Jack of Diamonds

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘When?’

  ‘Saturday two weeks; six o’clock at the recreation hut, drinks are on the house, compliments za committee.’

  ‘What are the stakes?’ I asked.

  ‘Okay. We start five-pound limit; zen after zat, the school, zey decide.’

  I whistled, feigning shock., ‘Five pounds. Jesus, I dunno if I want to risk that much, it’s been a long time since I played. Sounds way out of my league, Hans.’

  ‘Ach, no, don’t vorry, ve are all friends togezzer, Jack.’

  Yeah right, I thought.

  From what Noel White had told me, together with the odd bit of gossip I’d picked up around the place, the visiting players seemed to clean up regularly. Funny that. Two weeks gave me time to make a few enquiries. In fact, maybe, just maybe, I could get a little of our own back, I mean, something for the guys in the single quarters, who, like me, were kept firmly under the thumb of the Germans. ‘Can I think about it, Hans?’ I asked.

  ‘For sure, Jack. But ve must see you, Saturday, two veeks, okay?’ There it was . . . you must obey!

  Even better, I thought. I’ve been nominated as the sucker. ‘Any other locals playing?’ I asked, my expression a mixture of wariness and uncertainty.

  ‘Ja, always some,’ Hans replied. ‘You vill like zem, Jack.’ As always, liking them sounded compulsory.

  I sighed. ‘Okay, count me in, Hans.’

  ‘Gut. Ja, okay, you can bring your kaffir gang zis Saturday, but only one hour.’ Hans Meyerhof was smiling like a fucking Cheshire cat or whatever the German equivalent might be.

  If I’d been offered a million pounds to guess what would happen next, I wouldn’t have even gotten close. As arranged, Daniel, Samson, Milo and Jackson arrived outside my hut that Saturday, accompanied, to my astonishment, by Jacob.

  ‘Bonjour, Bwana Ingelosi Doctor Canada!’ he said, laughing at my obvious surprise.

  ‘Jacob! Je n’en reviens pas . . . [I can’t believe . . .]’

  And then I saw it. Perched on what remained of his severed arm was a parrot, a grey parrot that stood about twelve inches high, with red tail feathers.

  I changed to Cikabanga for the benefit of the others. ‘What have you got on your arm?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘It is a gift of thanks from my people, Bwana Ingelosi Doctor Canada.’

  ‘Jacob, his father, he is chief,’ Daniel explained. ‘Many, many peoples, this tribe, bwana.’

  I was incredulous. ‘A parrot, a gift? But how will I look after such a nice gift?’ I asked, trying hard to look pleased, so as not to hurt Jacob’s feelings. He’d obviously slipped over the border with the parrot and walked god knows how far to get to Luswishi River.

  This produced laughter all round. ‘No, Bwana Ingelosi Doctor Canada, you must kill the parrot.’

  ‘What!’ I cried, taken completely by surprise. It wasn’t the most attractive bird I’d ever seen, but even so . . .

  Jacob stroked the parrot’s breast with his forefinger and ruffled its neck feathers, then indicated the crop. ‘Inside is the gift, bwana.’ Then, in French, he said quietly, ‘Diamants . . . bijoux [Diamonds . . . jewels].’

  ‘Diamonds! You mean there is a diamond in its crop?’ I couldn’t believe what he was telling me.

  ‘Many bwana, many diamants,’ Jacob said, grinning.

  They all nodded happily, the French word for diamond too similar to the English one for them not to understand. ‘You will be rich, bwana,’ Jackson laughed, then added, ‘I will kill for you this bird.’

  In the meantime the parrot had hopped onto Jacob’s shoulder. I knew that in the Congo Africans who were caught mining alluvial diamonds were instantly shot. Jacob had risked his life, or those of some of his father’s tribe, to repay me for saving his own.

  ‘No, no, I cannot kill it!’ I protested.

  ‘It is only a bird, Bwana Jack. Inside is the gift,’ Jacob said.

  ‘Ah, is that like “It’s only a kaffir, let him die?”’ I mimicked.

  There was a roar of approval from the team and Jackson broke into a handclapping dance. ‘Maybe, one day when you need help, like you helped me, bwana, then the diamonds will be there,’ Jacob said, laughing, accepting my point.

  ‘But how old is he? When will he die naturally? Perhaps then?’

