The Dice Man (52 page)

`Drink, drink,' he said and clawed at my shoulder.

I raised myself off Gina and tore my lower half out of her mouth and marched off to the liquor cabinet to get that glass of water. When I marched back again Gina was standing beside Osterflood; he was slumped against the couch. She held out the belt to me as I approached.

`You want to try a few?' she said.

`No, no, I'm a pacifist,' I said. `Thanks anyway.'

She stepped to his back and raised the belt, but I told her to wait until I had given him the glass of water. He turned to me and stretched out a trembly hand for the glass, took it, raised it to his lips and began gulping. Ssssst Thack! The belt tore across the hand and the glass and water spilled to the floor.

'That wasn't very nice,' I said, wondering if Osterflood were immortal.

She smiled bright-eyed at me, like a schoolgirl who has just accomplished a particularly good trick with a jump rope.

`Save me, Rhinehart, save me,' Osterflood mumbled and clawed at my knees. But without Gina's striking him again he abruptly rolled on to the floor and vaulted his back. Gina smiled at him, but he stayed in his vaulted position; he was in another convulsion. As I watch, the belt fell lightly across my hair to my shoulder and Gina looped it so that she had me around the neck with the belt as noose and led me to the chair and forced me down into it.

She straddled me, lowering herself in little dips against the stiff cock which she maneuvered first against and slightly into one hole and then the other and then she slid over me, burying the cock deep within her. We rubbed now, and bit and clawed, and squeezed and pinched and sucked and laughter poured over us and Osterflood gurgled and choked and a voice said, `So it isn't bees after all,' and I rose up and holding Gina tight to me by the buttocks I fell to a kneeling position on the rug and then forward on top of her she already coming in a frenzied pelvic pulsation sucking and biting at my shoulder and I rammed and Osterflood gurgled and I rammed at her rammed and rammed and rammed my mouth filled with breast and laughter flowing over us ramming ram and it ah flowed out hot ah molten wet lava pouring into her in ah in ah in and ram once more time GOOD AH ah ah good good good seeing Osterflood to my left beautiful grinning lying on his side knees drawn toward his belly his face beautiful twisted in its hideous grin his cock stiff his belly spilling his semen pools onto the rug his eyes open glassy, staring, fixed, unmoving, dead.

The Die giveth and the Die taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Die.

Dear Mr. Rhinehart and Company, We are deeply indebted to you here at Fedel's for the fine catalytic effect your theory of the dice life has had on sales and profits and on our lives. My business life had been giving me less and less satisfaction over the years. I had the usual ulcer and mistress, and I divorced my wife and took a dose of LSD or something and went to discotheques, but nothing helped: my profits and my indifference remained steady. Then I read an article about you in The New Yorker which I detest and never read, and located a follower of yours here in Columbus and I and my business haven't been the same since.

The first thing the dice told me to do was raise wages across the board thirty percent and write commending personal letters to everyone. Efficiency jumped forty-three percent that month (it dropped back twenty-eight percent the next). Then the dice ordered me to stop manufacturing conventional hats (the family product for sixty-seven years), but to make experimental hats. My designers went out of their minds in ecstasy. Our first line of hats (you may have read about them in Ladies' Wear) was the highly successful `Boat Sombrero,' essentially a cowboy hat with a brim that tapers flush to the peak at the sides but flows out four inches in front and back.

Although our profits declined fifteen percent, our sales leapt twenty percent and I wasn't bored anymore. Our second design was the rainhat that looks like a Ku Klux Klan hood and is made of brightly colored plastic suitable for both sexes. It's not going well at all (except in the South) but all of us at Fedel's think it's great. My profits turned at this point into a loss, but the Die's will be done.

The Die then insisted we drop our number one moneymaking line of cheap men's expensive hats. Our retailers were appalled, but we were so engrossed in our third experimental design (the designer claims the Die make a key decision on it) that we didn't care. The `pancake' or `halo' (we haven't consulted the Die yet) is a disc-shaped headgear that works on the principle of the academic mortar board, but comes in a variety of colors, materials and shapes, although it is usually elliptical or circular. Our retail outlets are very skeptical, but have ordered so many on the basis of the success of the Boat Sombrero' that we're months behind in orders all ready.

