January 31 Killed another gull, the same way I did the first. I was too hungry to torture it the way I had been promising myself. I gutted and ate it. Squeezed the tripes and then ate them, too. It’s strange how you can feel your vitality surge back I was beginning to get scared there, for a while. Lying in the shade of the big central rockpile, I’d think i was hearing voices. My father. My mother. My ex-wife. And worst of all the big Chink who sold me the heroin in Saigon. He had a lisp, possibly from a partially cleft, palate.
“Go ahead,” his voice came out of nowhere. “Go ahead and think a little. You won’t notice how hungry you are then. It’s beautiful…” But I’ve never done dope, not even sleeping pills.
Lowenthal killed himself, did I tell you that? That sheep. He hanged himself in what used to be his office. The way I look at it, he did the world a favor.
I wanted my shingle back. Some of the people I talked to said it could be done—but it would cost big money. More grease than I’d ever dreamed of. I had $40,000 in a safe-deposit box. I decided I’d have to take a chance and try to turn it over. Double or triple it.
So I went to see Ronnie Hanelli. Ronnie and I played football together in college, and when his kid brother decided on internal med, I helped him get a residency. Ronnie himself was in pre-law, how’s that for funny? On the block when we were growing up we called him Ronnie the Enforcer because he umped all the stickball games and reffed the hockey. If you didn’t like his calls, you had your choice—you could keep your mouth shut or you could eat knuckles. The Puerto Ricans called him Ronniewop. All one word like that. Ronniewop. Used to tickle him. And that guy went to college, and then to law school, and he breezed through his bar exam the first time he took it, and then he set up shop in the old neighborhood, right over the Fish Bowl Bar. I close my eyes and I can still see him cruising down the block in that white Continental of his. The biggest fucking loan shark in the city.
I knew Ronnie would have something for me. “It’s dangerous,” he said. “But you could always take care of yourself. And if you can get the stuff back in, I’ll introduce you to a couple of fellows. One of them is a state representative.” He gave me two names over there. One of them was the big Chink, Henry Li-Tsu.
The other was a Vietnamese named Solom Ngo. A chemist. For a fee he would test the Chink’s product. The Chink was known to play “jokes” from time to time. The “jokes” were plastic bags filled with talcum powder, with drain cleaner, with cornstarch. Ronnie said that one day Li-Tsu’s little jokes would get him killed.
February 1 There was a plane. It flew right across the island. I tried to climb to the top of the rockpile and wave to it. My foot went into a hole. The same damn hole I got it stuck in the day I killed the first bird, I think. I’ve fractured my ankle, compound fracture. It went like a gunshot. The pain was unbelievable. I screamed and lost my balance, pinwheeling my arms like a madman, but I went down and hit my head and everything went black. I didn’t wake up until dusk. I lost some blood where I hit my head. My ankle had swelled up like a tire, and I’d got myself a very nasty sunburn. I think if there had been another hour of sun, it would have blistered.
Dragged myself back here and spent last night shivering and crying with frustration. I disinfected the head wound, which is just above the right temporal lobe, and bandaged it as well as I could. Just a superficial scalp wound plus minor concussion, I think, but my ankle… it’s a bad break, involved in two places, possibly three.
How will I chase the birds now?
It had to be a plane looking for survivors from the Callas. In the dark and the storm, the lifeboat must have carried miles from where it sank. They may not be back this way.
God, my ankle hurts so bad.
February 2 I made a sign on the small white shingle of a beach on the island’s south side, where the lifeboat grounded. It took me all day, with pauses to rest in the shade. Even so, I fainted twice. At a guess, I’d say I’ve lost 25 lbs, mostly from dehydration. But now, from where I sit, I can see the four letters it took me all day to spell out; dark rocks against the white sand, they say HELP in characters four feet high.
Another plane won’t miss me.
If there is another plane.
My foot throbs constantly. There is swelling still and ominous discoloration around the double break. Discoloration seems to have advanced. Binding it tightly with my shirt alleviates the worst of the pain, but it’s still bad enough so that I faint rather than sleep.
I have begun to think I may have to amputate.
February 3 Swelling and discoloration worse still. I’ll wait until tomorrow. If the operation does become necessary, I believe I can carry it through. I have matches for sterilizing the sharp knife, I have needle and thread from the sewing kit. My shirt for a bandage.
I even have two kilos of “painkiller,” although hardly of the type i used to prescribe. But they would have taken it if they could have gotten it. You bet. Those old blue-haired ladies would have snorted Glade air freshener if they thought it would have gotten them high. Believe it!
February 4 I’ve decided to amputate my foot. No food four days now. If I wait any longer, I run the risk of fainting from combined shock and hunger in the middle of the operation and bleeding to death. And as wretched as I am, I still want to live. I remember what Mockridge used to say in Basic Anatomy. Old Mockie, we used to call him. Sooner or later, he’d say, the question comes up in every medical student’s career: How much shock-trauma can the patient stand’? And he’d whack his pointer at his chart of the human body, hitting the liver, the kidneys, the heart, the spleen, the intestines Cut to its base level, gentlemen, he’d say. the answer is always another question: How badly does the patient want to survive?
I think I can bring it off.
I really do.
I suppose I’m writing to put off the inevitable, but it did occur to me that I haven’t finished the story of how I came to be here. Perhaps I should tie up that loose end in case the operation does go badly. It will only take a few minutes, and I’m sure there will be enough daylight left for the operation, for, according to my Pulsar, it’s only nine past nine in the morning. Ha!
I flew to Saigon as a tourist. Does that sound strange? It shouldn’t. There are still thousands of people who visit there every year in spite of Nixon’s war. There are people who go to see car wrecks and cockfights, too.
My Chinese friend had the merchandise. I took it to Ngo, who pronounced it very.
high-grade stuff. He told me that Li-Tsu had played one of his jokes four months ago and that his wife had been blown up when she turned on the ignition of her Opel. Since then there had been no more jokes.
I stayed in Saigon for three weeks; I had booked passage back to San Francisco on a cruise ship, the Callas. First cabin. Getting on board with the merchandise was no trouble; for a fee Ngo arranged for two customs officials to simply wave me on after running through my suitcases. The merchandise was in an airline flight bag, which they never even looked at.
“Getting through U.S. customs will be much more difficult,” Ngo told me. “That, however, is your problem.” I had no intention of taking the merchandise through U.S. customs. Ronnie Hanelli had arranged for a skin diver who would do a certain rather tricky job for $3,000.
I was to meet him (two days ago, now that I think of it) in a San Francisco flophouse called the St. Regis Hotel. The plan was to put the merchandise in a waterproof can.
Attacned to the can was a timer and a packet of red dye. Just before we docked, the canister was to be thrown overboard—but not by me, of course.
I was still looking for a cook or a steward who could use a little extra cash and who was smart enough—or stupid enough—to keep his mouth closed afterward, when the Callas sank.