The terms were to be spelled out at the meeting that evening. It would take place at Ali Khat’s villa on Paradise Island in the Bahamas, one of many such mansions he owned around the world. All of the competitors would be present. The Sheikh, evidently having judged correctly that Austin and the others were not themselves qualified to stock a harem, had granted that each of them might utilize the services of one “agent” to act in his behalf, and that these “agents” might also attend tonight’s meeting. I was to be Austin’s “agent.”
“I’m not a pimp!” I protested. “I’m a legitimate researcher.”
“Would you rather be a dead sex researcher or a live pimp?” he asked.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Why did you come down here?”
“Because you saved my life,” I admitted reluctantly.
“That’s what I mean. I’m not the kind of guy would remind you of it, but you do owe me a favor.”
“You know,” I told him, “you’ve got a lot in common with my mother.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. I owe you a favor. I’ll deliver if I can.”
What the hell! So I’d be a pimp. “Fill me in on the competition,” I suggested.
“Well, I can’t tell you anything about those you’ll be competing with directly, because I don’t know yet who they are. I don’t know who my competitors may have hired for this job.”
“Tell me about your competitors then.”
“Okay. First of all there’s Larry Rustwater. He’s the biggest thing in bathrooms on the West Coast. Got a lot of political pull and used it to get this far with the Sheikh. He’s very active on the right-wing scene in Southern California, verging on the Birchy, if you know what I mean. His outfit’s nowhere near as big as mine, but it’s growing by pipes and bowls. If there’s any corners to be cut, old Larry’s as quick to slice them as a razor blade and twice as sharp. This contract could double the size of his business, and he’ll be after it with no holds barred. Incidentally, he’s our only domestic competition.”
“How’s that?”
“He and I are the only Americans after the deal. The others are foreigners. Seems like everybody wants to get into toilets these days,” Austin grumbled. “Even the Commies.”
“The Commies?”
“Yep. There’s a Soviet firm looking for a piece of the action too. Their representative’s a commissar name of Krapinadytch. Rough and shaggy, but probably a lot smarter than he looks. He’s got something of an inside track because he previously negotiated some oil contracts with the Sheikh.”
“I thought you said he was doing business with American oil companies?”
“He plays both sides of the street.”
“I see. Who else?”
“Well, there’s John Rank Privy. He’s Australian. Very distinguished. Upper-class Brisbane and proper as hell so maybe his convict ancestors will be forgotten. He’s the kind of man you’d give your power of attorney to without hesitation. But you’d live to regret it. He’s always careful to stay on the Establishment side of the law, but there’s a lot of jailbird enterprise left in our proper patrician from Down Under.”
“So far they sound like a delightful bunch of cutthroats.”
“Or just hard-headed businessmen. Take your pick.” Austin shrugged. “But the other two in the running aren’t so bad.”
“Who are they?”
“Well, first there’s Venugotago Ugotago. He’s Japanese. Probably the most honest of the bunch. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a shrewd, hard-driving businessman, and he’ll cut the prices out from under you if he can, but I’ve never known him to be underhanded.”
“And the other one?”
“A Brazilian. Senhor Luis Di Arrea. I don’t know much about him. He seems to have a helluva lot of money behind him though.”
“And you have no idea who’ll be working for any of them?”
“Not yet. But we’ll know soon. They’ll be sure to bring their operators tonight.”
We lapsed into silence. There was nothing more to be said. We’d just have to wait and see what developed. I dozed off after a while.
It was late afternoon when I awoke. The seaplane was just circling to land in the waters off Paradise Island. We were coming in on the opposite side of the island from the causeway which connects it to Nassau.
It was a Chamber of Commerce view. As oceans go, the Caribbean is effeminate, a soft, mint-jelly green, shimmering, but only turbulent on rare hurricane occasions. It’s a sissy, but it’s beautiful with the golden-boy beauty of a Lord Fauntleroy in a frilly sailor suit. Delicate and prissy, but one of Nature’s works of art nevertheless.
White sails were sprinkled over the offshore pastel waters like fallen confetti. The sun hung low in the sky, tropic, apple-cheeked, and beaming smugly. The sand was chicken, too much cowardly yellow in it; still, its sparkle was truly golden, lush, a seductive shimmer, irresistibly degenerate. This yellow—or gold, if you prefer—was also the primary color of the small islets falling behind us as we wheeled closer to the shore of Paradise Island itself.
Now the shoreline was broken by ribbons of pink-red coral, strands almost violet in hue which marked off the overripe lime sea and the lemon beach like the jagged definitions of a jigsaw puzzle. Inland a more ferocious green took over without overwhelming the multicolored electric flora. It was the kind of scene Gauguin had to invent colors to paint.
Yet this was a long way from Tahiti, and not far at all from the United States mainland as nautical distances are reckoned. This dark green had the feel of jungle black in it when seen from the sky; and even the hotel areas of Paradise Island, where the palms were planted in rows and dirt roads laced them neat as tic-tac-toe squares, couldn’t compete with the basically primeval feel of the landscape. Against the black-green the other colors were violent, overstated, floral wounds gashed out of the dinosaur’s hide.
The main hotel, with its casino and its motel building adjuncts some distance away, appeared dead white from the air, a flap of overcivilized underflesh, vulgarity rebuking its own vulgarity. The villa that was our destination, across the island from the hotel and the casino, blended more naturally into the landscape. Perhaps this was because it was constructed of rock and wood indigenous to the region. If Austin hadn’t pointed it out to me, I probably would have missed seeing it from the air. But as we came closer to it—our seaplane had set down now, and we were coasting toward a dock—-the villa looked more imposing. It wasn’t exactly a castle, but there was the feel of a royal edifice about it.
It was a dwelling fit for a king—or as in this case, a sheikh. When Austin and I were escorted from the dock to the inside of the villa, this impression was confirmed. No demand would be beyond the man who was master here. But would I, Steve Victor, the man from O. R. G. Y., be able to satisfy that demand?
CHAPTER FOUR
We were led up a wide, impressive circular stairway to separate, air-conditioned rooms. Mine had a connecting bathroom, plushly tiled. The first thing I did was to take a hot shower to wash off the grime of my hopscotch journey. Then I shaved, went back into the bedroom, and stretched out naked on the bed to rest for ten or fifteen minutes.
Outside, the dusk was hamming it up. The sun, an overripe tomato now, was resting its chin on an overemotional horizon. The line between sky and sea was a mouth gulping large chunks of the tomato so that the juice trickled over the setting and deepened in color like coagulating blood. I watched the scene blending into a scarlet-tinged gray, and then the door to my room opened.
A dark-skinned girl in an Arabic costume with a veil over the bottom half of her face entered the room. She didn’t react to the fact that I was lying there stark naked. She paused a few feet from the bed, tossed a long mane of lustrous black hair in a way that was more frankly questioning than coquettish, and spoke.