We're deeply in debt, but our top designers and management personnel have all voluntarily taken fifty percent wage cuts in exchange for a share of the profits on our `halo' line and we're going to survive. The Die last week ordered a designer of ours to design a hat that covers the whole body and although some of us are doubtful, he is going ahead with enthusiasm.

To think I used to design and sell the same type of hat year after year! Please send us all your publications, and thank you for your help.

Sincerely yours, Joseph Fedel, President Fedel's Hats, Columbus, Ohio.

Professor Boggles at a CETRE

Dear Luke, I am a rational, linear, verbal, discursive, literary man and even your previous absurdities prepared me only minimally for the shock of my first week in the Catskill CETRE. I dutifully expressed anger, played Hamlet, pretended to be a fool, acted like an enraged tiger; I even swished my considerable hips effeminately when the Die tried to turn me into a woman. However, I did all this in isolation; I saw to it that none of my role-playing involved active interaction with other people. When other people attempted to impose their `selves' on me I became cynical inside, no matter what I was halfheartedly doing outside.

A middle-aged woman grossly importuned me to seduce her and the Die dictated that I ought to respond favorably. I found myself slobbering on her neck and squeezing her expansive bosom but feeling totally detached. My phallus remained detumescent. After five minutes she huffed off to someone else.

My awakening came on the fifth day, in the creativity room. The Die had chosen for me the assignment to write four pages using a new language - one employing primarily words from known vocabularies but combining them in a new grammar, syntax and diction. I was to try to express real feelings. I sat for an hour and couldn't get past doodles. Then
-I finally wrote a sentence `Muckme piddles ping pong poetry.'

I liked the sound of it but the syntax was too regular. I wrote a second `Skinned. Skinniedup, baked. Stick a.'

That I felt was better, but lacking in verbs.

`Farceuncle midwoof floops on the conch Harkening strayners at the dolor.'

I smiled to myself: I felt I was getting closer to truth.

`Missy-led clanker retchatches purr purr floops midwoof flushiting. I wonted crandy. Yo no crandy git, dabby sated. Yo knotted again, he, replyed jobbily. Fluckit shushit. Hotbam mastar.'

But I was supposed to be expressing real feelings. How might I do that without being absurdly clear and trivial? I must proceed further, I thought: 'Mime a riter. A riter is sumun who rights. Words, wurts, worst ... what too due? Fusshackle thought, ruddycup the blissbiz pronotions gaym, baby gone. Flat chance I have of whining a prize. Holy Muffer, merry of God . . . Ahhh.'

Remaindered Redeemer, where dost thou go? Kink of the Whirl, you knot me so I ken not. Rash anality has deshitted me Of all my straineth. I beg you show me merdesee. Yoose your head, your my-end, your braying! Your rashan. ality 1. He rashandill l (A reckoning crew will destroy us all.) Member, an hefull man is one who unjoys life, finds many playsures. He is a cheyeheld who nose nothink. Be rashanal and use sickology. But write, rite, right, reyet 1 Got is the kink of the Universe (Ice died for our since I ) Got is the kink of the Whirl (He nailrows what is wide and free) God makes ridid what is fleshible (To him who hass much shall be piled) The seven deadly Since he names, The thinks we've done, we must do penitentiary for (Luff, Hee says, is oil) Got so luffed the whirl that he graved is unly beGotten son that those that bleaf he died for their since may have infernal life.

Ah, Luke, I wrote on and on, for two and a half hours I wrote all glorious nonsense and sense so interfused it will take my graduate students decades to decipher it all. It's beautiful. I felt so good the next fat female that bloated her boobs for Boggles was erected on the spot. Dear Luke, you are utterly amid and I your faithfool decipherpill.

Yours, Gobbles.

[Being a questioning of Dr: Lucius Rhinehart by Inspector Nathaniel Putt of the New York City police regarding the unfortunate rigidification of Mr. Franklin Delano Osterflood.]

'It's good to see you again, Inspector Putt,' Dr. Rhinehart said. 'How have you been?'

'Fine, thank - Sit down, Rhinehart' 'Thank you. You've got a new couch.'

'You know why I've called you in?'

'No, I'm afraid I don't. Lost some more mental patients?'

'Do you know a man named Frank Osterflood?' 'Yes, I do. He was a-'

'When did you last see him?'

Dr. Rhinehart pulled out a die, shook it in his cupped hands and leaned forward to drop it on the inspector's desk. After examining the results he said 'About a week ago.'

