The Paddy Field Tigers

By Leagh B. Caverhill

No one knows John Montigue is a spy for the British government. As editor and publisher of the Rangoon Examiner he outwardly leads a common life with his wife and children.
On Christmas Day, 1941, Rangoon, Burma explodes into a firestorm as Japan’s surprise invasion begins. A price on his head, John must evacuate his family then stay behind to complete strategic demolition and destruction of top-secret intelligence documents.

He soon discovers that he and his remaining officers must escape on foot while forced to lead 25,000 remaining colonials on a 1,800-mile “Death March” through the treacherous jungles to India. With the Japanese Army in hot pursuit.

By a strange quirk of fate, John’s future seems to be integrally linked to that of his boyhood Burmese friend, Danang, who is head of the powerful Golden Triangle. Together they are the only hope for thousands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leagh B. Caverhill
• Release date: Apr 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311670335

Leagh B. Caverhill

Horse Trainer, Writer, Publisher, movie producer.

Book preview

Rangoon, Burma, 1932

Two old tugboats zigzagged like well-trained sheepdogs as they guided a cargo ship through the congested waters of Rangoon Harbor. The ship’s sides still grazed heavily against the dock despite the row of rubber tires lashed together, as the tugboats nudged it into its quay. The bow loomed high above the pier like some ancient monument. Large plates of rusting steel, etched and pitted by decades of salty sea, showed missing rivets here and there. They made distinctive designs of rusty runnels that looked like stains from an ungroomed cocker spaniel’s eyes. Its barely visible name identified it as the Oriandia.

The main deck bustled with activity. While crewmen scurried to secure the ship and sweaty stevedores opened the huge cargo hatches, a handsome, dark-haired gentleman in his late twenties stepped from one of the few passenger staterooms. John Montigue, a British executive with the Far East India Trading Company Motorcar Division, was tall, lean, and muscular. His dark blue eyes, sporty, well-trimmed moustache, and deep tan were accentuated by a dapper, crisp white linen suit and a white Topi,¹ the pith helmet sun hat worn by men in the tropics. Tucked under his left arm was a silver-headed swagger stick.

Dockers and coolies, unaccustomed to seeing a well-dressed gentleman on such an old cargo ship, began to snicker among themselves.

While Montigue surveyed the bustling activity aboard the still seaworthy ship, his right hand toyed with a yellow marble in his pants pocket. He recalled the day ten years earlier when his best friend at boarding school had handed it to him as a parting gift, promising it would bring good luck. Montigue had no idea that he was only hours away from discovering just how lucky it would prove to be! From his ship-top vantage point, John could see the other stylish passenger ships moored on the Barr Street Jetty. He enviously watched the reception parties straining at the rails of a floating pavilion to throw streamers and flowers at disembarking passengers.

Bugger, he muttered to himself when he realized the fun and ladies he had missed by not traveling on a first-class ship.

The Rangoon sky was a brilliant robin’s-egg blue. A few wisps of white, broken, sheet like clouds lingered from the evaporating morning haze. The temperature, already at ninety-nine degrees Fahrenheit, was beginning to ripen the agrarian mixtures that gave Rangoon Harbor its peculiar, indigenous blend of aromas.

John waved to his assistant, Pudgy Prescott, waiting on the cargo deck below, then climbed down a narrow metal ladder to join him. Dabbing at the sweat already beaded on his face and neck, John scowled, Was this the only bloody ship available?

Pudgy, a swarthy Anglo-Indian, responded nervously, Afraid so. We would have had to wait at least three months for another ship, sir.

John curled his nostrils. What’s that strange mixture of smells? And I don’t mean just the harbor. What’s that sweet smell?

Well, sir, they say you can tell what country you are in by the smell of the women. In India the women are feline and exotic; their aroma is best described by spices such as clove, cardamom, and cinnamon. In Burma the women smell of sandalwood and frangipani blossoms. I presume that’s what the sweet smell of Rangoon is.

Interesting, John replied, adding, We’d better get on with the job.

Well, here comes our crate out of the hold now, Pudgy announced.

The hardened stevedores, used to handling dozens of crates daily, were amused by the pair’s obvious anxiety over just one crate.

