Shooting Script

You can count the revolutions in theavenidas. A new man takes over, carves out a newavenidalined with Royal Palms, names it after himself, and the new civil servants pocket their bribes and rush in to build the latest-style residences along it. But in five years there's a new man, a newavenida, new men building in a new style. Nobody rebuilds the oozing, crumbling houses on the narrow streets joining theavenidas. The people who live there never reach the pistol-packing ranks, so didn't take part in the last revolution and won't take part in the next. Nobody owes them anything.

The taxi stuck to theavenidas. We came in on Lincoln, turned down George Washington and up Independencia. Most of theavenidasend up with such names: heroes too long ago or far away to have any political significance, or abstract ideas likeindependenciaandlibertadthat are what every revolution's about anyway. It doesn't make much difference. A newlibertadcomes every five or ten years, but there'll still be two grey soldiers with carbines and eighteen-inch truncheons on every corner to remind you that you are now reallylibre.

With the lastlibertadthey'd decided the town was the new Miami Beach and had built three modern resort hotels. We drove clear through the town to the biggest and best of all, the Americana, on the western edge.

It sat at the end of a long avenue of Royal Palms: a crescent-shaped five-storey copy of the Fontainebleuat Miami Beach itself. Every room guaranteed its own balcony and air-conditioning, every bell-boy, lift-boy, and floor waiter guaranteed a pimp. Maybe that made it Whitmore country. For me, it made it the weekend I caught up on my drinking.

I dumped my bag in my room and went straight down to the patio bar on the terrace and bought a beer. By then it was about half-past noon. Ten minutes later, the director came in; he saw me, wondered if he could pretend he hadn't, decided not, and came over.

'If I'd got any pesos I'd buy you a drink,' he announced.

'I'vegot some.'

He let me buy him a Scotch, then asked: 'How do you change money here?'

Try the bell-boy. The official exchange rate's one peso to a dollar. It should be about a peso and a half. Don't settle for less than one-thirty-five. And remember to change any pesos back before you go out: officially you can't export currency, so no bank outside'll touch your pesos.'

'My God.' He sucked at his drink. 'We'll never be able to shoot here. They'll cheat us blind the moment we've got the full crew in and they know we're depending on them.' Tell Whitmore.'

'I'vebeen telling him.' He gave me a sideways look.'You try telling him. You seem to be in with the Boss Man.'

I let that remark go its lonely way and started to fill my pipe.

After a decent interval, he said: 'Well, you've got a fresh viewpoint: what d'you think of the Boss Man?'

'He's tall.'

When I didn't go on, he said: "That's all you've noticed?'

'He's broad, too.'

'All right, Carr. I see. But just let me tell you something; Don't ever think that man can't act. ' Whitmore, Luiz, and J.B. came into the bar. The director put the last of his Scotch down the hatch and said quickly and quietly: 'Check your contract. Mine's quite clear: I just direct.'

He slid off the stool and walked away, nodding to Whitmore.

The big man put both hands on the bar and looked up and down. 'Beer – right? Right. Cuatrobeer!'

He tossed a handful of pesos on the bar.

'You managed to change some dollars,' I remarked.

'Fella – one thing I don't need to do is change any money. Igot nearly a quarter of a million dollars tied up in this island: frozen assets from every goddamned picture of mine they'veshown here in twelve years. It's nice to be able to cash acheque and spend some of it.'

I nodded and put the third match to my pipe. Experience had shown that this was the one voted most likely to succeed.

Whitmore said: 'Do you reallylike that thing?'

The match died, disillusioned. I took the pipe out of my mouth and looked at it. 'I'm told it grows on you.'

'Not only on you, fella. Would you like a butt instead?'

'If you insist.' I put the pipe down and lit one of his Chesterfields.

J.B. shook her head wearily. 'There's a boy who's got the price of cigarettes licked.'

Ned said: 'All right, Keith. You're under arrest.'

He was standing, feet spread, pointing a bluntfingerlike a pistol and giving me a look as friendly as a blowtorch. He obviously hadn't wasted any time: he was still in a stained lightweight flying suit, covered in zips and pockets, with a fat stubby revolver in a shoulder harness buckled over the lot. In the carefully-staged half-light of the patio bar, he looked like the scene from a Whitmore film where the hero staggers shirtless into the Southern ballroom.

The two tall air policemen in white helmets and heavy webbing holsters didn't look as if they belonged, either. It didn't stop them moving towards me.

Then J.B. slid off her stool and said crisply: 'I'm Mr Carr's lawyer. Will you tell me the charge, please?'

Ned jerked his head round and gave her a suspicious frown. Then he said heavily: 'Yeh – I suppose I should've expected something like you. Well, we can start with murder and an act of war and see what builds up from there.'

She took off her sunglasses and looked at him as if he'd crept out of the wall. 'You are quite certainyou have the power of arrest?'

'Yeh. You sure you got the right to practise law here?' She flicked him a brief condescending smile. 'I didn't want you to make a fool of yourself – whoever you are.'

It seemed time to make some introductions. I said:'Coronel Ned Rafter, commanding the Repúblicafighter squadron. Meet Miss J.B. Penrose.' I waved a hand down thebar. 'And you'll have recognised Walt Whitmore and Luiz Monterrey, of course.'

Of course he hadn't; he'd only been looking at me. He lifted a hand slowly to his stubbly hair, scratched, and said: 'Yeh, I suppose I should've expected somebody like you, too.' He turned back to me. 'You sure pick your witnesses before you throw your punch.'

Whitmore stuck out a hand. 'Glad to meet you, Coronel. Have a beer.'

Ned looked at the hand, then shook his head. 'I've come forhim. I'll make do with that.'

Whitmore said: 'Anything he's supposed to have done, I was there at the time.'

'Yeh. I'm beginning to get the idea.'

J.B. asked smoothly: 'What were the charges again, Coronel?'

'I want a statement from Keith in front of the General for a court of enquiry,' he growled. 'He don't move out of my sight until we've got that.'

'We're down to a subpoena for an enquiry now, are we?' she asked. 'Let's work on it a bit more. We could get your "act of war" down to a parking ticket yet.'

But that did it. Ned's face clamped tight. 'Bring him in! '

The two guards moved for me.

I slid off the stool and stood waiting, feeling the old anger surge up inside. Nobody does this to… But you're always hitting the wrong men. The man in the Vampire hadn't bought the Vampire himself, hadn't been the one who decided I was a danger to the state. The two guards might like their work -they looked as if they did – but they were still under orders. You can never hit the men who give the orders. But maybe the time comes when you've got to hitsomebody…

The decision had been made for me. The guard on my right seized my arm. Then a huge hand landed on his shoulder, twisted him as easily as I could turn a switch, and another hand thumped in just under the white helmet. The guard took a short backwards sprint and fell over a bamboo table.