The Search for the Dice Man (21 page)

Nathanial Pult had grown tired of the crowd of eager believers who came to question him about whether he’d found Luke Rhinehart yet. It didn’t bode well for his enterprise that by one o’clock the whole town knew they were looking for Luke, although it was encouraging that many who came into the lobby hoping to find Luke said that they themselves had seen or even talked to him within the last week. But Putt wondered why, if they had recently seen him, they were so anxious to see him again.

By a quarter to two more than thirty people had gathered in the lobby, all chattering away. Since Putt had never been in this hotel in the early afternoon he had no idea whether this crowd was normal or abnormal. Come to think of it, everything at Lukedom was abnormal. Which meant the crowd was normal.

Putt felt dizzy for a moment from the way his mind was working and glanced nervously at his watch. The big clock that hung on one wall was of no use since – it had taken Putt about an hour to realize it – the clock ran backwards. It thus registered the correct time only twice a day – by accident. Like the newspapers Putt had seen. All the newspapers and magazines strewn around the tables and chairs of the Lobby, and for sale in the local newsstand, were from one week to one decade old. Apparently the date of the day’s daily newspaper was chosen at random by Lukedom’s master computer. Putt himself had browsed for more than fifteen minutes in a copy of
Time
magazine before he realized that the fucking issue was two years old! Belfast, the Palestinians, congressional corruption, huge budget deficits – it seemed like today’s news but was
apparently two years old! Only when he read a paragraph that referred to San Francisco winning the Superbowl did he realize something was fishy.

There was a disturbance at the front entrance and suddenly a big man half staggered into the lobby, coming to a halt not far from Putt.

‘I told you to keep your hands off me!’ the man shouted back at a duster of people entering behind him.

Putt then saw Agent Rogers and a Lukedom policeman among them, Rogers looking red-faced, dishevelled and sweating.

‘Got him, Nat,’ Rogers said harshly.

Putt stared at the figure before him for a long moment. He was a big man, a little over six feet tall, but slender and slump-shouldered. He had thinning grey hair and a hangdog expression. The poor guy had aged and shrunk so much in twenty years Putt could hardly recognize him. Had Rhinehart purposely transformed himself to avoid recognition?

‘What’s your name?’ Putt asked him sharply.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded of Putt.

‘I’m Agent Putt of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Who are you?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ he said.

‘Several other people already identified him,’ said Rogers. ‘He even admitted it to me once – but before I told him who I was and read him his rights.’

Putt nodded.

‘Sit down, Rhinehart,’ Putt said. ‘Has Agent Rogers read you your rights?’

‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘but I’m not sure I remember them all.’

‘So now you deny being Luke Rhinehart?’ Putt asked

‘Oh, no, I’m your man all right,’ he said. ‘But only sometimes.’

Sometimes. Naturally. Oh, Jesus, here we go.

Then there was another commotion and Hayes and
Agent Massion arrived. They had a prisoner too. When Putt saw this man he stood up.

The man they’d brought was older, naturally, and he’d lost a little weight, and his face was more lined and his hair thinner, but as he squinted through thick glasses at Putt, Putt felt a chill of recognition. This guy could be the real Rhinehart! Must be the real Rhinehart! He even had the same mad gleam in his eye. After twenty years! Justice triumphs!

Putt tried to remain calm.

‘And I suppose you think you’re Rhinehart too?’ he asked the newer prisoner.

The man simply looked at Putt with a sly smile.

‘He tried to escape,’ said Agent Hayes.

‘I’ll bet he did,’ said Putt, examining the man carefully, trying to feel again that chill of recognition which he had briefly fell on first seeing him. The face was definitely a little different, damn it.

‘Had a little plastic surgery, I see,’ Putt suggested.

The man smiled again and stroked his nose.

‘You like it?’ he said.

Putt frowned.

The voice seemed different too – although it was so long ago … And Rhinehart was an actor, he could change his voice with no trouble at all. Putt turned to the tall mournful-looking local police chief who was standing attentively nearby.

‘Well, Chief,’ Putt asked. ‘Do you recognize this man as the real Luke Rhinehart?’

The chief moved two steps forward to take a closer look at the man. He studied the other man carefully.

‘Can’t be sure, Mr Putt,’ said the chief. ‘I wouldn’t want to call it one way or the other.’

Putt sighed.

Macavoy. Macavoy could identify him; he’d seen Rhinehart arguing with his son yesterday. Where the hell was Macavoy?

As if on cue, Macavoy burst through the surrounding spectators and gazed dazedly at the strange cluster of agents and suspects that stood in a semi-circle in front of Putt. Looking confused, he finally turned to stare at Putt.

‘Well?’ said Putt, narrowing his eyes at the stupid expression on Macavoy’s face. ‘Which one is the real Rhinehart?’

‘The, uh, real Rhinehart?’ Macavoy echoed dumbly.

‘Yes. The man you saw yesterday arguing with his son.’

Macavoy looked dismally from one suspect to the next. A facial tic spurted across his cheek.

‘Uh, that one, sir,’ said Macavoy.

