Like A Hole In The Head (12 page)

     Raimundo flicked his cigarette away.

     "Yeah, it's time to talk to the boss." He stood up. "We'll go and talk to him now. I'll fix your car."

     I knew this was the end of my dream of owning fifty thousand dollars and I realised with a sense of surprise, I didn't care. No money was worth what I had gone through during the past days. If I had had only Timoteo to handle I might have had some regrets even though I had learned the hard way he was beyond teaching, but it wasn't only Timoteo. Because I had been hypnotised by the thought of all that money, I was spoiling my marriage.

     "I'll meet you at the bungalow," I said.

I found Lucy in the kitchen, preparing the lunch.

     "I'm seeing Savanto now. I'm returning the money. In a few hours we will be rid of them all," I said, coming to rest by her side.

     She stiffened, staring at me.

     "What happened?"

     "I suddenly realised I need this job like I need a hole in the head," I said quietly. "He'll never learn to shoot. I'm quitting, and we're going back to square A." I grinned at her. "I won't be long, honey, I'm getting the money."

     I went out through the back door, dug up the biscuit box and took out the bond. Before, I had handled it with reverence, now I stuffed it into my hip pocket. It was nothing to me but a piece of paper.

     As I returned to the kitchen, through the window, I saw the Volkswagen pull up.

     "I'll be back in a couple of hours," I said. "Wait for me?"

     "Yes."

     There was a fiat note in her voice and uneasiness in her eyes. Then she went on, "Oh, Jay! Why didn't you realise this before?"

     Raimundo, sitting in the driving seat, blared the horn.

     "We'll talk about it. I've got to go. Wait for me."

     There was something in the way she was holding herself that warned me not to touch her. I blew her a kiss and then went out and got in the Volkswagen.

     We drove in silence along Highway 1, heading towards Paradise City. Raimundo drove well and as fast as the car could make it.

     I turned over in my mind what I was going to say to Savanto. I remembered Raimundo's words:
If you flop, then you are not only going
to lose the money, but you will be in personal trouble.

     A cheap gangster's bluff?

     I looked at him. His handsome profile gave away nothing of his thoughts, if he was thinking: a hard, cruel face : a man to take seriously.

     
Personal trouble?

     I felt a spasm of uneasiness.

     This is the age of miracles, Savanto had said.

     But within reason. You had to have talent and a lot of willingness and Timoteo had neither. He did try. I had to admit that, so perhaps unwillingness was unfair. He had some deep mental block that prevented him from shooting. I remembered Lucy had urged me to ask him why he didn't want to shoot. I had never got around to asking him, but I doubted if he would have told me if I had bothered to ask. Maybe, I thought, I should have made the effort, but I was a shooting instructor, not a psychologist.

     I wasn't aching to talk to Savanto. He would blame me for losing him half a million dollars. I had to convince him that no one alive could teach his son to shoot. In some tactful way, I had to tell him that when he got drunk in the future not to make bets. I didn't know how he would take it, but it had to be said.

     A half a million dollars was a hell of a lot of money to lose, but Savanto had made the bet. If he turned rough, I too could turn rough. I was being straight with him. He was getting his money back. I would even return the five hundred dollars he had advanced. To be rid of Timoteo I would be ready to give for free those days I had had him in my hair.

     We were approaching Paradise City. I was expecting Raimundo to keep straight ahead, but he abruptly slowed the car, then swung on to a secondary road that led towards the sea.

     "Do you know where you're going?" I asked sharply. "The Imperial Hotel isn't this way."

     Raimundo kept on driving.

     "He's moved," was all he said.

     We turned up a narrow road, hedged by sand banks. A little later, we turned on to a narrower road and he had to cut speed. After a mile or so, we came on a small, white painted house with a sandy garden full of weeds and clumps of coarse grass, and a wide, walk-around verandah. Away from the house were two sheds that served as garages.

     He stopped the car at the gate, cut the engine and put the key in his pocket. He got out.

     I followed him up the path. As he got half way to the house, Savanto came out through the front door. He still wore the black suit and slouch hat, and he still looked like a vulture.