The crane winch squealed and shuddered as it strained to lift the huge crate out of the hold. As the cargo swung over the ship’s side, a cable snapped with the sound of a giant, cracking whip! The crate was precariously held in place by the under banding and threatened to give way.

Bloody hell! Fix that bolt! John screamed at the nonchalant coolies who did not understand what he was saying. He knew that if the banding failed, the shift of weight would cause the other cables to break and his precious cargo would crash to the dock. Dropping his swagger stick, he went flying through the air and grasped the side webbing, then pulled himself up onto the swaying crate. One of the stevedores threw him an S-Hook and a length of cable which he was able to strap around the crate and attach to the crane, temporarily securing the giant container. Native dockworkers cheered as John rode down on the crate. Masses of people suddenly began to gather on the cargo wharf.

An English gentleman rushed forward. I say, damn well done! My name is Chester. I’m your client’s manager. Chester extended his hand.

John wiped his hands on his already soiled pants before returning the gesture. Sorry, old boy. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a mess, he apologized.

Meanwhile, Pudgy was supervising the removal of the protective crating. Unveiled from beneath yards of burgundy velvet was an ostentatious, silver Rolls-Royce convertible. The steering wheel was pure ivory. The dashboard and side panels were made of highly polished burled wood inlaid with gold filigree and studded with jewels. The rear passenger panels held twenty-four-carat gold bud vases engraved with the emblem of a tiger. The upholstery was tiger skin, replete with silk, pane-velvet cushions embroidered with silver and gold.

John Montigue’s specialty was designing exotic, customized Rolls-Royces, which made him the boy wonder in his company. Far East potentates placed their special orders with him instead of purchasing standard models too sedate for their tastes. He was in Rangoon overseeing the delivery of one of his exclusively designed convertibles.

Blimey, the old bugger is going to luv this alright, Chester exclaimed, as a gawking crowd gathered around the unveiled car.

Aw Boon Haw, the Tiger Baum King, surrounded by an elaborately dressed entourage, was arriving to take possession of his new automobile. Chester scurried about showing off the car’s features and making sure his employer was seated comfortably in the rear seat.

John Montigue stood on the sidelines respectfully gesturing that he was unable to present himself in his disheveled state. Beams of light glinted off the diamonds implanted in the potentate’s front teeth as he nodded his understanding. He clasped his hands together in a gesture of gratitude and respect while grinning from ear to ear with delight at his new toy. Two native coachmen, dressed in red silk pantaloons encrusted with gold embroidery, stood on the customized rear bumper and held gilded umbrellas shading the potentate’s head. The equally dressed driver sat proudly behind the wheel.

A huge Burmese elephant, garlanded with flowers and draped in brightly colored silks trimmed with gold embroidery studded with jewels, was guided by its trainer/driver, called a MAHOUT.2 The mahout backed it up to the front of the Rolls, and servants attached chains from the elephant to the car’s front bumper. A tap of the mahout’s stick goaded the elephant forward, pulling the Rolls-Royce behind. The driver steered and pretended to be driving while the potentate, emulating European royalty, waved to the cheering crowd.

Chester laughed out loud at John’s astonishment. Stupid bastards don’t know how to drive. You’re looking at the East imitating the British Empire, old boy!

John, despite his momentary state of disbelief, whipped out his pocket notebook and scribbled, Sell him a chauffeur in the future.

He was interrupted by the commotion and whinny of a horse bucking its restraints as it was being lowered from the ship. A stunning blonde dressed in jodhpurs stood by as an older man in a white topi yelled directions in Burmese. As the horse touched ground, it began kicking and was in danger of hurting itself. The older man held its harness while the young woman mounted it bareback, then reached down and unsnapped the sling. The horse reared, but she grabbed its mane and gradually brought the prized animal under control.

What was that all about? asked Pudgy.

Never mind the what, old boy, John jumped in. The most important question is Who was that?

John flashed Pudgy a wink and muttered under his breath, My kind of stuff, eh what? Pudgy smiled, knowing John’s appetite for beautiful women.

Well, that’s quite enough excitement for the day. Let’s get some lunch, Chester said. I’ve made reservations at the Gymkhana Club. The boss has instructed me to show you around Rangoon first class, and it’s all on him.

I don’t think I’m fit to be seen anywhere in these soiled clothes, John said.