  Jacob laughed again. ‘We have him in the village, in my father house, since he was a little baby, but he is two-and-a-half years only. He will live many, many years, more than you even, bwana.’

  The little parrot had cocked its head and I swear was looking at me. Then suddenly, almost as if making up its mind, it took off and landed on my right shoulder. ‘See, Bwana Jack, he knows you already,’ Jacob cried happily.

  ‘I shall call him Diamond Jim,’ I said, reaching up and stroking the parrot with my damaged hand. The little fellow immediately nibbled my hand and then nuzzled his head into my hand. It was mutual love at first sight.

  After my team had gone and I’d thanked Jacob profusely, I procured a cardboard box from the mess kitchen, knocked holes in it, so Diamond Jim could breathe, then phoned Noel White and asked him if I could borrow his family car to go to Ndola. ‘Of course, Jack,’ he replied.

  ‘I need to buy a big birdcage. Where would I find one?’ I asked, aware he knew the town inside out.

  ‘The town’s closed, mate . . . I mean, the shops. Saturday arvo, everything’s shut tight as a duck’s arse. Don’t worry about the car. My neighbour’s kids used to keep half a dozen budgies but they’re down south, the kids, not the budgies, at university, so he gave them away to another family. I’m sure he’s still got the cage. Wait on, he’s working in his shed, I spoke to him half an hour ago, I’ll ask. Can you hang on a mo?’

  Noel returned a couple of minutes later. ‘Sure thing, mate, you’re welcome to it. I’ll bring it around in the van. Gimme an hour or so.’ As usual, Noel didn’t question me. Why I wanted a birdcage was my business and he stuck, as always, to the three monkeys code.

  I was somewhat apprehensive that the cage might be too big for my rondavel but, as it turned out, it fitted nicely. It was a large wooden and mesh box on four legs, just the right size for a parrot. ‘Perfect!’ I exclaimed. ‘How much do I owe your neighbour?’

  Noel looked surprised. ‘He’s happy to get rid of it out of his shed, mate. Carpentry’s his hobby, he made it himself.’

  ‘No, I must,’ I insisted. ‘It’s a nice cage and he must have paid for the timber and wire mesh, never mind his time.’

  Noel didn’t argue. ‘Gimme a quid and I’ll buy him a case of Lion Lager, he likes South African beer,’ he said. Then, seeing Diamond Jim perched on the windowsill, said, ‘Shit, that’s one ugly bloody bird!’

  I laughed. ‘He’s a male.’

  ‘Thank god for that. Wouldn’t want a sheila lookin’ as bad as that! You gunna teach him to talk, Jack?’

  ‘Yeah, I hope to, but I know nothing about parrots.’

  ‘Me neither, except that he’s a Congo African Grey.’

  ‘Oh, thanks; that’s a start, anyhow.’

  But, I must say, I wasn’t at all sure what I was going to do with a greyish-green and, I admit, far from attractive African Grey parrot with a purported stash of diamonds in his crop. Or, for that matter, what the Krauts might have to say about the possibility of parrot shit in my rondavel. Ziz bird kak on za floor everyvere, you must kill him! Ja, ve must have clean!

  With the poker game in two weeks, maybe I could negotiate, insist I do my own cleaning. But what about afterwards, if I managed to achieve what I had planned? Diamond Jim’s life might well prove to be a short and far from happy one.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  FROM THE GOSSIP I’D picked up in the months I’d been at Luswishi River Copper Mine, I’d decided the poker games organised by the Krauts had to be rigged. The ‘visitors’ from across the Congo border cleaned up the locals way too frequently. They were either the best players I’d ever heard of or they were running some sort of scam. Even the best pla
yers don’t always pocket the cash. Moreover, as with most con men and cardsharps, they always left a little butter on the bread, allowing a few bucks . . . sorry, pounds . . . to fall into the laps of the locals; twenty-five or fifty pounds, certainly no more, just sufficient for the winners to boast about their win and make the game look straight.