     He lifted his small fat hand in greeting as Raimundo stood aside and I continued on up the three steps that brought me on to the verandah.

     "Come and sit down, Mr. Benson," Savanto said. "I was coming to see you tomorrow." His little black eyes ran over my face and then he walked heavily to a bamboo chair and sat down, waving me to another chair. "What have you to tell me?"

     I sat down.

     Raimundo climbed the steps and walked into the house. I heard him greet someone. I heard a deep male voice return his greeting.

     "Well, Mr. Benson?" Savanto asked.

     I took from my hip pocket the twenty-five thousand dollar bond, carefully unfolded it and offered it to him.

     "This isn't the age of miracles, Mr. Savanto," I said. "I am sorry. It didn't work out. I also owe you five hundred dollars."

     He studied me, his face expressionless, then he took the bond, looked at it, folded it back into its creases, took out a well-worn wallet, inserted the bond and returned the wallet to his pocket.

     "Do you want more money, Mr. Benson?" he asked. "Would you be more interested if I offered a hundred thousand dollars?"

     I stared at him, my heart beginning to thump. A hundred thousand dollars! I could see by the look in his eyes he was serious. It made sense. He would still be saving himself four hundred thousand. Just for a second or two I was tempted, then I thought of Lucy and the dismay that would come into her eyes if I returned to tell her the shooting was on again. Then I thought of Timoteo. I knew no money on earth would make that goon a marksman.

     "No, I don't want more money," I said. "I couldn't earn it. No one can teach your son to shoot. There's something stopping him : a mental block. Maybe if you took him to a head shrinker, it might fix him, but I can't."

     Savanto nodded. He stared out across the neglected garden, his eyes sleepy, his small fat hands resting on his knees.

     There was a long, uneasy silence.

     "I'm sorry," I said finally. "I'll let you have my cheque for five hundred dollars. The food and drink are more or less intact. Your men can take away what's left." I got to my feet. "I'm sorry about the bet, but you shouldn't have made it."

     He looked up at me.

     "There was no bet, Mr. Benson . . . just a harmless piece of fiction. Don't go away. I want to talk to you. Please sit down."

     I hesitated. Then I remembered Raimundo had the key of my car. I remembered there was another man in the house. The instinct I have for danger was alive.

I sat down.

"Would you like a drink, Mr. Benson?"

"No, thanks."

     "Change your mind . . . I am going to have one." He looked over his shoulder and called "Carlo!"

     A giant of a man appeared in the doorway. He must have been standing just out of sight all the time Savanto had been talking to me. He was built like a boxer with enormous shoulders, a slim waist and long tapering legs. His moon-shaped face was flat and brutish, his eyes small, his nose spread across his face and he was as bald as an egg.

     "Two whiskies, Carlo," Savanto said.

     The giant nodded and went away.

     "That is Carlo," Savanto said. "He is a dangerous man when I need a dangerous man."

     I didn't say anything. I was now certain I had walked into trouble. I thought I could take on Raimundo, but not Raimundo and Carlo together.

     We sat there in the shade, looking at the neglected garden and listening to the sound of the distant surf until Carlo returned, carrying a tray on which stood two glasses of whisky and ice. He put the tray down on the table and went away.

     "Mr. Benson, you spoke of my son having a mental block," Savanto said. "You are right. He does have that. For you to understand why, I am going to tell you a little story that I hope you will find interesting." He took one of the glasses, saluted me and sipped the whisky. "My father lived in Venezuela : he was born there and he died there. He was a peasant and poor in spirit. He was also a dreamer and very religious. He believed a life of abject poverty was the will of God. He had two sons: myself and my brother, Antonio. My mother died of starvation. My brother and I decided to leave the but that my father proudly called our home. This was a serious decision because the sons in this district always did what their fathers wished and my father didn't wish us to leave." He paused, looking at me. "There is a strong tradition among the people I come from that children have to obey their parents: it amounts to superstition. If they disobeyed their parents they came to no good. Anyway, my brother and I left this miserable hut. We came to some good. We discovered a gold mine on our travels. By that time my father had also died of starvation. My brother and I became very rich. We married : each of us had a son. My brother had Diaz. I had Timoteo. Diaz took after his father. Timoteo took after his grandfather." Savanto shrugged. "I became interested in politics. I was forever remembering that my mother and my father had died of starvation. My brother became interested in power. We disagreed, quarrelled and parted. Now my brother is the Chief of the Red Dragon organisation which works with the Mafia. I am the Chief of the Little Brothers who represent the rights of the peasants." He paused to sip his whisky. "Am I boring you, Mr. Benson?"