Never mind that, old boy. A change of clothes is waiting for you at the men’s store at the club.

As they rode along Pagoda Road in a Gharry,³ John was fascinated by the Georgian architecture combined with the country’s natural beauty. Streets were lined with Flame-of-the- Forest trees (Delonix regia) the blossoms of which included an incredible range of colors: watermelon, magenta, red, and orange. The women they passed were light toffee in color with dark, almond-shaped eyes. Their hair pulled atop their heads into pillbox-shaped buns was held by long chopstick pins with orchids dangling from the ends. They wore long wraparound sarongs of iridescent colored silks, called Loongies,⁴ topped with white fitted organza bodices. John noticed an absence of middle-aged women—they all looked either seventeen or fifty. Men wore similar colored pantaloons drawn up between their legs, waist-length shirts, and caps like headbands with pleated fans on the ends. His most outstanding impression of the Burmese people was their joy. They all seemed as happy as innocent children.

The gharry pulled into the long gravel driveway leading to the prestigious British Colonial Gymkhana Club and parked under the ornate, columned PORTECOCHERE.5 A smiling Burmese attendant stepped up. This way, Mr. Montigue. I’ll take you through the private entrance to the lounge where you will be able to freshen up. We have several suits awaiting your selection, sir.

Thank you, John replied, delighted by the VIP treatment.

Chester informed John that he would meet him in the dining room.

I say, Pudgy, would you mind tagging along with me? John asked purposely. I need to go over some details.

Pudgy warned in a whispered voice, Excuse me, sir. I’m afraid my being here might make a scene. I don’t think they allow Anglo-Indians into a white club. It might be wiser for me to wait for you at the hotel lounge.

Bugger that, old boy. We’ve been through this before. As long as you are with me, you will be treated with respect. And drop that self-effacing routine you do when you call me ‘Sir’. Call me John.

Although Pudgy had resented John’s obtaining the position he had worked so many years to get. He swallowed his deep-seated anger at having a white man steal another opportunity. He swore that he would find a way to get even with the whites, but John’s refusal to be a party to color-bar, as just demonstrated, had won him over.

After a quick shower, John was pleasantly surprised by the choice of a cream sharkskin suit that had been laid out. It fitted as if custom-made. The dining room was not to be outdone by the famous Taj Mahal Hotel in Bombay, India. It was decorated with white French trellises over mirrors. Kentia palms stretched to the twenty-foot ceilings, casting languid shadows as their fronds swayed in the gentle breeze from electric fans. Tables were set with crisp linens. The afternoon light played with crystal and silver settings. The focal point of the room was a table displaying a giant ice sculpture of a peacock surrounded with chilled, succulent tropical fruits and desserts.

I say, Chester, this is first class, John smiled in approval.

Actually, when it comes to food and its presentation, I believe the Burmese outdo the British—once they are taught, of course, Chester answered a bit haughtily.

When is our potentate joining us? John asked.

Oh no, old boy! He won’t be joining us here. This is a British club. He’s simply not allowed in. Pudgy shot John a glance, wondering if he would be chucked out. Catching his concern, John quipped sarcastically, Well, it’s a good thing they don’t judge a man by his tan, or Pudgy or I wouldn’t be dining with you either.

Chester feigned laughter. By Jove, Montigue. You have quite a sense of humor. I spoke with the boss on the telephone while you were dressing. He asked me to convey his thanks for saving his automobile and has ordered me to show you around Rangoon and take you anywhere you want. He pushed a large envelope filled with cash towards John—a thank-you tip called Baksheesh.⁶

Bloody decent of him considering he’s not even allowed in here. John said.

His attention shifted to the tennis court just below the window. I say, Pudgy, isn’t that the blonde who jumped on the horse at the docks?

Pudgy stood up to get a better look and saw that the blonde, dressed in the latest—daring short tennis skirt—had noticed them watching her.

Bottoms up, John, he laughed, using the expression meaning You’re right, that he had learned from John.

John continued watching her play.

Do you know who is she, Chester? He asked, maintaining his gaze.

Yes. Christine is the daughter of a very wealthy colonial plantation owner by the name of Snowden. She’s known as the ice lady, dear boy.