At first Putt thought he was pointing to the second man, the one that Putt had briefly felt must be the real Rhinehart. But something about the gloomy and reluctant way Macavoy pointed made Putt realize something was amiss.

‘Which one?’ he asked again.

Macavoy cleared his throat.

‘That one,’ he said. ‘The police chief.’

Putt turned from Macavoy to look at the police chief, who turned and smiled at Putt. Putt tried to retain his dignity. The police chief looked as much like old Luke Rhinehart as Putt himself did.

‘You’re Luke Rhinehart too?’ asked Putt dully.

‘That was yesterday,’ Abe Lister said with a frown. ‘Today I’m the police chief.’

Putt nodded.

‘And today I’m an FBI agent,’ he said gloomily.

I arrived in the lobby of the Hazard Inn in lime to see the comic fiasco of the three Luke Rhineharts and realize that the FBI had fallen victim to having too many informers and not enough information. I left.

As I emerged into the hot sunshine again, a twinge of fear made me realize that it might be better if I were not in Lukedom during a major FBI bust – the whole world of Lukedom was not something a Vice President and Chief Trader at BB&P should be associated with.

As I hurried back to collect my belongings at the inn, I suddenly saw Kim on the other side of the street walking in the same direction – with Way. I felt a burst of anger, then a dull depression: my father was dead and now so was Kim. I kept on walking, looking straight ahead. Inside the Do Die Inn I ran up the stairs to my room and began throwing my stuff into a suitcase, beginning with the mahogany box. I was just finishing up when Kim entered.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked. She looked flushed and was breathing hard, as if she too had run up the stairs.

‘I’m leaving,’ I said. ‘I found out what I came for, and I’m leaving.’

‘You found your father!?’

‘He’s dead.’ I snapped the suitcase shut and yanked it off the bed.

‘Oh, no,’ said Kim, looking shocked. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s the best thing that could have happened,’ I said angrily. ‘Hope you enjoy your stay.’ I took a swift look around the room and headed for the door.

‘Hey, wait for me!’ said Kim, hurrying towards the closet, but I swung open the door and headed down the stairs.

In the heat of the Indian summer day I became aware that with my car gone and taxis unavailable fleeing Lukedom might not be easy. On the other hand, if I wanted to avoid being involved with the FBI and any scandal their arrests made, I’d better get out of the centre of the town.

As I tried to decide whether to hike out of town. Kim, lugging two light bags, came up beside me. ‘Do you have a car?’ she asked.

I ignored her, squinting off in the direction of the gate, vaguely hoping it would approach me rather than I have to approach it.

An Oldsmobile 88 pulled up beside us and came to a halt. It was Rick, wearing an incongruous grey fedora with his black leather outfit and dark glasses.

‘You folks need a lift?’ he asked, in a deeper voice than normal.

‘Where’s my car, you bastard!?’ I said, wondering what past Karma had linked me with this archetypal source of chaos.

‘Oh, sorry, Larry, it’s still at the Wickstown airport.’

‘It figures. And whose car have you stolen this time?’ I asked, noticing that Kim had opened the rear door of the car and was wrestling her two large suitcases on to the back seat.

‘Not sure,’ said Rick. ‘I found it hidden off the dirt road outside town when I was hitch-hiking back to Lukedom yesterday. Some cop’s, I think.’

I moved around the front of the car to get in the passenger seat.

‘Dare I ask where you’re going?’ I said, getting into the front seat.

‘Well, I think I better be getting out of town to begin with,’ he said as Kim and I slammed our respective doors. The FBI may be looking for your daddy, but there’s also a federal warrant out for some hotshot who landed a plane on the Long Island Expressway. Where do you want to go?’

To the airport,’ I said. ‘Or wherever you left my car.’

With a shower of stones Rick accelerated away.

Back at the Hazard Inn, Nathanial Putt was trying to maintain his dignity. He didn’t relish having to explain to his superiors what he had hoped to achieve and have it compared with this comic fiasco. As he marched out with the other agents towards their cars he decided that the best solution was to change what he’d hoped to achieve. If he hadn’t come to capture Rhinehart then it was no failure not to have captured Rhinehart. What if he had come to gather evidence against other miscreants for other violations of federal law, thus laying the groundwork for a future massive raid? For example, what about all those Lukedomites impersonating law enforcement officers? What about those who had resisted arrest? What about their universal failure to collect state sales taxes? Desecration of a church? Operating premises for obscene purposes? Promoting probable orgies? Permitting teepees without proper sanitation? Why, in the Hazard Inn alone there must be enough crimes to fill a court docket for a decade. And what about lying to FBI agents and thus obstructing justice? Or operating eating establishments with improperly trained personnel? Charging $56.00 for a hamburger? My God, the whole of Lukedom was one vast network of crimes against the state! He had come to catch a bothersome flea but instead could gather the evidence for a future raid that would ensnare a whole pack of mad dogs that the flea had set to marauding! If he later was able to get indictments on a set of mad dogs, who would notice that he’d missed the flea?