  While living in Las Vegas, and like most gamblers who take their game fairly seriously, I’d developed an almost obsessive interest in how the odds worked in just about every game of chance ever invented. Knowing guys like Johnny Diamond, I’d been exposed to what went on behind the scenes, and learned the immutable rule for gambling professionals: that if someone is defying the odds over time, then it isn’t luck. They are not beating the odds, they are simply altering them. This applies to any game of chance. Sure, casino games and the slots were designed so the punter would eventually lose, or rather the house had to win. But even in poker, a card game that involves a fair degree of skill, players are still subject to the same rule. Nobody, not even the best player in the world, wins constantly; everyone has bad days. Sometimes the cards just don’t fall the right way. You don’t get the card you need to fill an open-ended straight, the diamond doesn’t fall for a flush, or the third king doesn’t come to make three of a kind. Worse still, your opponent gets the cards he needs all damned night. That’s poker, always has been, always will be.

  However, I know one more immutable human rule: if a school of poker players feels they’ve been cheated, then they’ll make sure the cheats get what’s coming to them, usually a very painful experience. The saying, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, pales into insignificance compared with when a bunch of ‘bunnies’ find out they’ve been cheated at cards.

  I approached Noel White and asked him if he’d let me have the names of any guys who’d played in poker games organised by the Krauts against the visitors from across the border.

  ‘Jack, you know the rules. No names no pack drill. Besides, you told me you don’t play cards.’

  I came clean then and told him the truth. He nodded. ‘And they’ve invited you to play and you’ve agreed?’ I nodded too and then told him I planned to find out if they were cheating. ‘Shit, Jack, are you sure you know what you’re doing? We’ve all thought like you but none of us has ever been able to find anything wrong. Sure, the French . . . er, Belgian guys clean up, but that’s because they’re good.’

  I then explained. ‘If they do it every time and allow one or two of the local players to pocket a bit of a win, always one or two guys in a game who get ahead of their stake by twenty-five or fifty quid, then they’re cheating. Nothing more certain, buddy.’

  ‘Well, there’s Jannie Coetzee, of course. That’s why he’s pretty lenient with the Kraut fuckers in the single quarters. They keep quiet about him playing a game that’s illegal to play for money in the colony, so it doesn’t get to mine management.’ He shrugged. ‘And in return . . . well, you know the rest.’

  ‘What are you saying? Jannie Coetzee is in on the scam?’

  Noel looked askance. ‘Jesus, no way! Jannie Coetzee is straight as a die. Most of the Afrikaner diamond drillers are; it’s just that they’re Afrikaners, a stubborn breed. They hate kaffirs and get angry when they’re conned or even contradicted. They’re what you’d call a definite bunch of blokes. You don’t want to get one who’s religious, he’ll tell you they’re one of the lost tribes of Israel or some such bullshit, but don’t try changing their opinions if you know what’s good for you. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Well then, what about getting a group we can trust into the game? Guys who’ve played before, so the Krauts don’t suspect anything.’

  ‘What, and you’ll brief us? Mate, I know about the black bloke’s amputation; you don’t want to go shitting in your own nest again.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Jack, how fucking good are you?’

  I shrugged. ‘Good enough, I reckon.’ He looked doubtful. ‘Noel, I’m very, very good.’

  ‘Righto, Jack, if you can pull this off, even the diamond drillers in the union will forgive you for saving that black guy. Jesus, mate, I don’t think you know how fortunate you are that Karel Pretorius stood up for you. You’re lucky you weren’t on the next train outa Ndola, carrying a very bruised body and a bone or two out of position, mate. You sure you know what you’re doing?’ His concern for me was genuine.

  ‘Noel, I wasn’t a full-time professional in Las Vegas but I played with some of the best players in America and won my fair share. If these Congo guys are not fixing the game, I’ll take what’s coming to me. But we’ll try to set it up so that if the game is straight, we all go home knowing we were beaten by better poker players and not by a couple of cheats.’

  ‘I can see you doubt that’s gunna happen,’ Noel replied.

  ‘Well, put it this way, I’d be very surprised; delighted, in fact. It would mean I could play whenever I wanted. The only reason I haven’t played is that I loathe those Nazi bastards. Every one of that so-called committee says ‘Jawohl!’ to Hans Meyerhof and practically clicks their heels together. It’s always a bad idea to play with someone you dislike intensely – too easy to let your emotions cloud your vision rather than playing the cards you’re dealt well.’

  He nodded. ‘Fair enough. Tell you what, I’ll invite a bunch of blokes I know have played in the past.’

  ‘No, Noel; ask guys who’ve been several times, played often enough to have won a bit once or twice.’

  ‘Sure, I get the drift, Jack.’