Slyly she looked up at John. Their eyes locked. A provocative smile seemed to barely tinge the corners of her mouth before she teasingly bent over to pick up a tennis ball, exposing her rosebud knickers. The sight gave John more than a stiff upper lip. Embarrassed, he sat down hurriedly to hide the evidence. Trying to appear nonchalant, he promptly missed his mouth with his fork, spilling salad on his pants. Dabbing at the stain with a napkin only magnified his problem.

After the heavy lunch at the Gymkhana Club, the three men agreed to postpone exploring Rangoon until the evening. Chester dropped them at The Rangoon Strand, a luxury hotel that boasted the who’s-who of the upper class. John had been given the premier suite courtesy of his client Aw Boon Haw.

The phone rang promptly at 7:00 p.m. with the prearranged wake-up call. John stretched and headed for the shower. The hot spray massaging his skin and muscles aroused him. He thought about Christine Snowden and fantasized sharing the shower with her, imagining what it would be like to lean into the arch of her back and grasp her upturned, pear-shaped breasts while pressing into her firm athletic buttocks. The fantasy was so vivid and exciting that he soon spent himself.

John joined Chester and Pudgy in the hotel lounge. They repeatedly ordered Singapore slings while enjoying the native band imitating American and European music. A sloe-eyed, raven-haired beauty in skintight sequins slithered up to the microphone and sang a husky rendition of Green Eyes, one of John’s favorites.

When the band took a break, John asked Chester if there was somewhere they could gamble.

Chester sputtered, reluctant to expose his charge to what many considered an unsavory activity. Er . . . er . . . actually there’s only one place to gamble around here. He whispered that a group of Asian gangsters ran an illegal gambling joint in the jungle.

Oh, you mean like Macow? John asked.

Well, somewhat, but a little more dangerous. You’re on your own when you gamble there.

Sounds like just what the doctor ordered. Eh what, Pudgy?

Bottoms up, Pudgy cheered.

A reluctant taxi driver took them to the city outskirts where a few waiting customers transferred to a rickety old bus run by a rough-looking bunch of thugs. After a precarious twenty-minute ride, they pulled into a jungle clearing with a large thatched hut on stilts in the middle. Muscled native bandits with bullet bands slung over their shoulders guarded the joint. Music, laughter, guttural sounds, and the jingle of cash combined in a strange but inviting cacophony.

Chester, what’s their game here? John asked as they entered.

Mahjong,⁷ amongst others.

By Jove! Just my cup of tea, John exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. Lucked out again, eh what, Pudgy? Mahjong happens to be my game. I learned it from an expert in boarding school. He pulled the yellow marble from his pocket and rubbed it between his palms for good luck. Yellow lady luck, make me a winner again, he whispered, blowing softly on the marble cupped in his hands before carefully putting it back into his pocket.

Inside the gambling den, dimly lit by bare light bulbs strung from loosely strung wires on the ceiling, was a scene unequaled by any that John had experienced in the most sordid parts of India and China. The patrons seated at stained wood tables looked as if they had recently escaped from the infamous Devil’s Island prison in French Guyana. Seated on the floor in one corner was a skinny teenage native boy with hollow, fear-filled eyes. His job was to pull a cord connected to a Punka,⁸ a primitive native fan attached to the ceiling. It was made from cloth and stretched on a rectangular bamboo frame. When moved back and forth by tugging the pulley, it circulated air in the room. Sleazy, easy native women competed for free booze, tips, and any other services men were willing to pay for. The trio joined a table with several players. As the hours passed, John’s winnings were stacking up while Pudgy and Chester were losing.

I’m afraid I’ve had it, old boy. Time to turn in, Chester said tipsily, slopping down the rest of his drink. I’m feeling wiped out myself, John, Pudgy added.

Right you are then. You chaps push off. I’m staying. Catch you both later, John said intent on his winning streak. He waved a careless farewell with his hand.

A ruckus soon broke out. A drunken, elderly colonial gentleman kept pointing at a piece of paper and demanding more credit. A bald-headed thug scrutinized it while picking food from between his worn-down stumps of teeth with the point of his dagger. The paper seemed to be a property deed. The bald man grunted and granted him more credit. The old man resumed his gamble=ing and continued losing. Suddenly, the knife that had been a toothpick swished through the air and pinned the old colonial’s shirt cuff to the table. Another thug wrenched the trembling old man up from his seat by his collar. Baldy yanked his knife free, leaned into the old man’s face and rasped with halitosis venom, White fool. You try cheat here?

