I remembered that fuss with the croupier. 'But I still don't see which sides are weighted.'
He winced. 'My friend, one does not load theside of a dicethese days – it is much too blatant. One loads acorner. Then, if all goes well, that corner must be on the table and one of only three faces will be at the top. I will show you.' He stretched his hand; I fished the dice out of my drink and passed them over. He turned them in his long brown fingers.
'Now these, although they are rather heavily loaded, so they almost always turn up "loaded" faces, are also rather subtle. Each is loaded at a different corner. One can show only a 1, 2, or 4; the other a 2, 4, or 6. Nice harmless numbers – but you can work out for yourself what they mean.'
The hell I could – in my state. I stared Wearily. He sighed and explained: 'Two normal dice can throw thirty-six combinations: One 2, two 3s – and so on up to six 7s, then down again to one 12. But these can throw only nine combinations, including only one 7, one 3 – but two 6s and two 8s. And no 2 or 11 or 12 and some others.
'So: in nine first throws the General will win once with a 7, lose once with a 3 – enough to allay suspicion. But mostly he will throw something else and have to throw it again. Then he has a fifty-fifty chance, and if it is a 6 or an 8, he has a two-to-one chance. Overall it means…' he scribbled a quick formula on his menu card, 'it means he will win thirty-one times out of fifty-four. Say a three-to-two advantage. Enough – but only enough that people will say the General is lucky. And it does a dictator no harm to be known as lucky.'
He handed the dice back. I turned them in my hand, looking for signs of the loading. A great hope; in my current condition I couldn't have seen signs of an elephant loaded into a telephone-box.
'How did you come to spot this?'
'I played with them on the table – and found I threw only those numbers. And also -1 was born in this part of the world. One comes to expect dictators to play with loaded dice.'
'I know just what you mean.'
THIRTEEN
We flew back to Kingston by a direct British West Indies flight the next afternoon. J.B. had rung ahead and there were a couple of film cars waiting at the airport to carry them back over to Ochoríos. I dropped off at the Myrtle Bank hotel.
Whitmore lifted a big hand and said: 'Don't fret too hard, fella. You're still on the payroll. We'll call you.'
J.B. dug in her fat briefcase and came up with a wad of dollars. 'I make it we owe you for a three-hour ride. Two hundred and forty-four dollars, eighty cents – right?'
I shrugged.
Whitmore said: 'Call it $250. It ain't much of a bonus for knocking down a jet, but I don't know how we'd explain that in the budget.' He smiled. Joke.
I smiled back and said 'Thanks' and they drove away, leaving me standing on the hotel drive with my handful of money and the doorman looking at it curiously. After a while I walked through to the bar.
The next day I went through the proper motions without getting any further than I'd expected, which was exactly nowhere. The insurance company shook its head and regretted that confiscation wasn't covered. After them I tried various Jamaican authorities and the British High Commission to see if I could get a bit of diplomatic pressure on my side. Jamaican authority just didn't want to know; the Repúblicawas some unknown quantity out of sight over the horizon… They were quite ready to believe they confiscated aeroplanes there; hell, they already believed they ate babies and danced naked in the streets at high noon there. So what could you do about it? It was another suburb.
The High Commission sympathised and said it would ask the Commonwealth Relations Office in London to ask the Foreign Office to ask the consul in Santo Bartolomeo… I clicked the loaded dice in my pocket and went away to ring Diego Ingles and tell him the flying lessons were off, indefinitely. I couldn't find him. I was back in the Myrtle Bank by five.
Tuesday was more of the same, only I was running short of people to complain to. So I tried the Flying Club, which sometimes chartered out small planes, to ask if they needed a pilot. But it was their slack season, too. I still couldn't reach Diego. I thought about the crop-spray boys – but that was a big decision, even if they really wanted me. A different type of flying, a different life. I decided to wait until I was off Whit-more's payroll. That day I was in the bar soon after four.
About an hour later the barman handed me the phone; it was J.B. 'The Boss Man wants to buy you a beer. Get yourself a taxi on over; we'll pay it. Okay?'
I thought of reminding her I had a jeep, then decided that if there was any serious drinking coining up, I didn't wantthat with me. 'All right – where to?'
'You know a house called Oranariz? He's rented it.'
I said I knew it and would be there in a couple of hours.
Jamaican taxis aren't surprised at the idea of a sixty-mile trip, so the doorman found one for me pretty easily. We went over the short, steep way, up into the hills to Castleton, down again to Port Maria, and then along the north coast road.
Oranariz – which means 'golden nose' in Jamaican Spanish – is one of a collection of pricey modern houses around Oraca-bessa (golden mouth) near the Boscobel airstrip. They're mostly called Ora-something or just Golden Head, Goldeneye and so on. This one belonged to a writer who was rich enough to afford to live in London and rent off his Jamaican house most of the year. Visiting film stars often took it.
The house itself wasn't all that much – nothing like the 'Big Houses' the Victorian planters built in the hills so that they could take long walks without breathing the open air along with the workers – but what there was of it was good. A long, low bungalow built around three sides of a four-car courtyard, with a fashionable wood-tiled roof, windows with elegant white hurricane shutters, a wide marble-tiled patio around the outside walls. The big point was that it was private: it had itsown walled-in three acres of jungle facing over a small cove and beach that couldn't be reached except from above – or by boat.
The road gate was open and J.B. met usin the courtyard, wearing a cool tube dress of white lace and carrying the usual wad of dollars. She paid off the driver and led the way through the house on to the patio facing the sea.
The first thing that hit me was a refrigerator of my own height, connected by a wire through an open window. On either side of it Whitmore and Luiz were stretched out in aluminium lounging chairs. The third person present was young Diego Ingles.
I was still wondering how he'd got into the charmed circle when Whitmore called: 'Hi, fella. Beer or whisky?'
'Beer, please.'
Luiz stretched an arm and yanked open the refrigerator door, Whitmoie stuck in a hand and pulled out a bottle of Red Stripe, Luiz swung the door shut. It was a smooth piece of teamwork that didn't shift either of them an inch in their chairs.
Whitmore jammed the cap of the bottle against the arm of his metal chair, smacked it with a huge hand, and tossed the open bottle: it dropped neatly upright into my hands.
I took a swig, sat down in another chair, and told Diego: 'Been trying to find you since yesterday.'
He smiled his boyish smile. 'I have heard the sad news already, Señor. I am most sorry for you.'
Whitmore said: 'You remember you figured he could straighten out our Spanish for us?'
Diego waved a deprecating hand. 'I will do what I can, Señor Whitmore, but I am no writer…'
'Hell, it's your own language, isn't it? That's all we want. We damn sure don't need another lousywriter. ' He looked back at me. 'We got some good news for you, too, fella. We got you another aeroplane. Show him the 'gram, J.B.'
She passed me a used cable form. It said:Have found B-25 good condition Buenaventura stop price fifteen but can get for twelve stop delivery Barranquilla any time you want ends.Signed with a Spanish name.