“We shipped together for a long time,” said the bos’n. “There’s somethin’ eatin’ you. Drink up and get it off your chest.”
Rio raised his glass and set it down empty. Joe followed and waved his red hand at the waitress.
“A head on two,” he said.
Rio watched the girl pour the beer.
“I don’t figure it myself, Joe.”
“Drink up. Drink up and get it off your chest.”
“Well, my shipmate, last trip, was a queer one. I don’t mean there was funny business. I never knew nobody like him. He wasn’t no sailor, and sometimes I thought he was a little off. I never felt like that before, and it was all jam. He didn’t know how to take care of himself; so when he piled off in New York I knew he was in for it. I followed him and he was all over the town. He met a fag who got him a job. Then he met a girl and fell in love with her. The fag had him fired, and he went off the deep end. He got drunk and the girl threw him over. I found him at the Doghouse. I got hold of the fag and fixed him up a little and went to the girl’s place. And then—” Rio stopped and looked at the beer.
“Get it off your chest,” said Joe, and the tattooed ring on his forefinger turned an evil blue in the dim light.
Rio took a deep draught before he spoke.