused him to anchor the night before. The trouble proved to be minor. When the engine was running to suit him, he cut in its twin to make sure he wouldn’t drift onto the flat, then up-anchored and felt his way back through the shallows. Out in the blue water again, he pushed the throttle wide open, holding for South Pass. Cade fingered his pencil-line mustache. He should have stayed in blue water.

He should have done a lot of things.

The day fulfilled its promise of heat, and he began to cheer up a bit. The hot sun felt good on his back. He liked the taste of the salt spray on his face. It felt natural — right. It was as if the past twelve years had never been.

Still, Cade was fair. He had to admit that five of the twelve years away from Bay Parish had been fun. He pushed his white captain’s cap back on his crisp black hair, as he admired the wake the ship was leaving. He’d traveled fast. He’d flown a lot of wing. He’d drunk a lot of rum. He’d planted some very delightful oats in very beautiful, if unfertile, soil.

The hot deck plates burned his bare feet. Cade wished he hadn’t thought of Janice. On the other hand, there’d be no real reason for her to wait. She was young. She was lovely. She had her own way to make. Who did he think he was? Washed-up Sabrejet pilots were a dime a dozen.

The day continued clear and hot. By noon he was back in the ship lanes, then he lost four hours when his port engine, stiff and new, cut out again. The Gulf had turned a deep purple by the time he entered South Pass. It was dusk when he cleared Pilottown and almost dark when he cut his engines and nosed into the hyacinth-choked slip beside the rotting wooden pier in front of the old frame house in which he had been born.

Neither the house nor Bay Parish had changed, at least on the surface. The old house back of the levee was merely more neglected and weathered than it had been. There’d been some improvements on the levees and the jetties. A few more canals had been dug. There was a new name over the poolroom. The shrimp cannery had changed hands. Sal had bought a big red neon sign that spelled out —
FOOD AND DRINKS
. But, on the whole, Bay Parish was as he had left it.

An aged Negro fishing in the canal laid down his cane pole and came over to where Cade was making fast his Unes. The old man was troubled. “Excusin’ I say it, captain, but that’s Cade Cain’s landin’.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Cade grinned. “I know. And I hit it right on the head — all the way from Tokyo.”

The old man peered through the gathering dusk. “Why, glory be. Hit’s you!” He touched the brim of his hat and, his wrinkled face wreathed in a toothless smile, he hobbled up the grass-grown road to town, eager to be the first to spread the news that Colonel Cade Cain was back from the war.

Cade finished making fast. From here on in, he had it
made. He’d spent all his red-line and severance pay for the
Sea Bird
. He had just a five-dollar bill in his pocket. But there was food for the taking. The marshes and bayous and reefs were loaded with wild rice, ducks, shrimp, oysters. There was no better fishing anywhere. One party of sports a week would pay for his gas. All he had to do now was live.

The boat fast, Cade realized he was hungry. He lighted the pressure lantern in the galley and opened a can of beans and got out a loaf of bread. The first spoonful of cold beans gagged him. He didn’t want beans and baker’s bread. He wanted a drink of orange wine. He wanted some fresh fried roe and a tomato-and-onion omelette. With hot garlic bread, the way Nicolene Salvatore fixed it. And maybe a mess of frog legs to follow. Cade’s mouth watered at the thought. He could worry about money in the morning. He wasn’t going anywhere. He’d been.

He put on a clean shirt and sneakers and pants and walked up the grass-carpeted road. He could smell orange-blossoms and fish, oakum and fresh paint and the sweet-sour fragrance of the tide flats. Cade filled his lungs with air and held it. Jesus Christ, it was good to be home, he thought reverently.

He passed a group of giggling teen-aged girls. All of them looked after him, but none of them knew him. They’d been babies when he had left. Old man Dobraviche was standing in front of the poolroom. The retired river pilot insisted on shaking hands. “Welcome home, boy,” he said warmly.

Cade smiled.

