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How to Do It

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Solving a perplexing mystery, we're glad to say this is not one of Olympia's famous non-fiction works. In fact, How to Do It is Bull Sultan--the scourge of the South Pacific--took whatever he wanted from the island paradise, until he maimed the gentle Ming Li and wrecked Jim Crawford's life . . . Now Jim seeks a bloody vengeance, and nothing will stop him, not the sinister Chinese plot nor his new love, the voluptuous spy, Sheila.


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HOW TO DO IT

Gustav Landshot

This page copyright © 2004 Olympia Press.

CHAPTER ONE

“JIM! JIM! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!”

Jim Crawford felt someone shaking him. In the darkness of the hut he couldn't see who it was. Coming from his nightmare, falling off the cliff, down, down into the dark abyss below, he reached back and swung out at the person. But his hands were trapped in the thin blanket. Furiously he struggled to free himself so he could strike. Then the person grasped his shoulders.

“Jim! Calm you!”

It was only Byi-Byi. He relaxed on the straw-packed mattress. “I'm sorry, Byi.”

“You have bad dream,” she said, worriedly.

He couldn't see her but he felt her soft hands on his forehead, soothing him. A bad dream, he thought: a really bad dream. Now he could smell the rotten liquor from last night. It was an ugly smell: a smell of distilled garbage, of rotten orange peels and infested coconuts; it stood out against the aroma of the clean floor of the hut, against the soft woman odor of Byi-Byi and he felt ashamed.

Feeling suddenly warm from his shame he threw off the blanket. “I didn't hit you, did I, Byi?”

“No, but you shout like crazy.” She squatted on the floor beside him. “You shout, 'Bull, Bull' then you moan, 'Ooh ooh'.”

He could remember only parts of the dream. He had to catch these parts and piece them together before they disappeared as so many other dreams had.

In this dream he had finally trapped Bull Sultan on the edge of a cliff. Jim remembered staring hard at him. But Bull wasn't afraid; he rolled his heavy shoulders forward as he always did before a fight. The thick muscles bulged where they blended into his neck which was no neck at all, but a continuation of his shoulders. He wore that smile, that sneaking smile as though he were aware of some menace as yet unknown to Jim. But Jim was sure he had him trapped. They would fight until one of them was thrown to his death on the rocks below.

He dreamed he had advanced slowly toward Bull. Suddenly Bull's smile burst into roaring hollow laughter. The ground broke from under Jim. He struggled to remain on his feet. Bull laughed. The laughter was distant as though Bull were at the far end of a cave. Jim lost his balance. He fell backwards into the chasm. Going down he grabbed at objects. A shrub. He tore at the stem. He held it, but it fell away from the side of the cliff as though it were made of paper. He heard the resounding laughter coming from above. Again he grabbed at something, a rock. The rock was alive. Like rubber it averted his clutching hands and he fell. At that moment Byi had begun to shake him, ripping him from his nightmare of frustration.

“You go sleep again?” she asked.

Jim lay still so that he could listen to the sounds around him. He could hear the straw mat under him wheeze as he breathed. A loose bamboo pole rattled in the rear of the hut. A wind-blown palm frond brushed the thatched roof. The presence of the breeze meant that it was not yet time for daybeak but Jim sensed that it wasn't far away.

“You go sleep?” Byi repeated.

“No, it's too late.” He slid his folded hands under his head.

“You afraid dream Bull?”

“No, it's too late I said.”

“Why you think of Bull all time? Why you no think of me? Me, Byi. Me good you. Bull no good. He kill.”

“How'd I get here?” Jim asked. All he could remember from last night was when he had opened the screen door of the Bamboo Tavern and saw Tom Lorris, the man from Bull's boat.

And he had been too upset to pay any attention to that other man in the tavern—that other man with the strangely familiar face. Why, it looked just like his old Army buddy, Don Morrel. But that was absurd; Don had gone to the University of Minnesota with his G. I. Bill. Now what the hell would he be doing way out here in the Pacific?

“You in tavern. You drunk. Oh, much drunk.”

Jim could imagine Byi holding her head with both hands and moving it from side to side to exclaim how much alcohol he had consumed.

“Much, much drunk. You try fight Tom Lorris. He got knife. He no drunk. Me take you. Me bring you here. Me, Byi, good you. We make love. Oh, we make love. You remember?”