‘Macavoy!’ Pull barked. ‘Hayes! Rogers! It’s time to take some depositions and photographs.’

‘Sir?’ said Rogers.

‘Sir,’ said Macavoy, ‘someone’s stolen my car.’

‘What?’

‘My car’s missing, sir,’ explained Macavoy. ‘Uh, and I’m
afraid my bureau papers were, uh, inside. Someone said it just left a few minutes ago.’

Putt glared at him.

‘Good.’ he finally said. ‘We’ll add car theft to their crimes. Take Rogers’s car and go after the bastards.’

While Macavoy scurried off to begin pursuit, Putt turned to the other agents.

‘We came here today for two purposes,’ he said with great dignity. ‘One was to see if Rhinehart was here and, if he was, to apprehend him. The second, more important purpose,’ he went on after a brief pause, ‘was to gather evidence against this community of criminals so that we soon will be able to put a final end to this travesty of the American way, by coming back later and arresting everyone here who has been breaking the law.’

The other agents were staring at him with some awe, but Putt, stern-faced, went on.

‘Now before we leave, here’s what I want you to do …’

After Agent Macavoy had picked up speed to ninety-five and set his red light flashing, he switched on his radio and in a sober staccato voice snapped out an All Points Bulletin.

‘Attention, all Virginia State Police officers and local sheriff patrols in the vicinity of and south of Wickstown. A grey FBI Oldsmobile 88 has been stolen and is believed now to be heading north on Highway 295. This car may be being driven by a bogus person who may claim to be a bureau agent named Macavoy. He is probably unarmed but may be dangerous. Please apprehend. I repeal …’

Sitting again in his favourite pull-off spot on 295, Sheriff Hiram Pennaker listened to the APB and, a few minutes later, grinned as a grey Oldsmobile suddenly roared past him at ninety, its red light flashing. Sheriff Pennaker took off in persuit.

Five minutes later he pulled the car over and cautiously approached.

Behind the wheel of the grey Oldsmobile was a dishevelled, nervous-looking guy, a little wild-eyed.

Sheriff Pennaker carefully unholstered his revolver.

‘For God’s sake, Officer,’ the man shouted as he approached. ‘I’m an FBI agent in hot pursuit!’

‘I see,’ said the sheriff. ‘And your name?’

‘I’m Agent James Macavoy, Washington Bureau,’ Macavoy replied rapidly, squirming in his seat in impatience. ‘I’m after –’

‘And your identification?’ Sheriff Pennaker asked, tightening his grip on his revolver.

The man suddenly stopped squirming and looked out at the sheriff with sudden fear.

‘… Identification?’ he asked in a suddenly weak voice.

‘Yeah,’ said Sheriff Pennaker, backing away from the car and holding his aim tightly on the bogus FBI agent. ‘Identification.’

‘Oh.’

Larry’s downhill day reached its nadir after they arrived at the Wickstown airport. He and Kim had not exchanged a word on the drive, Larry dozing off and on most of the way. It was after four when they arrived and found Larry’s car was actually where Rick had left it, undoubtedly benefiting from Rick’s being elsewhere during its brief stay. In his fatigued state Larry now felt the Mercedes to be a burden; he wanted to board a plane and be whisked painlessly back to Manhattan. And in fact as he stood gasping for breath from a brief sprint to the airport’s single ticket window he discovered he was just in time for the last flight to Washington, DC and a connecting flight to New York.

‘Can I hire you to drive my car back to New York?’ he asked Rick, who had ambled up to the window in less haste.

‘Sure,’ said Rick. ‘The Olds is a little hot anyway.’

Kim had arrived also and when Larry turned to her she met his gaze without expression.

‘What are your plans?’ he asked her coldly.

She simply continued to gaze at him, the only change in her expressionless demeanour being the watering of her eyes. Then she turned to Rick.

‘Can I hitch a ride with you?’ she asked.

‘Hey, sure,’ said Rick, grinning. And then, to Larry he added: ‘Hey, man, I’m glad you got such good taste in women. Hope you don’t mind I keep stealing them.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Larry, turning angrily back to the ticket lady to book a flight for one to New York.

As he stood with his back to them Larry became aware of Rick and Kim moving away, their voices fading towards the main set of doors. When he could stand it no longer he turned to sneak a peek.

He saw Rick holding open the door for Kim who, as she was about to exit, looked back. Larry had a fierce impulse to shout, run to her, beat her brains in, make wonderful love to her and totally ignore her until she apologized. He nodded vaguely in her direction and turned back to the ticket lady.

FROM LUKE’S JOURNAL

Somehow somewhere human beings seem to have built into them an unhappiness-creating mechanism. A few people seem to have escaped the mechanism, either because they never had it or they do something to eliminate it or override it or ignore it. But finding the mechanism isn’t easy. Since the sickness permeates everything we do it must be inherent in everything we do – in the very way we think about ourselves and our lives, in the way we make or don’t make decisions, in the way we see or experience life, in the very way we try to cure ourselves. There is something fundamentally wrong with the way we normally live our lives and we’d sort of like to find out what it is.