The old man had been turned in for cheating by the drunken, dissatisfied tart who had been servicing him all night. He struggled to get away as the thugs started slapping him around. John sprang to his defense, and the fight was on! Three thugs jumped John, and he hit the ground in a folded heap. The gangsters dragged him out by his feet. As his body thudded down the crude steps, all he could see were dark human shapes silhouetted against the intermittent flashes from the bare bulbs. He felt wet and tasted the salty, copper flavor of his own blood. His hands were quickly tied behind his back. A bamboo pole was shoved between his elbows and wedged under his armpits behind him. Then someone jerked him up by the hair into a kneeling position, execution-style. When the thugs greedily began emptying his pockets, his lucky yellow marble rolled onto the ground. His assailants recoiled, chattering nervously back and forth in Burmese. The cash was quickly stuffed back into John’s pockets. Then they let the old man go but held onto John. His heart filled with dread as he found himself being blindfolded. Fully expecting a bullet though his head, he was surprised to feel himself being picked up and thrown over a horse. The animal began trotting though the jungle night, carrying business executive John Montigue trussed up like a pig ready for slaughter. His imagination ran wild. Would they need to hide his body deep in the jungles where no one would find it? Chester’s words ‘You’re on your own when you gamble there’ raced through his mind. Believing he had nothing to lose, he yelled and kicked. Smashing blows from his kidnappers soon silenced him again. Finally he was pulled from the horse and dragged a few steps.

A voice speaking broken English began questioning him about the marble. Expecting death, John was puzzled and strangely angered by the seemingly ridiculous question. It’s only a bloody glass marble, you stupid bastards, he spit back, soliciting more beating. He finally told his tormentors that the yellow marble was given to him by a school chum in London. He continued swearing at his interrogator. A rifle butt knocked him out. Drifting through various states of consciousness, his mind flashed back to London and an incident at school in 1922.

He screamed, You yellow bastards! and began pulling school bullies off a fellow student they were attempting to rape—an initiation called Fragging⁹ commonly practiced at posh boys’ schools.

Oh! Thank God you came in time, the victim stuttered after a flurry of John’s fists sent the bullies scurrying. The intended victim pulled up his pants. Tears of shame stung his yes. Thank God? You mean thank me!

John shot back. There ain’t no God, old chap, or there wouldn’t be any rich, gay Poofta¹⁰ bullies trying to bugger you. You just have to depend on yourself and learn how to beat those bastards back.

But . . . how? I’m much smaller than most of them. If you hadn’t come along, I’d have been done for. I would have become an outcast, a fate worse than death in my family, the boy replied. Extending his hand, he continued, By the way, my name is Daniel Pohlee.

Glad to meet you, Daniel. I’m John Montigue. I say, let’s see if we can rustle up some grub. Always think better after chow. Don’t you?

I’ve got some Tuck,¹¹ Daniel volunteered. He led the way to his locker outside the dormitory and pulled out a large tin box of cakes and cookies sent by his parents.

Let’s take it up to my headquarters, John said. He began racing up the stairs to his secret spot on the school roof. Breathless, the two sat on the edge of the parapet overlooking London. On a clear day, you can see even more fog,

John quipped. Let’s take a look at what you have in the box.

The tuck box was filled with assorted treats and numerous ivory oblong chips. Between mouthfuls of cookies, John asked Daniel about his background. Daniel revealed that he was the son of a French businessman.

Oh, an industrialist, you mean, John retorted. Only blue bloods and the progeny of the very rich got into his school.

I say, what are those strange bone wedges? John asked.

They are used in a game called mahjong. I learned how to play and gamble while in Indonesia, Daniel answered.

Indonesia! By Jove, I’m going to travel to the Far East some day, John exclaimed. He was now standing precariously on the edge of the parapet, both hands tucked behind his back, as if orating in the House of Lords. I want to meet maharajas and screw their maharanis and their harems and find a way to be paid while doing it. My goal is to be rich and have everyone envy my power and wealth. Bugger the under-funded British nobility that I was born into. I’m sick of being kicked around by my wimpy father who allowed himself to be broken down by rich la-de-dahs because their families found a way to keep what they stole. On no! Not me, not for long. I’m going to be an adventurer and make millions, really be somebody to be reckoned with. What about you, Daniel? What do you want to be? John asked, jumping down from the edge.