     "No, but I don't see why you are telling me all this."

     "Be patient. You have seen something of Timoteo. He isn't an impressive man, but nor was my father. He is a dreamer and an idealist and he is intelligent. He is also sentimental. He met a girl and fell in love with her. He came to me and said he wanted to marry this girl. He brought her to me." Savanto fumbled in his pocket. "Have you a cigarette, Mr. Benson, you can spare? I never seem to carry cigarettes with me."

     I put my pack of cigarettes on the table. He helped himself and I gave him a light.

     "As soon as I saw this girl I knew Timoteo was making a mistake. She was not for him. She was pretty and so on, but light- minded. I told him so, but he was in love." Savanto shrugged his shoulders. "I persuaded him to wait a year." He studied the end of his cigarette and then went on. Now we come to my nephew, Diaz Savanto. He is as like Timoteo as a tiger is like a lamb. He is a big, fine-looking man; very athletic, a splendid polo player, a good shot and a great success with women. He too met this girl Timoteo had fallen in love with. He knew Timoteo was in love with her." Savanto paused again, frowning. "My brother and I quarrelled bitterly. Diaz despised the Little Brothers, despised me and despised Timoteo. He is a bad man, Mr. Benson. He decided this girl gave him the opportunity he had been waiting for to show his contempt for me, my son and my organisation. He kidnapped the girl, raped her and branded her. In the old days, members of the Red Dragon organisation branded their cattle with their symbol." Savanto looked down at his fat hands, frowning. He remained like that for some moments, then went on. "He branded this girl with the Red Dragon symbol. An insult like that can only be wiped out by death. I am the Chief of the Little Brothers. I had only to raise my hand and my nephew would die. But I am unable to do this because what he has done is a personal insult to my son. It is my son who has personally to avenge the insult."

     I moved uneasily, but I was listening.

     "All the members of the Little Brothers know of this insult," Savanto went on. "They are waiting to hear that Diaz Savanto is dead, killed by my son's hand. They know Timoteo is taking shooting lessons. They are patient people, but they are waiting and they are becoming less patient. Diaz knows Timoteo is incapable of killing anyone. He knows Timoteo takes after his grandfather : a life is sacred and belongs to God. That was what my father thought and that is what Timoteo thinks. This is the mental block you speak of. But revenge is part of our tradition. My people don't think the way Timoteo thinks. If he doesn't kill Diaz the name of Savanto will be disgraced. I will no longer be Chief." He finished his whisky. "Now, Mr. Benson, perhaps you understand my problem."

     "I don't know why you are telling me this. I have returned your money and that lets me out," I said as I got to my feet. "I don't want to hear any more."

     He put his hand gently on my arm.

     "Have patience with me for a few more minutes." Then raising his voice, he called, "Raimundo ! "

     Raimundo came out on to the verandah carrying a curious- looking instrument. It was made of iron, set in a wooden handle: the end of the iron was red hot.

     "Demonstrate to Mr. Benson the Red Dragon branding-iron," Savanto said quietly.

     Raimundo pressed the red-hot iron against one of the wooden uprights of the verandah. I watched the wisp of smoke spiral away from the wood. Raimundo removed the iron, then with a quick look at me, he went back into the house.

     "Please look at what he has done," Savanto said. "It is the brand of the Red Dragon. It is of historic interest."

     I moved over and looked at the brand-mark. It was about an inch long, depicting a crude animal with a forked tail and a snout like crocodile.