by Ross Thomas
Dr. Diokadu held up his glass and said: “Do you think I might have another gin and squash? It’s rather refreshing.” I called Samuel and he served us another round.
“It is a lie, of course,” Dr. Diokadu said. “The smoke from the plane is harmless.”
“It’s harmless, Doc. It’s just a chemical and crude oil that’s squirted into a hot exhaust. And that’s what the poison squad will say—that they don’t believe that the smoke will cause impotency and sterility. But you’re right; it’s a lie. It’s a lie in its conception, its intent, and its execution. Do you think we shouldn’t?”
Diokadu sighed. “The Leader will not like it; Dekko won’t stand for it.”
“I wasn’t planning on letting them know,” Shartelle said. “They’re not to know. Their job is to campaign out there among the folks. If the gutter has to be worked, then that’s our job.”
“You need something else, Clint,” I said. “You can’t bank on the secret messages alone.”
He nodded and rose to pace the room again. “We need two men,” he said to Jenaro. “They must be of fairly high rank in the party. They must have unimpeachable integrity. And they must be willing to make a sacrifice.”
He waited. Jenaro and Diokadu exchanged glances. “Go on,” Jenaro said.
“I want them to defect. To cross over to the opposition. One to Sir Alakada’s side; the other to Dr. Kologo’s camp. They’ll bring information, of course. You’ll provide them enough harmless stuff to make it look authentic. But the most important tidbit they will carry is confirmation of our banking everything on the skywriting and the Goodyear-type blimp. They’ll have to be a couple of actors, and they shouldn’t be closely tied together. Have you got a pair like that?”
“Quit looking at us, Clint,” Jenaro said. “Damned if I’ll defect.”
“Not you two. But a couple of bright, young types. You’re going to have to appeal to their patriotism, party loyalty and sense of adventure.”
“More likely to their wallets,” Diokadu said. “I have two in mind.” He mentioned two names. They meant nothing to me. Diokadu looked to Jenaro for confirmation. Jenaro nodded his head slowly. “One’s a lawyer,” he said. “The other is an administrative type. They’re both tied to the party and are on the rise. They talk a good game—give the impression that they’re on the inside.” He nodded, abruptly this time. “They’ll do.”
“Who makes the approach?” Shartelle asked.
“Diokadu. He’s the party theoretician. They’d think I was trying to con them.”
Shartelle looked at Diokadu who didn’t look happy. “All right. I’ll contact them this evening. Both are in Ubondo.”
“The usual reasons for defection—” Shartelle began. Diokadu held up his hand. “We’ve had enough defectors in the past, Mr. Shartelle. I know the reasons for defection.”
Jimmy Jenaro got up and walked across the room. He sighted an imaginary sixteen-foot putt, wiggled his hips too much, but tapped it into the hole. “The poison squad, Clint. What’s their line about the blimp—providing there is a blimp?”
“It’s simple,” Shartelle said. “They don’t believe it’s really carrying an American A-bomb.”
“They call it the boom bomb back in the bush,” Jenaro said.
“And the drums will be used to plant the fear of impotency and death,” Diokadu said. “Two very strong fears, Mr. Shartelle. But suppose the opposition denies it?”
“Ask the public relations expert,” Shartelle said, pointing his cigar at me.
“They can’t deny a rumor—or they give credence to it,” I said. “They can’t stop using the planes for skywriting, or the poison squad will start taking credit for ending it. They’re boxed, anyway they go—providing they go. The same holds true for the blimp. If they quit using the blimp, then the angry protests of an aroused citizenry paid off. If they deny it, why should they deny something that doesn’t exist? It’s like a press release that starts out: ‘Johnny X. Jones today denied widely-circulated rumors that he is an embezzler.’”
Diokadu shook his head. “But we’re not counting on this to win the election, surely. It’s trickery, it’s deceit, and it’s a package of lies—cunning, to be sure—but still lies.”
Shartelle nodded his head. “If the people vote for Chief Akomolo, they’ll be voting for his program. If they want to vote against the other two leading parties, they’ll have no place to go but into Akomolo’s camp. Now, Doc, you know he hasn’t got the votes, and I’m not sure he’ll have them even if he makes a speech on the hour, every hour between now and election day. But I want to guide our opposition’s mistakes; I want to encourage them. I want to keep them busy running around on useless jobs. I want them to exhaust their energies on their own bungling. I want to create dissension in their headquarters and panic in their hearts. And when something like this starts, there’s a damned good chance for panic.”
“I’ll go along with you, Clint,” Jenaro said quietly. He turned to Diokadu. He said a phrase or a sentence in the dialect. Diokadu nodded back.
“I just said that the hands of our enemies are not without blood. They’ve pulled some real shitty deals on us in the past. I’ve got no compunction about Clint’s idea. It’s cunning as you said—and tricky. If it works, we’re bound to pick up votes—a lot of votes.”
“I will agree, but the Leader must not be told the details,” Diokadu said. He smiled, a trifle ruefully. “As a political scientist, Mr. Shartelle, I am learning a great deal about the seamier side of politics. It seems to be the side where the votes are won and lost.”
Shartelle smiled back. “They’re won and lost every place, Doc. I just want to cover all bets. That leads me up to another question. How about the labor union, Jimmy?”
“I talked to the guy. He’s willing to dicker, but he won’t go for a general strike. He’s saving that, he said.”
“How far will he go?”
“He’ll pull out one—it’s well-disciplined. They’ll stay out until he tells them to go back.”
“Which one?”