“Light something,” Jim told her. He felt the raw flesh on his shoulder where a scab had formed. He wanted to see how serious it was.

“Lantern? Candle?” She got up silently and her feet whispered across the floor to the table.

“A candle will do.”

She struck a match. The wick sputtered and caught. The wax at the top of the candle glowed white as though it were alive. She brought it to him shielding the wick with her hand. While she held it close he inspected his shoulder. There were three long scrapes in the skin, the middle one being the longest. They were not serious but they burned.

“How'd I get these?”

She smiled in the light. “We make love. Remember?”

Oh, Goddamn it, he thought. He had had a good lay last night and he had been too drunk to appreciate it. What an ass! Not only did he start a fight with Tom Lorris, who had nothing to do with the murder, but he had a good lay and couldn't even remember it.

“Sure, I remember,” he told her. She was nude. Her breasts hung heavy and they hobbled when she changed her position. Soft light from the candle cast exciting shadows on her dark skin. By god, he was an ass. Her long black hair tumbled in soft waves to her shoulders where it divided over the tender brown skin.

She stopped smiling and glared at him. Two dark creases formed on her forehead. If Jim were to draw a line through the points of her black eyes he would see that they slanted up on the outside, giving her an Oriental look. “You no remember,” she hissed. “You no remember nothing. You think Bull all time. Bull, Bull, Bull. You no make love good. You think all time Bull, murder. You bad.”

Jim inched back so he could lean against the wall.

“Me good you. Byi watch, take care. You care? No. You care kill Bull. That's all.”

Byi-Byi frowned and her features strained in anger. Jim wondered at the strangeness that attracted him to Byi-Byi. When she was gentle and patient she had that naive quality Jim had admired so strongly in Ming, that simplicity which had enmeshed Jim's affections ever since he and Ming had first held hands in the afternoon sun many years ago. But now ... Byi-Byi's frustration wrung her flat nose and thick cheeks in a weird contortion resembling nothing he had ever seen in Ming, who contained nothing of violence in her whole being. Jim's tired eyes sought some part of Byi-Byi which would take his mind from the tragically saddening remembrance of Ming. And they found Byi-Byi's voluptuousness.

She was facing him with her legs crossed under her, the candle on the floor between them. In the dancing light he could see long shadows on her thighs. All he could make out in her crotch was a small mass of black hair. The flame danced in the draft making the light shift. He could see the lips of her vagina. The flame danced again. The meaty lips were hidden in darkness, becoming just a dark mysterious splotch. The flame danced. He could see the moistened lips glistening. It seemed as though the candle were tempting him on, showing him just a bit of the prize, then concealing it in darkness, making him want to see and have it all.

“I'm not good at making love, huh?” He didn't move, wanting to make her ask him to lay her.

“No. You no good. You think all time kill Bull Sultan.”

“Suppose I told you that you were wrong, that the only thing I ever think of is getting on top of you and sliding my stiff prong into your wet snatch.”

Jim had to bring his knees up to hide his growing penis from her.

She inched closer to him along the floor. She set the candle carefully on the mat where Jim had been sleeping. “You should stay alongside me,” she said in a half-whisper, the anger from before all gone now in an anticipation of explosive passion. You me stay here. You forget death and Bull. Good life. Eat, sleep, make love. You me. Byi belong to you.”

She laid her trembling hand on his leg and moved it back and forth, advancing toward his throbbing penis then retreating, coming and going. Jim reached out, grabbed her shoulders and threw her backwards to the floor. Her whole body shuddered as he flashed up on her, grasped her swelled breast and sucked the inflamed nipple into his mouth. As he licked and drew on the velvety redness she rolled slowly from side to side like a ship on a summer sea, heaving up and thrusting the protrusion deeper into his anxious mouth.

Her hands groped desperately over his stomach, the fingers like so many tentacles, searching, reaching, stiffening in their hunger. The already wet hand struck his tense penis and clung there. She pulled and his body followed. Up to her head. The arch of his body forced him off her breast. Spittle flowed over the swollen nipple and trickled down from the peak. His head was at her navel as she pulled his organ to her quivering lips. For one brief moment the stiffness hovered there, the saucy lips twinkling around the smooth tight head. In a flash it bulged into her cavernous mouth.

Jim's face lay on her soft spongy belly. He licked the brown skin and edged down toward the dark mass of pubic hair. The smooth underside of his tongue caressed the tender vortex of her groin; the skin shivered and the belly under his head sunk and rose convulsively.