The news that he was back had spread. A dozen other men stopped him to say they were glad he was home. Miss Spence, the postmistress, kissed him.

Cade’s glow continued to grow. It was nice to be liked, to be wanted. If Janice hadn’t been such a greedy little bitch, she could have made his homecoming complete. Final divorce papers were a hell of a first-night bed partner when a man had been in a POW camp for two years. Still, Janice wouldn’t have liked Bay Parish.

Salvatore’s smelled familiar, of good food and orange wine and beer. Only the neon sign was new. The barroom was, as always, blue with smoke and crowded with fisher-and
oyster-men and truck farmers and grove owners.

A chorus of shy “Hi Cade,” and “Welcome home” greeted him. Cade, suddenly shy in turn, returned the greetings and sat in one of the booths against the wall. His throat felt strained. His lips ached from grinning. Being home was going to take some getting used to.

Sal was especially glad to see him. His teeth white against his swart face, the big Portuguese brought a quart of orange wine from the bar and set it and a glass in front of Cade. “It’s nice to have you back. Tonight the eats and drinks are on the house. It’s been some time.”

“Twelve years.”

“So Mamma and I were figuring. These last two, pretty bad, hey?”

“They weren’t too good.”

Salvatore was sympathetic. “Yeah. We figured that. And we were tickled, believe me, when we saw your name on the list of released prisoners. Now you’re through with this flying business?”

“So the Air Force says.”

Sal squeezed Cade’s arm. “Good — good! Now let Mamma make you some dinner. Say, fresh fried roe. A nice tomato-and-onion omelette. With garlic bread. And then a big plate of crisp fried saddles in batter.”

Some of the strained feeling left Cade’s throat. “You must be reading my mind.”

Salvatore’s booming laughter filled the bar. “I remember, hey? Once a good customer by Sal’s, Sal always remembers.”

He strode off to the kitchen to give the order to mamma. Cade sipped at the orange wine. It was as good as he’d remembered it. He drank the wine and refilled the glass. As he set the bottle back on the scarred table, something cut off most of the light in the booth and he looked up to see Joe Laval and the Squid standing in front of the table. Neither man had changed. They were just the same, only twelve years older. The gaunt Cajun sheriff still looked like a weasel. His deputy had been well named. The Squid was still mostly doughy white face and massive arms.

“Just come in from outside, huh?” Laval asked.

Cade sipped at the wine he’d poured. “That’s right.”

“By which pass?”

“South Pass.”

“Come straight from where?”

“From Corpus.”

“On compass all the way?”

The question irritated Cade. He considered telling Laval it was none of his business, but he didn’t want any trouble on his first night home. It could be Laval had a good reason for asking. “I got a little off course,” Cade admitted. “A spot of engine trouble.”

“Near where?”

Cade took a cigarette from the package in his shirt pocket and palmed it into his mouth. He’d never liked Joe Laval. Twelve years of absence hadn’t made him any fonder. He wondered if Joe was still bird-dogging for Tocko Kalavitch. It would be like Tocko to maroon six men rather than risk taking a fall. Cade ran a finger across his hairline mustache. “Why all the questions?”

“I’ve a reason,” Laval said. “Where did you break down?”

Cade watched the other man’s face as he answered, “Not far from the big south mud lump. In fact, I almost grounded on it in the dark.”

Laval waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, the thin-faced man exhaled slowly, almost as if he’d been holding his breath. “Oh,” he said, “I see.” He straightened the collar of his crumpled white linen suit. “Let’s take a little walk, huh, Cade?”

“Why?” Cade asked, flatly.

“Tocko wants to welcome you home.”

Cade thought of the suave Slavonian as he’d seen him last. If there was anyone in Bay Parish he liked less than Joe Laval, it was Tocko Kalavitch. There was nothing Tocko hadn’t done, or wouldn’t do, for money. His shrimp trawlers and his oyster fleet always showed a profit.