I say, John, that’s quite amazing! I have almost the identical dreams. I want to be a leader of men, a motivating force. Someone to be feared and respected, Daniel said passionately. He pulled his small frame erect and seemed to grow much taller. Mostly I want to own what rich men fear losing.

Surprised by the intensity of Daniel’s statement, John said, Bloody good show, Daniel. You’re my kind of chap. Let’s start by terrorizing the yellow-bellied bullies. We’ll expose them and their puny victims. We can sell the stories to the street boys at the gate who would love to expose the rich little buggers." The exaggerated, shocking articles soon started showing up all over town, forcing an investigation. Schoolmasters who before had ignored the fraggings for favors provided them by the boys were forced to stop the brutal initiations. After experiencing the power of the press, John and Daniel felt more in command over their circumstances. They became the best of chums.

However, spring—usually the harbinger of new life—cruelly ushered in death for the new friendship. Daniel Pohlee was notified that his father was dying and that his mother was coming to take him home. When departure day arrived, John and Daniel walked together down the long, darkened corridor to the school’s front entry. Daniel pulled a small velvet pouch from around his neck in which he kept his prized marble and pressed it into John’s hand.

This is to remember me by, John. It’s the most precious thing I own, Daniel said, as tears welled up in his eyes.

I’ll treasure it always, Daniel. We’ll meet again, my friend. I only have a couple more years before I’m on my own. Maybe we’ll meet in Indonesia, John said, trying to ease the solemn moment. Although he had always suppressed his emotions, now grief and fear of being alone due to the loss of his closest friend, surged through him. He fought back his own tears.

Wake up, John, wake up, a deep voice suddenly commanded in flawless English.

John’s face felt wet from the real tears he had been shedding as he remembered the limousine pulling away and seeing his friend for the last time. Cool water splashed in his face. Confused, he rubbed his swollen eyes, trying to focus on the present reality.

A man was standing in front of him, smiling. I’m Danang Pow, he said with great authority. You knew me as Daniel Pohlee.

John’s vision began to clear. He looked at the man and swore again, What the bloody hell do you mean? Daniel was French, not Burmese.

It’s a long story, Danang laughed. Here, eat this. You always think better after chow. Remember?

The familiar phrase from the day they met jerked John into recognition.

By Jove, Daniel. You’ve gone native! Got a drink? The two renewed their old friendship and filled in the years. John was amazed to discover that he had been dragged before the dreaded gangster boss known as Danang Pow, the TOW, ¹² the kinglike leader who controlled the Asian Golden Triangle with his band of mercenary soldiers, called Dacoits.¹³ Danang’s father was not a French industrialist as John had thought, but was the TOW. His mother was the daughter of a French diplomat. His parents fell in love and had to live a secret, often separated life because of his father’s illicit position.

They both wanted me to have a European education and enrolled me in Eaton under my mother’s name, Pohlee, so I would be accepted by the school, Daniel continued. They hoped as heir apparent and the new TOW I would bring back knowledge and restore aristocracy in Burma. As you know, my father died before he could see his dream fulfilled. My mother died two years later from a broken heart.

Daniel walked to an ornate Chippendale Secretaire¹⁴ and pulled out a picture of a stunningly beautiful woman and a handsome man. He showed it to John.

I can see where you got your looks from, but Daniel . . . er . . . I mean Danang, why did you keep this secret from me, your closest friend in school? John asked. He glanced around at the group of thugs. I don’t quite get the picture, old boy. This is a long fall away from aristocracy. You’re living in a bamboo hut surrounded with mercenaries at best.

Mere illusion, John. What you see is not what is—or will be, Danang prophesied. At one time, the dacoits were aristocrats who defended the throne. My family line goes back to the tenth century. The dacoits were known for their honor and valor. Only after they proved themselves were they initiated as dacoits with this brand. Danang pulled up his sleeve and showed John a tattoo like brand of a rampant tiger.

This mark is how you will know us, he explained.

