Ten minutes and two silent drinks later, they entered the tiny room at the back of the bar. It was not much of a room at all, really - just four wooden walls and an unsteady plywood door, completely covered with peeling, yellow newsprint. The room had obviously been added to the bar as an afterthought, a quick and amateur job of construction at best. It had always amazed Rutherford that the little structure had withstood season after season of monsoon rains... at least ten since he had first seen it, and probably several others before. Above was a corrugated asbestos roof, where a bare 40-watt bulb was suspended at the end of a thin cord. The cord ran across the ceiling to a wall near the door, then disappeared behind the newsprint."You feel better soon," said Honey in a voice no louder than a whisper. She lit a candle on the nightstand in the far corner, propped two books in front of it to dim the light, then turned toward Rutherford as she reached up and switched off the light. The room seemed top go dark for an instant, then bathed in the softly flickering candlelight as their eyes became accustomed to the dimness.
"You feel better," she promised again. "You forget soon. No troubles now, Arty. No worry. No care. Stay here to me, okay?"
Rutherford watched as she squatted near a straw mat at one side of the room. Her back was to him now, and she pulled her long hair over one shoulder to her bosom, bent her head forward, and exposed her dark neck.
"You unzip Honey now," she said, waiting for him to draw near.
A dream, he thought, and he took a step back. Just an illusion. A false image. A ghost. No, ghosts! A shadow passed over his eyes, followed by a vague, swirling blur. Hot white, then blue flashes. A sudden, knife-like pain in his stomach. His shoulder. His head.
Rutherford stepped back... back... back back back.
He may have heard Honey call his name as he started down the hall to the bar, but he was already running, and there was a sound like waves crashing in his ears. Something silver and shiny cut through his scattered thoughts, leaving a gaping wound, a gash that quickly filled with a jumble of visions: gray desk, white shirt, neon sign, pink-skinned woman. A prostitute calling his name in a raspy voice. His hands clenched tightly as he ran out of the bar down the street. He wanted something sharp. He wanted the parang that killed the tiger. He wanted to stab, to stab, to stab stab stab at the formless enemies who now surrounded him.
The other bar was in front of him, and he heard noises coming from inside. The barkeep was shouting loudly: "You get out! Get out now! Can't you hear me? You do that crap at the estate, not here. Stop it! Put that down, damn it!"
There was a loud crack, like wood splintering under the blow of an axe. Rutherford rushed in, half-crazed and sweating, to find the three tappers standing in the middle of the room.
They were laughing. One of them was holding both halves of a broken serving tray in his hands.
"You crazy pigs!" the barkeep shouted, and the laughter suddenly stopped. The tapper farthest from the door threw down the pieces of the tray and, waving a menacing fist, approached the barkeep. They were drunk.
The goddam natives, Rutherford thought, his mind clearing somewhat as he moved forward. But the other two tappers blocked his way. Before Rutherford could position himself for defense, a leg shot up quickly and caught him in the chest, sending him reeling back against the door. As he slumped down, he heard a bottle smash. The barkeep had fallen behind the bar under a single blow from the first tapper. Leaving his companion to stand guard, Rutherford's adversary stepped back to the bar, opened a bottle of scotch, and took a long drink. He swallowed hard and coughed, then passed the bottle to his friend, who turned toward Rutherford, raised the bottle in a mock salute and smiled.
"Kuasa," he said, and the three tappers laughed loudly. Rutherford remained on the floor at the base of the door, his chest and stomach throbbing with pain. His breath was short and his eyes were watering. But when the tapper who stood guard over him turned to take the bottle from his friends, Rutherford lashed out with his right foot, catching the tapper squarely on the shin and tripping him.
As the tapper fell forward, his head struck the corner of the bar, but Rutherford wasted no time in watching his fall. Rolling away from the door, Rutherford scrambled to his feet, then turned to face the other two tappers who, startled by the easy defeat of their companion, had hesitated before making their moves.
"Goddam natives," Rutherford said aloud this time. The bartender was still behind the bar, perhaps unconscious, and the fight was Rutherford's alone. One against two, just like the old days, he thought to himself. But there could be little comfort in past victories now. These men were bigger, stronger, quicker than any tapper he had ever fought. He couldn't hope to overpower then, but they were drunk and he was thinking clearly once again, so he might have a slight chance if only he could....
Suddenly, the door flew open behind him and to his right.