The tips of her teeth were working over the lower part of his penis as she tried to swallow it. Jim's hardened knob probed the back of her throat and her pleasure pulsed through her body.

Jim slipped his two hands under her buttocks and braced the hips. Slowly, carefully, temptingly, he inched his tongue closer to the patch of dark hair. The outstretched legs jumped about nervously and gradually extended to the side, opening the crevice at the point of the V. He flicked his tongue like a snake, darting at the inside thigh, tempting her whole being, edging closer and closer to the glistening mark. He raised her hips higher. The legs flashed out all the way and her vagina seemed to cry to him to come with his tongue and satisfy its longing. He heard and understood. Lifting his head from all contact he made his way toward the silky velutinous lips. Her body seemed puzzled at the loss of contact and cried more anxiously for him to touch and satisfy. He was careful not to let his chin brush the thigh as he protruded his tongue and glided down onto the shining aperture. A quivering flicker gave first meeting. The body froze in its acceptance and sudden realization that it would be satisfied. The opening thrust up to join his efforts. He held his tongue stiff, the satiny cleft rolled up and down over it, from the aperture to the clitoris, back and forth over the clitoris then down to the opening again.

Meanwhile, since he had begun his movement to satisfy her and she now knew this, she worked extra hard to devour his tool. Each worked in a fury as though wanting to out-do the other and in this competition Jim felt his penis reach the bursting point. He whisked his tongue more rapidly, so that she might be ready, too. Her body tightened and became rigid. He knew the moment was now. He hastened his pace. The hips jerked again, this time with a sudden haste and desperateness that smothered his face and efforts. His penis swelled in her mouth, she jerked her head up and down violently. The sperm came up inside him, carrying strength from the tense muscles in his legs, came and budded in the head and burst forth sprouting again and again and again into her stuffed mouth. She took it and gave back with her hips as she quivered, became rigid and convulsed in a near fit, thrust her hips high into the air, carrying his head with them, the tongue forever flickering, the climax reached together in a wild spasm of mouth and hip and leg and clitoris and penis.

The rigidity held itself off the floor for a moment then it suddenly crashed down, carrying with it the spent emotion and exhilarating sensation of fulfillment.

CHAPTER TWO

LATER, WHEN THEY LAY QUIET AGAIN ON the straw mat, Jim wondered if Byi weren't right. Maybe he should stay with her instead of running after Bull Sultan. Maybe he should forget about the whole thing. Byi could take care of him and make him forget. But an image came to him, an image of himself on a small rotten boat three days without water, three days without food. There was no sight of land, just the waves building and breaking on the gunwales of his boat and a pounding memory of Bull laughing at him from the deck of the Southern Star.

Jim lit a cigarette in the candle flame. He leaned his head back on his bent arm. The breeze coming through the hut dried the smeared perspiration under his arm, making him chilly. There was something comforting in the bright red glow of his cigarette in the darkness. He puffed on it; the glow flared up and illuminated the bamboo rafters and his face. A narrow scar, long but clean, ran like a pencil line from his left eye to his unshaven chin. Blond bristles, a shade darker than his too-long unkempt almost white hair, grew awkwardly around the scar at the points where it touched his beard. It seemed as though the bristles avoided the scar, either from respect or fear of reminding Jim of the violence that once was and soon would be.

Byi-Byi rolled onto her side. The candle was between them. She reached out like a kitten after a ball of paper and touched the long scar on Jim's cheek. He winced and retreated from her touch. Her finger hadn't hurt, but the scar was still fresh and sensitive and it felt strange to be touched. She approached with her finger. He didn't move away this time. Her finger glided along the scar from the comer of his eye to his chin. It felt as though the skin weren't his, as though it belonged to someone else and had been glued there to cover the gash from Bull's razor.

“That hurt?” Byi-Byi asked tenderly. “No, the scar doesn't hurt,” he said. “But the memory does.”

“That only little alongside what Bull do.” She caressed the whole side of his face. “He kill you. You crazy. You stay alongside me.”