  He arranged a meeting at his home for the following Saturday and Judy turned on a braaivleis – that’s a barbecue to the uninitiated, but even Noel had learned to use the South African term. Jannie Coetzee was there with three diamond drillers I’d met once or twice, Russell Howell from the School of Mines, and two other drillers I’d seen around but hadn’t actually met. If I could convince the guests at the barbecue – sorry, braaivleis – then, together with the two guys from the Congo, that would make ten, enough for a poker table with a couple of guys to spare.

  Noel, while cooking sausages, outlined why we were there, although I think he’d already given everyone a fair idea. Then he introduced me and mentioned my experience in Las Vegas; just that I’d lived and played poker there and knew what’s what.

  ‘Thanks for coming, guys,’ I said, then explained why I was convinced that the game with the Congo guys was rigged.

  Jannie Coetzee interjected. ‘But hey, Jack, the German guys don’t even play. So, what’s in it for them?’

  I realised that I was going to have to be very careful with my answers. ‘Jannie, I’m guessing they take a share of the winnings from the Congo guys, which would make it well worth their while to set up these games.’ I looked around at the group. ‘Someone here take a stab. What do you think they would take out of a game, the two guys from over the border?’

  The men looked at each other. ‘Jesus Christ, boyo, two thousand pounds, maybe a little more? I’ve been known to drop a couple of hundred,’ Russell Howell admitted. Several in the group nodded.

  ‘Ja, maybe, man. I never thought of that before,’ Jannie Coetzee admitted. ‘That’s why they’re so keen on putting on a game. They always say it’s just a friendly game with the guys from across the border.’

  ‘Why would you suspect their motives?’ I said, in an attempt at appeasement, although I was surprised they hadn’t questioned these games a lot more closely before this. ‘Look, you guys are professional miners, not professional poker players. You may know everything about drilling a shaft or a stope or blasting ore, but you play cards to relax, have a bit of fun, win a bit, lose a bit, it’s just recreation.’

  ‘It’s been fucking expensive recreation, boyo, if that’s what you want to call it,’ Russell Howell ventured again to general laughter as we helped ourselves to bread and meat.

  ‘You can say that again!’ Piet Wenzel shouted.

  ‘Well, what’s the decision?’ Noel asked, looking at the guys, who now had plates of charred me
at on their laps.

  There was a general mumble of acquiescence. ‘Count me in,’ Jannie Coetzee cried, waving a half-eaten sausage.

  ‘Me too, boyo,’ Russell said. And all the others followed with nods or ‘Yeah, me too, man!’

  ‘How many of the Germans usually attend a game?’ I asked.

  ‘They generally make it a bit of a party. The twenty guys on the committee are usually there,’ said Bokkie Prinsloo, one of the diamond drillers.

  ‘Then we’ll need some backup in case things go wrong,’ I suggested. ‘But choose guys who can play poker, so if they’re needed they can sit in on the game, as well as break a few heads.’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ Jannie Coetzee volunteered. ‘Jack, are you going to cheat? Show us how, then we can give them a taste of their own mutie?’ Mutie was the Cikabanga word for ‘medicine’.

  I shook my head. ‘Nah, we’ll keep it straight. If we can screw up their scam, they’re going to be thrown off their natural game anyhow. The very fact they may be cheating means they can’t be that good in the first place.’ I paused and looked around the group. ‘I’d like to think we can play the game straight, but why not take the opportunity of getting back some of the money you’ve lost in the past?’

  There was cheering all round. ‘And you think you can do that, Jack?’ Noel asked.

  I grinned. ‘We can give it a damn good try.’

  ‘Heere, man, I lost two weeks’ copper bonus last time I played,’ Piet Wenzel said. ‘Let’s go get the fockers.’

  ‘I’m going to need one of you to liaise with me, someone the Krauts absolutely trust.’

  They all looked at Jannie Coetzee. ‘Jannie, you?’ I asked.

  ‘Ja, that’s okay by me, Jack. What do I do?’

  ‘Well, for a start, I want you to come with me to buy four packs of new cards, brand-new sealed packs from the Club. Then, should we decide to introduce new packs into the game, you can tell them you were with me when we bought them and that they’re legit, haven’t been tampered with. Oh, and by the way, I guess you all drink a fair bit during the game? This time, bring just one drink to the table, and nurse it, don’t have a second. Please, it’s important.’