King Dong. Edgar Ragged Rider

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СКАЧАТЬ indicated that a fight for Ann’s favours had already broken out. Knives were drawn, blackjacks and knuckledusters brandished. A nose flew by. The air reverberated with the shrieks of men having their ears bitten off.

      Deadman glared at Ann. ‘See what you did? I’m going to end up with half my crew murdered before we’ve cleared Ellis Island.’

      ‘Why,’ simpered Ann, ‘can I help it if the boys are fighting over li’l ol’ me?’

      ‘You started this, you finish it, or no movie.’

      Ann pouted. ‘OK, OK.’ She put her thumb and forefinger to her lips and gave a piercing whistle. ‘Hey, youse bums, knock it off before I nail your cojones to the wall with my hairgrips!’

      There was a sudden shocked silence.

      ‘That’s better,’ said Ann. ‘Now, what’s goin’ on here?’

      The peg-legged cove Deadman had noticed earlier adjusted his parrot and stepped forward with an ingratiating air. ‘Well, missy, me an the boys was drawin’ lots, all friendly like, to see who’d ’ave first chance to get you into ’is ’ammock, an’ Blind Pugh ’ere was palmin’ the black spot …’

      ‘Whaaaaaat?’ Ann was furious. ‘You were drawing lots for me? What kind of goil do you think I am?’

      The parrot cackled. ‘Piece of ass! Piece of ass!’

      The peg-legged man swiped at the bird, which fluttered away, squawking angrily and shedding feathers. ‘You’ll ’ave to excuse Cap’n Flint,’ he told Ann. ‘He meant to say, “pieces of eight”. I reckon ’e’s a mite confused.’

      ‘I say what I see,’ squawked the parrot. ‘When I say “ass” I mean “ass”!’

      Ann looked the peg-legged man up and down. And then halfway up again. Her eyes widened with concupiscence. ‘Say, big boy, what do they call you?’

      The rascal leered at his disappointed shipmates. ‘They call me Long John Silver, missy.’

      ‘And why do they call you that?’

      Long John leaned forward and whispered into Ann’s ear.

      Anne giggled. ‘You don’t say? In that case, why don’t you come up and see me sometime.’

      ‘Oh, I couldn’t be comin’ near the officer’s cabins, missy.’

      ‘Well then, any time you want me, just whistle. You do know how to whistle, don’t you, Johnny? You just put your lips together and … blow.’ Ann winked at Silver and swayed towards the door. Deadman, belatedly remembering his manners, opened it and followed Ann through. He closed the door, leaned against it and mopped his brow.

      ‘Well, that’s just great.’ Deadman glared at Ann, who was examining her nails with an elaborate show of unconcern. ‘We’ve only just set sail and you’ve already got the crew at each others’ throats.’

      Ann pouted. ‘Can I help it if men find me attractive?’ She set off down the corridor, swivelling her hips. A crewman, eyes glued to her oscillating caboose, fell down an open hatchway. A scream of agony echoed from the hold.

      Deadman shook his head. This voyage was going to be even longer than he’d thought.

      

      Three weeks later the Vulture was anchored off the coast of Africa.

      The ship had wheezed its way across the Atlantic, producing as much smoke as a middling-sized iron foundry and twice as much noise. Storms had battered the leaking vessel. Many of the crew had been prostrated by seasickness – and, Deadman suspected, many more by his leading lady. In fact, apart from Deadman himself, the only members of the ship’s company who had remained immune to the ravages of the voyage were Captain Rumbuggery (who was too blasted to notice the movement of the ship) and Ann, whose self-obsession was such as to be immune to the whims of a mere ocean.

      Now Deadman and Ann were leaning on the rail staring at the palm-lined coast of the Dark Continent and chewing the cud about days past.

      ‘You never did tell me how you got into the crazy world of movie making,’ said Deadman.

      ‘I was in Hollywood for a screen test. Afterwards the producer said it would take an Act of Congress to get me into the movies, so I thought what the hell! I’ve been acting and congressing ever since …’

      Their reverie was interrupted by a high-pitched, effeminate voice. ‘There you both are, sweeties.’

      ‘Oh hello Ray, haven’t seen you for days.’

      ‘I know, I know,’ minced Ray. He turned to Ann. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been dancing attendance; my dear, I haven’t been feeling myself.’ He gave a squeal of a laugh. ‘Well, maybe once or twice, to pass the time. I’ve been laid low, drained, positively overwhelmed with mal-de-mer. Still, I’m feeling better now this beastly boat has stopped bouncing up and down in that alarming fashion.’ He gave Ann a sly wink. ‘And rumour has it, that’s not the only thing that’s been bouncing up and down.’

      ‘If I want any crap outta you I’ll squeeze your head.’

      ‘Oh, bold!’ Ray’s mouth twisted into a little moue of distaste. ‘Anyway, I’ve been cutting, sewing and embroidering like a thing possessed to get Miss Darling’s costumes ready.’

      He was interrupted by a hail from the bridge. ‘Hi, Deadman! I’m shending in the boatsh to fill up the scuttlebutts.’ Captain Rumbuggery waved a half-empty whisky bottle at Ray. ‘That crazy fella has used all our drinking water for dyeing hish goddamn costhtumes.’

      ‘Philistine!’ Ray gave the Captain a savage glare and minced off, his wobbling derriere attracting almost as much attention from certain members of the ship’s company as Ann’s.

      ‘Boatsh away!’ Captain Rumbuggery turned his wandering attention back to Ann and Deadman. ‘You two want to come along for the ride?’

      ‘Sure!’ Deadman waved back, and turned to Ann. ‘Coming?’

      But Ann had spotted a sun-tanned young deck-hand with oiled skin and rippling muscles. ‘I think I’ll stay here and take in a little local colour.’

      Deadman followed her stare. ‘Riiiight. Be sure not to take in too much.’

      

      Fifteen minutes later, three of the ship’s boats were pulling in an uncoordinated fashion for the shore.

      They had almost reached the surf-line when Sloppy, the ship’s cook, stood up and pointed. ‘Hey, look at that.’

      A rider had burst out of the forest, galloping hell-for-leather along the beach. He was a white man, wearing a battered fedora and carrying a bullwhip coiled in one hand, with which he was belabouring the flanks of his foundered horse, urging it to greater efforts.

      Behind him, a war party of black-skinned warriors burst from cover. They were wearing leather loincloths and carrying buffalo-hide shields and vicious-looking short spears. They pursued their quarry with dreadful purpose, uttering СКАЧАТЬ