‘Well, sir,’ says Sam Oakenhurst. ‘I guess it depends on the game.’
‘Very good, Mr Oakenhurst. I take your point. This is in the nature of an exploratory expedition. But only the likes of us can even contemplate the kind of expedition I have in mind. Only a trained jugador has the patience, the experience and the gumption for it. And Mrs O’Dowd says you’re one of the best. Played evens with Jack Karaquazian.’
‘Once,’ agrees Sam Oakenhurst.
‘Quite enough for me, sir. I’m recruiting, Mr Oakenhurst, a few brave souls. Outstanding individuals who will join an expedition to accompany me into the Biloxi Fault.’
Sam Oakenhurst has a taste for pain but not for death. He resolves to play along with this madman whose pale unblinking eye awaits his acceptance, but if the time comes he will never go with him. That would be suicide. He will jump off the raft the first moment they sight land and put this fresh lunacy behind him.
He shakes Paul Minct’s hand.
9. ESCUDO D’ORO
MR SAM OAKENHURST did not immediately join the game but claiming weariness retired early and stood on the little landing outside his door taking the ill-smelling air and staring over the dark water. No light escaped the spot on which they rode, but through the dirty cloud a little moonlight fell, making the water sinister with half-seen shapes.
In seeking to avoid the machinoix temptations Mr Oakenhurst had put himself into an equally unwelcome predicament. Paul Minct had a horrible authority and, taken unawares, Sam Oakenhurst had been unable to resist it.
Tomorrow he would test Mr Minct’s metal, if he could, in that acoustic game they played, and get some notion of the man’s resonances. He had not been manipulated so expertly since he was fourteen. He believed Paul Minct to be a charlatan, probably crazy, perhaps even messianic in some way. Frequently a secret faith, too insane to risk upon the air, fuelled such aggressive solipsism. The man appeared to have the tastes of a Torquemada and the savage appetites of a European warlord. Always a strong hand, thought Mr Oakenhurst. His lies would therefore be complicated and self-convincing. Mr Oakenhurst had lived for months at a time beside the Fault and knew it well. He had seen a woman from Jackson walk in at the semipermanent section known as The Custard Bowl and disintegrate, bawling for help, as soon as she reached the so-called East Wall, a turbulent tower sometimes emerging within the Bowl, usually coloured deep red and black. On another occasion he had held a rope for Cab Ras, the famous daredevil, as he went in through the glistening organic scarlet of Ketchup Cave. He had vanished. The rope had fallen to the surface as if cut and Ras was gone for good. Everything was consumed by the Biloxi Fault. Was Paul Minct merely reluctant to die alone?
Mr Oakenhurst did not doubt the enmascaro’s courage or ferocity, the man’s murderous determination, but could not fathom Paul Minct’s objectives. Perhaps Mr Minct had actually convinced himself that he could survive the Fault, and others with him. It was not a belief Mr Oakenhurst wished to put to the test. Yet, for all his evident insanity, the man continued to terrify Sam Oakenhurst who wondered if Paul Minct already had his measure, as he did not have Mr Minct’s. A game would answer most of his questions. He was no Jack Karaquazian, but he had held his own with the rest.
Most of the lights were now extinguished to conform with Captain Ornate’s tough curfew, enforced by a gang of breed blankey’s under their own vicious leaders.
The raft rocked a little in the water and a powerful shaft of moonlight broke through full on The Whole Hog as if God for a moment had turned his undivided attention on them. A voice came up to him out of the shadows. ‘Time for bed, Sam?’
‘Good evening, Carly.’ Sam Oakenhurst wanted to learn all she knew of Paul Minct. ‘I’ve a bottle of Arkwright’s I know you’ll taste.’
Carly O’Dowd had little more real information. She remembered a story that Paul Minct’s hatred of whites could be relatively recent, following a fire started by his own relatives from Baton Rouge. But there was a different story of how Paul Minct had been a member of the Golala sect which believed death by fire was a guarantee of heaven. She asked Sam if he believed in an afterlife.
‘I have a hunch your soul has a home to go to. ‘ That was all Sam Oakenhurst would say on the matter, but when she asked if he believed God dealt everyone a square hand, he shook his head. He had thought about that lately, he said. He had to admit that God’s dealing sometimes seemed a little uneven.
‘But I don’t think he plays dice, Carly. He plays a hand of poker against the devil and some of us believe it’s our job to help him. Some of us even do a little bit about it.’ He shrugged.
‘Jesus,’ said Carly O’Dowd. ‘I never heard anyone describe gambling as a moral duty before. Ain’t this the end of everything, Sam? Ain’t it over for us?’
‘Maybe,’ said Sam Oakenhurst, ‘but I got a feeling it evens out. Like luck, you know.’
Carly O’Dowd took a long pull on the pipe and sipped her winking Arkwright’s.
‘Quid pro quo,’ said Mr Oakenhurst.
‘Allez, los tigres,’ she sang softly. ‘Ma bebe sans merci, il est un majo sin compare. O, be be, you bon surprise, you darling ease.’
In the morning she insisted he come to the open window to look over the ragged shanty town, towards the east where the cloud had cleared and red sunlight rose in broad rays from the watery horizon, staining the whole lake a lively ruby. Against this redness a single black outline moved.
‘It’s coming closer.’ Sam Oakenhurst squinted to improve his focus. ‘It’s a big heron, Carly.’ He shivered. He took her slight body to his. ‘Bigger.’
It was an aircraft. A beautiful white flying boat with six pairs of wing-mounted roaring engines and whistling airscrews, moving to make a preliminary pass at the water, intending to land. The flying boat was turned a sudden, subtle pink by the sun.
Everyone on the raft was up and out in haste to see the splendid craft. Pilgrims and jugaderos all wondered at the wealth it took to squander so much colour upon an antique conceit.
And then, throttling down to a confident thud, the flying boat came to settle, light as a gull, upon the surface. The big engines fell silent. Water lapped at her ivory hull. Almost at once a door above the lower wing opened and a figure stepped out, dragging a small inflatable. The grey rubber boat blended with the leaden waters as black and yellow cloud drew itself round the sun like a cloak. Through the gloom of the new day the figure began to row, calling out in a melodious, ringing voice; ‘Ahoy, the raft! Is this The Whole Hog and Captain Roy Ornate?’
Just up from his quarters in his Monday whites and weak-kneed with wonderment, Captain Ornate could barely lift his megaphone to utter an unsteady; ‘I am Captain Roy Ornate, master of The Whole Hog. Be warned that we accept no metal. Who calls the ship?’
This was a formal exchange, as between river captains. The rower replied. ‘Mrs Rose von Bek, lately out of Guadalajara with a package for Mr Paul Minct. Is Mr Minct aboard, sir?’