John looked at the brand and asked, Why a rampant tiger?

In Burma the tiger is considered the most noble and courageous of all animals. It is highly revered for its cunning, stealth, and power. It symbolizes our purpose.

You mean the same way the Chinese emulate the dragon?

Yes.

I see. Then what was all the questioning about my marble? John asked.

The yellow stone I gave you is not a common glass playing marble as you thought, but a semiprecious gemstone, called a Tiger’s-Eye.¹⁵ It represents a seal of brotherhood, a blood covenant, ‘a life for a life,’ so to speak. When it rolled out of your pocket, my lieutenants recognized it immediately, which is why you were spared.

John was fascinated by what he had just heard. Forgive me, my friend. I had no idea of its value. Why is it shaped like a marble and made of a semiprecious stone? he asked.

"The eye is the most precious part of your body, and a tiger’s-eye is the embodiment of its value. Many years ago, a holy man witnessed an event that gave shape to the lore behind the tiger’s-eye. Apparently, a tigress came down from the mountains with her cubs to drink and rest in the cool of the paddy fields. A rogue tiger that wanted to eat her cubs soon challenged her. The tigress fought valiantly, killing the rogue tiger. But, alas, the tigress’s injuries were too many. As she lay dying, her blood ebbed into the wet soil of the paddy field. The gods commemorated her courage allowing the formation of the tiger’s-eye stone from the mingled blood and soil. Since then the semiprecious tiger’s-eye gemstone was fashioned into the shape of an all-seeing tiger’s-eye. It is used to judge men’s honor, loyalty, and courage. The holy man, believing in the stone’s divinatory powers, gave the marble-shaped stone to the TOW, who was instructed how to use it. He would lay it down in front of the accused, and if it rolled toward the person being judged he would be deemed guilty.

The stone I gave you was handed down to me from my father and his father before him. It was the symbol that you had become my blood brother. Danang opened John’s hand and pressed the worn marble back into it.

The two men hugged, slapped each other on the back, and downed Johnny Walker Scotch to celebrate the occasion. Soon John became drunk and lay propped against the ornate cushions. Danang informed John he would now be initiated.

Good show! Bring it on, little brother, John slurred.

One of Danang’s lieutenants walked towards John with a red-hot branding iron while another rolled up his shirtsleeve, removed his watch, and branded John on his left wrist. This tiger brand is to remind you to stay brave in the face of adversity and to make lesser men fear and respect the power you wield as a member of our ancient brotherhood of warriors, Danang pronounced.

John promptly passed out.

CHAPTER 2: WINNER TAKES ALL

Prisms of sunlight from the cracks in the window shutters passed through the mosquito net of John’s four-poster and plagued his eyelids. He gradually opened them and wished he hadn’t. A message clicked in his aching brain: Bloody Mary. He reached for the phone and ordered, Bring me two one-minute boiled eggs, vodka, tomato juice, a celery stalk, lime, Worcestershire sauce, four aspirins, and get the lead out. Just come in, and don’t bang the bloody door when you do.

Yes yes, sahib, a voice on the other end of the phone answered.

Feet trained by experts entered his room without a sound and placed a silver tray holding e ingredients for his elixir on the nightstand. John forced his body to sit up. He clumsily put the ingredients together, then expertly cracked the coddled eggs and dropped in the unbroken yolks. He tossed the aspirins into the back of his throat and chased them with his version of a Bloody Mary. Even the cold shower was not enough to take away the hangover. He decided to complete his grooming at the hotel barbershop.

Hot towels and exotic emollients were applied to his face. Strong hands massaged his scalp, purposely missing the painful knots. Soothing balm was rugged into his throbbing temples, temporarily sending him into a welcoming twilight zone.

Brisk splashes of Bay Rum after shave combined with secret Asian emollients awakened him all too soon. His moustache was waxed, and his jet-black hair gleamed with Brylcreem. The manicurist put the final buff on his well-trimmed fingernails and said shyly, I put special healing ointment on wrist burn. No pain now, Twan.¹⁶ She respectfully handed him a note and disappeared.

John,

I have made arrangements to keep a car at the location pinpointed on the included map. Just have a taxi drop you there anytime you wish to visit. Keep the bandage on your wrist until it heals. Wear your watch over it. It is not something you want to broadcast, but in this part of the world it might save your life.