Jim didn't pay attention to her words. His mind was elsewhere. First, he remembered racing to the ship. The gangplank was just going up. He jumped on it and the winches brought him to the rusty deck. The men, his ex-shipmates, looked at him and gathered around the forward hatch. He brushed past them. Bull was in his cabin. Jim knocked and smelled the filthy boat, the results of months at sea without being washed in fresh water. No answer. He tried the door; it was not locked. Bull had a native girl on the bunk; he was fondling her breasts while she drank some Tuvo coconut wine. Hatred blinded Jim. He rushed at Bull knocking him to the floor. Bull jabbed from under him. Jim paid no attention to the blows but battered his fists into Bull's face, the rage exploding in barrages. Someone grabbed his arms and jerked him to his feet. Two Kanakas had surprised him. He should have locked the door but it was too late now. Bull stood before him, swinging a tremendous blow which hammered into Jim's gut. He couldn't breathe. He wanted to lie down, but the strong hands pinned his arms and held him off the steel deck of the cabin. He managed to block Bull's knee, glancing it off his thigh, catching him too high in the crotch to ruin him. The blows fell again on his stomach. He stiffened his muscles for protection, but the hammering came too often. He relaxed just once and it was over. Now he was too tired to resist. The hammers continued, never in the exact same spot. He hoped he would pass out, but he couldn't. He concentrated on falling limp in the arms of the Kanakas. Unconsciousness could protect him from the pain, but for some reason he couldn't pass out. He was dazed, a heavy film clouded his eyes. He couldn't resist the blows that belched into his stomach. He could feel them in different places with each swing. Sometimes Bull's hammer fist was too high, sometimes too low; now to the right, now to the left. Dead center. God, Bull! he wanted to shout: hit my plexus. Knock me out. Hit my jaw. Do what you want, but knock me out.

Through his weak daze Jim wondered why Bull never hit his face. His stomach was a numb wall of rubber accepting Bull's harass. Suddenly Bull ceased hitting him and strode to his bunk. Now, Jim thought, he's going to kill me. But all Bull did was come to him and slap him across the face with the flat of his hand.

The Kanakas released Jim; he sagged helplessly to the cold deck. As he lay there his dulled mind wondered about the strangeness of Bull's slap. Suddenly he felt blood pouring under his cheek, making it warm and sticky wet. At first he thought the blood came from his nose. But the pain started in his cheek and he hadn't been hit in the hose. The flesh stung at first in little tingles, spreading gradually over the whole side of his face until it glowed and throbbed. He wished he had the strength to touch his cheek and massage it. The pain sharpened, growing in a long line from his eye to his chin. His dulled mind grasped an idea and hung on: Bull had put a razor between his fingers before slapping him.

He was being slapped again, but it was a gentle pat this time and on the other cheek. “Jim. Jim.” It was Byi. She hugged him, burying his face in her ceding bosom. “Jim. Jim. Don't think. Forget.” She rocked back and forth clenching him to her breast. “Please don't think.” He calmed down a bit, concentrating on the soft flesh before him. He sunk his nose in the upper part of her breast and moved his head from side to side. His hands ran over her smooth oily back. “I'm all right,” he told her. “I'm all right now.”

She relaxed and let him go. He leaned against the wall. His cigarette had gone out, so he relit it with the candle.

“Oh, this Bull is bad man,” she said. She put her face in her hands, hiding her dark eyes. “He do all that to you. He give you bad memories. Bad dreams. Bad scar. He kill you. You no look for him. You stay alongside me. Forget.”

Jim rose and walked across the room to the window. “Don't leave,” she pleaded.

“I'm not leaving,” he assured her. “Not now, anyway.”

He leaned his forearm on the moist bamboo sill; it felt smooth and cold. He gazed thoughtlessly through the window opening. The ground was moist with heavy dew. The leaves of small plants just outside the hut glimmered in the hazy gray light of early morning. A wispy mist hung along the ground in streams, encircling plants and trees, clinging low over the path that lead down the hill.

A mina bird called shrilly in the jungle. As if in answer a chirrup came from a small lost snipe. The mina called again.

Down the hill the other half of the island jutted out over the bay. The water was still and gray. Small white breakers rolled onto the beach. There, too, a mist clung to the water and hovered above it, making the bay seem as calm as pebbly glass. A breeze drifted by, scraping a palm frond over the roof above him.

“Jim.” Byi's voice came wallowing to him. She sounded as though she were whispering in the night. There was something tender and thoughtful in it. “Jim. Me love you.”

