Saint Jack Read Online Free Page B

chosen to sulk upstairs, lying about clubs we didn’t belong to. It made me sad, like the pictures hidden in my back pocket I would never admit to having: two grown men practicing lies, and why?
    Big Hing came out in his pajamas and gave Leigh that secret society stare. Hing was not a member; he was a paid-up victim of the Red Eleven, who controlled Beach Road and collected “coffee money” for protection. The payment gave Hing a certain standing, for having victimized him the Red Eleven would stick by him and fight anyone who tried to squeeze him. Leigh handed over a letter, and we waited while Hing gnawed the sealing wax from the flap. He put on his old wire glasses and read the column of characters, then he smiled his angry eyeless smile and nodded at Leigh.
    â€œI trust everything is in order,” said Leigh to Hing.
    It was a wasted remark; Hing was muttering to Little Hing, and Little replied by muttering into the racing form he held against his face.
    â€œWhere’s our friend going to put up?” I asked.
    â€œBooked at the Strand,” said Big Hing. “Can come tomorrow.” He picked up his grandson and bounced the trouserless little feller to show the interview was over.
    The Strand Hotel was on Scotts Road, diagonally across the road from the Tanglin Club. As we were pulling into the Strand’s driveway, under the arch with the sign reading
European Cuisine
—
Weddings
—
Parties
—
Reasonable Prices
, Leigh saw the Tanglin signboard and said, “Why don’t we pop over for a drink?”
    I let my watch horrify me. “God,” I said, “it’s nearly half past six. That place is a madhouse this time of day. Fellers having a drink after work. Look, William, I know a quiet little—”
    â€œI’d love to have a look at those new squash courts of yours,” he said. He hit me hard on the arm and said heartily, “Come
on
, Flowers, I’ll buy you a drink.” He gave his suitcase to the room-boy at the Strand, signed the register, and then clapped his stomach with two hands. “Ready?”
    â€œI’ll buy you a drink,” said Leigh, but that was impossible because money was not allowed and only a member could sign chits. The brass plaque on the club entrance— MEMBERS ONLY— mocked us both. I looked for someone I knew, but all I could see were tanned long-legged mothers, fine women in toweling smocks, holding beach bags and children’s hands, waiting for their
syce
-driven cars after a day at the club pool. They were eagerly whispering to each other, and laughing; the sight of that joy lifted my heart—I couldn’t help but think they were plotting some trivial infidelity.
    â€œThe new squash courts are over there,” I said, stepping nimbly past the doorman and bounding up the stairs.
    â€œDrink first,” said Leigh. “I’m absolutely parched.” He was enjoying himself and he seemed right at home. He led the way into the Churchill Room, and “Very agreeable” he said, twice, as he looked for an opening at the bar.
    The Churchill Room had just been renovated: thick wall-to-wall carpets, a new photograph of Winston, a raised bar, and a very efficient air-conditioning system. In spite of the cool air I was perspiring, a damp panel of shirt clung to my back; I was searching for a familiar face, someone I knew who might sign a drink chit. The bar was packed with men in white shirts and ties, some wearing stiff planter’s shorts, standing close to the counter in groups of three or four, braying to their companions or sort of climbing over each other and waving chit pads at the barmen. Leigh was pushing ahead of me and I had just reached out to tap him on the shoulder and tell him I had remembered something important—my nerve had failed me so completely I could not think what, and prayed for necessity’s inspiration—when I saw old Gunstone over in the corner at