D.P.

Memories of the previous night sketched a perspicacious smile on his lips as he checked the absence of the accompanying twelve-o’clock shadow in the mirror. He complimented the barber, Good job, old chap, and handed him a five-rupee tip.

Oh no! I no take tip from Twan, he said bowing as if John were a holy man.

John passed off the strange behavior as part of the VIP arrangements from his potentate client. It never occurred to him that the brand on his wrist might have something to do with the barber’s attitude. He stepped into the lounge to continue the hangover medication and spotted Pudgy seated at the bar reading a paper. He patted him on the back, sat down on the stool next to his, and ordered another Bloody Mary.

I thought it might have been one of those nights! Pudgy exclaimed. I presume you made away with the house as usual. This was left for you at the desk. He passed John a brown envelope.

Blimey! It was quite a night, John responded. I’ll tell you about it sometime. He tore open the envelope, which was full of his winnings and the baksheesh. Still too hungover to react, he put it into his jacket pocket and asked, What’s on the agenda?

Pudgy told him that Chester would be meeting them around 9:00 p.m. to show them more night sights. If you are feeling up to it, why don’t we make a trip down to the shopping area? I’d like to pick up something for the relatives in India.

The two men hopped into a Rickshaw¹⁷ and headed to the bazaar. It was not unlike the Chowrangi bazaar in India, except the vendors didn’t haggle as much. Instead they proudly offered samples of their culinary delights. John was handed a small pancake filled with brown paste. His taste buds exploded from the exotic flavors.

Blimey! This is delicious. What is it? he asked.

You lik-ey? Eat more—Balichong,¹⁸ balichong. the vendor happily responded.

Pudgy explained that balichong was made from grilled tiger prawns ground together with spices.

Here, try this. Pudgy gave John a green coconut that had been sitting on a bed of crushed ice. The top had been cut off, and it had a straw stuck into it. John sipped the mixture and again was amazed by its flavor and refreshment.

Hmm . . . hmm . . . what is in this? he asked Pudgy, tapping the coconut.

It’s green coconut juice, a splash of Demorar rum, Jaggery,¹⁹—raw brown sugar made from coconut—and lime juice.

They tipped the vendors and continued walking, stopping in front of a jewelry store to look over an enticing window display. John noticed a woman wearing a floppy hat at the counter inside. The silk charmeuse dress she wore telegraphed the outline of her terrific figure.

Well, well, what have we got here? Let’s step inside, Pudgy.

Pretending to be interested in a carved cabochon Burmese jade ring, John asked to see it. A middle-aged lady of European descent smiled and put the ring on John’s little finger.

You have excellent taste, sir. The stone comes from Queen Supayalat’s private collection, the lady said.

John winked at Pudgy, then dramatically asked, What do you think of it, Pudgy? Is it me?

Pudgy knew the drill well and took his cue, answering, Actually, John, perhaps this lady over here would be kind enough to give her opinion.

The routine worked every time. The woman turned slowly like a supple leopard, looked at the ring, and said, It’s very smart but nothing you would wear when jumping onto shipping crates. She lifted her head just enough to allow the light to illuminate her green eyes, which locked on John once again. John was dazzled. Her gaze lingered, and it seemed as if concealed electric messages were being passed between them.

John reached for her hand and without breaking the connection said, How do you do. I’m John . . .

Montigue . . . yes, I know, she interrupted. She turned to walk out and over her shoulder quipped teasingly, Mr. Samuels, sell him the ring . . . at full price. He can afford it. Then she walked out the door.

John stuttered, Hold on! He quickly handed the ring to Pudgy to purchase for him and ran out of the store after her, but she had simply vanished into the throng of late-afternoon shoppers. Frustrated, he returned to the jewelry store. Damn it!. I lost her! he cursed.

Did you mean Miss Snowden, sir? the store owner asked.

Why yes. Do you know where I can find her?

You might try the owner’s private box at the horse races. Her father owns the track.

Thank you so much. I was sure I had met her in London, John fibbed.

Actually, sir, she has just returned from school in Switzerland. You might have met her skiing.

Perhaps, John replied politely as they turned and left the store.

John and Pudgy fought through the crowds at the track. A guard at the entry to