Jim didn't answer. He peered through the gray, seeing nothing, focusing on some distant object that made everything around him seem like a dream. You're a bastard, he told himself; Byi loves you and what do you do? You lay her. You let her take care of you when you get drunk. You eat her food. You sleep in her bed but what do you do for her? You don't do a damn thing. When morning comes, you stand here for a while watching the bay, hoping the Southern Star will come in. When it doesn't you amble down to the village to drink and lounge around the tavern waiting, waiting, waiting.

Her hands pressed lightly on his shoulder and she put her head through the window alongside his. Strands of her long black hair brushed against his good cheek, tickling him—but not the kind of tickling that would make him want to scratch; it was a tickling that was pleasant to feel, a comforting brush against the skin.

“When you work alongside Bull on ship me watch from here look your boat. Me have binoculars, Navy kind. Me watch while washing dry. You no come me sad. You come, me very glad. Me sing. Me work. Me clean good. Go town maybe see you.”

Go ahead, he thought; rub it in. Make me feel like a bastard. “Why don't you go sit over there?” He pointed to the chair by the table.

“Jim, be good Byi-Byi,” she purred in his ear.

“Aw, shut up,”

She withdrew her head from the window. He didn't turn but he knew what she was doing: she was standing with her hands on her full hips and staring at him with a frown on her face.

What a son-of-a-bitch! he thought; you get so mixed-up with this idea of killing Bull that it makes you sour. You bite everything good in your life; you're killing yourself, Jim; you'd better watch out.

“You no love me,” she said. “Because me Chamorro, native girl. Just native girl.”

“You're nuts,” he said. “I'm just as much a native as you are.”

“You no native blood,” she said. “You white native, no native like Byi-Byi. Me Chamorro. You no love Chamorro.”

“Don't be dumb,” he told her, trying to be nice. “It isn't that. It's got nothing to do with you being a Chamorran or not. You know how I feel about that. Wasn't I in love with Ming before I met you? And Wang Li, the man who raised me, who has been like a real father to me—is he a white man? You are not just, Byi-Byi.”

After a silence, she asked, “What make you not love Byi-Byi, Jim?”

“I didn't say I didn't love you. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. I don't know. If I don't love you, it's got nothing to do with your being a native. It's something else.”

“Me know,” she said. “You think all time kill, kill, kill. That make you bad. You think bad all time. No room love.”

If she weren't so goddamn right he would turn and slap her across the face. That would shut her up. Why did she have to dig in those claws, to keep reminding him of what a bastard he had become?

“Me right,” she said. “You know me right. Look your father. You never see. You never go. He 'lone plantation. What you do? You go tavern all day. You dream Bull Sultan all time. No room love. Poor father. Him become old. Him 'lone. You? You no 'lone. You got dream. You dream kill Bull Sultan.”

Suddenly he spun around and grabbed her shoulders. “Shut up!” he shouted into her face. “Shut the hell up!” He shook her violently. As suddenly as he had started, he stopped. Her hair hung, loosely down covering her bowed face. He held her shoulders while she started whimpering. “Oh, what the Christ!” he said. He released her and stalked from the hut.

She didn't come after him. When he was outside he could hear her sobbing in the hut. What a louse, he thought; what a no-good lousy son-of-a-bitch.

The ground was hard and wet under his bare feet as he stood on top of the knoll and looked out over the bay.

Off on the horizon heavy gray clouds had formed. The upper part of the sky was lighter. A dog howled from far away. He felt a breeze come up behind him, lifting a swirl of mist around his feet. The mist rose, then disappeared into nothingness.

Everything became still: the wind stopped; no sound came from the jungle. The wisps themselves stopped shifting while all life froze. The only movement was far off on the horizon where the heavy clouds edged off the end of the world. Everything was waiting for the birth of day. Then it happened; the first ray of light burst through the bank of clouds. Another breeze awakened. It was already a different breeze, warmer than the refreshing night air. Day had taken over. A high-pitched bird called through the jungle, shattering night. Another dog howled. A cock somewhere down below on one of the farms crowed a greeting to the new morning. The miste started a gradual movement which terminated in evaporation. New smoke rose from below: the smoke of morning fires, the smoke of damp bread-fruit wood, clear and sharp and sweet in the morning.

Far off at the other end of the island, reaching down almost to the bay, Jim could make out the extent of his father's plantation. The palm trees were in regular rows, swaying like soldiers in the breeze. There's good copra in those trees, Jim thought; good rich copra.