Inspector Putt's eyes glittered minutely.

'You . . . saw . . . him . . . one week ago.'

'Yes, about then. Why? What's Frank up to these days? Nothing serious, I hope.'

`Please describe your meeting with him.'

'Mmmmm. I remember I ran into him purely by chance on the street near his apartment. We decided to go to dinner together.'

'Go on.'

'After dinner, he suggested we go visit a girlfriend of his in Harlem. So we went.'

'Go on.'

'I spent a couple of hours with Osterflood with his girlfriend and then I left' 'What took place at this girlfriend's place?'

'We watched some television. And, well, Osterflood engaged the girl in sexual congress and then I engaged her in sexual congress. It was a joint session you might say.'

'Did Osterflood leave with you?'

'No. I left alone.'

'What was he doing when you left?'

'He was sleeping on the living room rug.'

'What was Osterflood's relation to this girl?'

`I'd say it was basically masochistic. Sadistic elements too.'

`Did the girl seem to like him?'

'She seemed to take pleasure in her interaction with him.'

`You say Osterflood was asleep when you left'

'Yes.'

`Was he drunk?'

`Probably.'

`Was he in good health?' `Mmmm. No. He was overweight, had eaten too much that night. Had digestive problems. Was exhausting himself in acts of atonement.'

Inspector Putt stared coldly at Dr. Rhinehart and then asked abruptly 'Who prepared the drinks for everyone that night?'

'Ahh. The drinks.'

'Yes, the drinks.'

Dr. Rhinehart bounced the die on the desk a second time. He smiled.

'Mr. Osterflood prepared the drinks.'

'Osterflood!' `I found several of my Scotches unfriendlily watered-down, but the service was otherwise fine.'

The inspector's face and eyes became exceptionally cold as he stared at Dr. Rhinehart.

'Did the die tell you to murder Osterflood that night?'

'Oh I doubt it. But it's an interesting question. Let's see.'

Dr. Rhinehart dribbled the die a third time, and then looked up brightly at his questioner. 'Nope.'

'I see. I suppose that's the truth,' Inspector Putt sneered.

`It's what the die told me to say.'

The two men looked at each other and then the inspector, tight-lipped, pushed a button on the side of his desk and told the detective who came to the door to 'bring her in.'

Gina entered, dressed conservatively in a knee-length skirt, a heavy blouse and an ill-fitting jacket.

`That's the man,' she said.

'Sit down,' said the inspector.

`That's him.'

'Hi, Gina,' Dr. Rhinehart said.

`He admits it See, he admits it'

'Sit down, Gina,' the detective said.

`Miss Potrelli to you, fuzz-face.'

'Please briefly repeat your story of how the evening with Osterflood went,' said the inspector.

This guy and Frank came to my apartment and I gave them both a fuck. This guy served the drinks. Osterflood began to act as if he'd been drugged and was getting woozy and this guy dragged him off.'

'Dr. Rhinehart?' Inspector Putt said coldly.

'Mr. Osterflood and I paid a social call on Miss Potrelli. Frank made us all several drinks while we watched television and engaged in sexual congresses. I left with Frank lying on the floor with a blissful smile on his face. Where is old Frank, by the way?'

'He's dead, damn you,' said Gina.

'Shuttup,' said the inspector and then went on quietly: 'The body of Frank Osterflood was discovered on November 15 in the East River under the Triborough Bridge. An autopsy has revealed that he'd been dead about two days. He was poisoned with strychnine.'

He looked only at Rhinehart. 'You or Gina here - one of you - was the last one to see Osterflood alive.'

`Maybe he just took a midnight swim in the East River and accidentally swallowed some water,' suggested Dr. Rhinehart.

`The percentage solution of strychnine in the East River,' said Inspector Putt soberly, 'is still at acceptable levels.'

'But then I wonder what happened to him,' said Dr. Rhinehart.

`Traces of strychnine have been found on the shelf above Gina's liquor cabinet and in the rug in front of the TV set.'

'How interesting.'

'You mixed the drinks!' Gina said shrilly.

'I did? No, my story is that Osterflood mixed them.'

Dr. Rhinehart scowled in concentration. 'Maybe a dice decision made him decide to kill himself in retribution for his sins. He showed certain masochistic tendencies.'