Down at this end of the plantation, so far away from the houses and administration buildings, Jim often came to go fishing. He remembered when he would tell Wang Li that he was going out to inspect the trees. Surely, Jim thought, the old man knew what he was doing, that he wasn't going to inspect any trees, that he was going fishing and swimming. But even so, Wang Li, standing majestically with his hands hidden in the sleeves of his smock, would look down at him and smile and say something like, “It's a big responsibility for a little boy. You need someone to help you.” He would send for Ming. She would come with her pigtails plaited and pinned on top of her head. Wang Li would send them both off to inspect the trees, knowing full well that they would return later in the afternoon with a string of fish.

He had even known the truth when Jim would lie to him saying that a fisherman had given him the fish. He even knew before Ming, who never lied, told what really had happened and Jim would blush and look at his bare feet in shame.

He smiled when he thought of himself, so naive and awkward, He knew he could never fool old Wang Li, but just the same, he would make up some fantastic ' story again the next day.

Suppose Wang Li had been his real father, Jim wondered; would he still have been so lenient? He tried to remember what his real father looked like, but he couldn't. He had been too young to remember. And his mother? That would be even more difficult. All he could evoke as an image were the two framed pictures in his bedroom at the plantation.

He remembered, too, that his real parents had been missionaries. The older natives still spoke of Reverend and Mrs. Crawford with a certain air of respect in their voices. They must have been wonderful people, Jim thought; really wonderful.

The authorities wanted to send him back to the States and place him in an orphan asylum, or else to the home of strange relatives. Jim had cried over that. Wang Li, the friend of his father's, came when he heard how Jim was so upset. He asked Jim some questions about the islands and how he felt about staying there. Even though Jim was only eight at the time, he knew what he wanted, so Wang Li adopted him.

, As Jim looked out at the golden sun growing in the East he realized how wise a decision he had made. These islands were his home. This is where he belonged. Sure, he was an American; but, even so, he felt at home here with the jungle, the plantation, the beach and the sea. This is where he belonged. He hadn't been absolutely sure of that until he had gone back to America to serve in the Army. Then he knew. America was all right for someone who had lived there all his life, but it wasn't home to Jim. The islands were home and that was all there was to it...

Byi-Byi came out of the hut and stood beside him. She didn't say anything but looked out over the bay.

The sun was well above the water's edge now. The clouds had dispersed and the day promised to be clear and warm.

The beauty of the day—the bright sun, the deep colors of the bay, the bustling palm fronds around him, the chatter of wild animals deep in the jungle— brought nostalgia to Jim, a sad nostalgia for wonderful things that had been but could never be again for him.

He thought of his carefree days with the house-boy Kalo and his beloved Ming, childhood sweetheart, companion and sister. Of course, she was only his sister because he had been adopted by her father, Wang Li. Now there was a real princess, he thought; probably the last of a long line of Oriental royalty. He almost chuckled when he thought of how, when he had been a young pupil, all the princesses and stately queens in his books appeared to him as young as Ming and gifted with her silken long, black hair. Even though they were European royalty in his history books, every one of them had Chinese faces and Ming's soft brown eyes.

But he wasn't far from being wrong; he remembered how majestically she carried herself, how beautiful and pure her face was.

Yes, he thought; though not a true princess, she was the only true girl he had ever known—virginal and sweet—Wang Ming. They were to be married and Jim was to have her purity to carry him through life, her simplicity and strength as a foundation for his own hectic temperament.

Suddenly, the shocking image of Ming lying in a cold grave, dirt-covered and alone, lost to Jim forever, quickened his breath and narrowed his eyes in despair.

“Murderer!” Jim muttered between clenched teeth. Bull Sultan, he swore to himself; Bull Sultan, you'll pay for your crime. You'll pay with your life in my hands! You took her to bed, to corrupt every pure thing you ever saw, Sutan; to put your filthy mark of garbage on something clean and decent—my fiancee, Ming. Yes, Bull; you did that, but I'm going to kill you. Revenge will be mine.

Jim fists strained tight as a guillotine's knife. Anger and frustration trembled in his stomach. If Byi-Byi hadn't moved at that instant he would have vomited up hatred in a splashing stink of last night's drinks.

She stood suddenly on her tip-toes. She gasped for a moment and froze. Swiftly she turned to Jim. “Come into house!” she half-shouted.

“What's the matter?” Jim pushed her hand off his arm.

“Come...

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