“The one that’ll cause the biggest stink.” Jenaro grinned happily. “The Amalgamated Federation of Albertian Night Soil Collectors.”
Chapter
18
Diokadu left, the now-familiar sheaf of papers tucked under his left arm, his right hand hitching up the folds of his ordona. Jenaro remained seated.
“You busy tonight?” he asked.
Shartelle looked at me. “I’m free,” I said.
“We’re two short at our poker school. You care to join us? It’s at my place.”
“I don’t know about Pete here, but I reckon I could stand a lesson.”
“It’s not that kind of a school, Clint,” I said. “It’s just what the British call a regular game.”
“That a fact? How much you play for, Jimmy?”
“Pot limit.”
“Man could get hurt in a game like that. What time’s it start?”
“Nine.”
“Pete?”
“I’ll play.”
“You take checks?”
“Sure,” Jenaro said.
“Who else is playing?”
“Me. A couple of Permanent Secretaries—British. And Ian Duncan, the ADC to Blackwelder. You met him. He married money, by the way, and plays a little wild.”
“No wild games, though?”
“No. Just five-card stud and draw.”
“Sounds like a most intelligent and relaxing way to spend an evening. We’ll be there at nine.”
Jenaro’s house was about a mile from us, a two-story affair with a three-car garage that housed his Jaguar, a new Ford station wagon, and a sedate Rover sedan. He met us at the door and introduced us to his wife—a young, pretty Albertian with an almost fair complexion and an impeccable British accent. She wore slacks and a sweater made out of some minor miracle fabric. Jenaro called her “Mamma” and introduced us to five of six children who, he said, were all his.
S
ervants bustled about getting us drinks and Mrs. Jenaro and Shartelle chatted about nothing in particular. Ian Duncan was the next to arrive, followed closely by a thin, redheaded man called William Hardcastle who was Permanent Secretary for the Ministry of Economic Development. Last to arrive was the Permanent Secretary of the Ministry of Home Affairs, Bryant Carpenter, who looked a little like Anthony Eden. Mrs. Jenaro saw that we all had drinks, then excused herself and herded the children to bed.
“Who wants to play poker?” Jenaro asked.
We followed him into a room that seemed to be furnished for nothing else. There was a seven-sided table covered with green baize that had shallow, wedge-shaped compartments where you could stack your chips. A green-shaded, Soo-watt lamp hung from the ceiling. Comfortable-looking chairs with arm rests were waiting for the gamblers. The only other furniture in the room was a sideboard that held ice, liquor, beer, glasses, and soda. There was also an air-conditioner that had brought the temperature down to around seventy. It looked like a place where a lot of money could be won or lost.
Jenaro brought out the chips and tossed six packs of Bicycles on the table. We all took seats. I found myself between Hardcastle and Carpenter. Shartelle was between Jenaro and Duncan.
“For the benefit of our American cousins,” Jenaro said, “I’ll repeat the rules. It’s dealer’s choice as long as you play five-card stud or draw. Pot limit with four raises. No wild cards, no joker. You mix your own drinks.”
He ripped open a pack of cards, shuffled, and fanned them out on the table. “Draw for deal.” While we drew he passed each of us a stack of blue, red and white chips. “Everybody starts with fifty pounds. The whites are a shilling, the reds are ten bob, and the blues are a pound.” He drew his card and turned it over. It was the nine of hearts. Ian Duncan won the deal with a queen of diamonds.
“Draw,” Duncan said. I watched him shuffle. He did it competently enough, but without flair. He was no mechanic.
“Jacks or better?” Shartelle asked.
“Jacks or better,” Duncan agreed.
“Those rules you spelled out were plain as sin, Jimmy,” Shartelle said, “but there’s one thing else I’d like to ask. I was just wondering if you all look kindly on check and raise? Some folks’ feelings get hurt when it’s used in a friendly game.”
“Check and raise is the norm, Mr. Shartelle,” Carpenter said drily. “It was introduced, I should add, by Chief Jenaro who described it as a basic American custom.”
“It’s just nice to see that some of the more civilized aspects of our culture are being adopted in foreign lands, Mr. Carpenter.”
I looked at my cards. I had drawn a pair of nines. Hard-castle opened for ten shillings and I stayed. So did everybody else. I drew three cards. Shartelle drew one; Jenaro, two; Hardcastle, one; Duncan, three, and Carpenter, three. I looked at mine. I had improved to two pairs—nines and fives.
Hardcastle bet a pound. I called. Carpenter folded. Jenaro saw the pound and Shartelle raised five pounds. Duncan folded. Hardcastle looked at Shartelle. “The raise from the one-card draw. I’ll only call.”
I folded. Jenaro tossed his hand into the discards. Shartel le said: “Jack-high straight” and laid out his cards.
Hardcastle shrugged and displayed two queens. “Openers,” he said.
It went much like that for two hours. I won five good pots and managed to stay even. Shartelle was the big winner. He played smart, cold poker. Jenaro was good, but tended towards flashiness. Duncan played hunches and was down fifty pounds. Hardcastle and Carpenter were erratic players, sometimes lucking out. I decided it was only a matter of time before they were caught.
We took a break at eleven and Jenaro’s steward served sandwiches. I drank a bottle of beer with mine.
“How do you predict the election, Mr. Shartelle?” Hard-castle asked through a mouthful of roast beef and bread.
“Looks better and better. But since you’re in the Ministry of Home Affairs, I’d say you’d be in a much better position to judge than me.”
“We just look after the police, the firemen, the post office, and government printing, plus a few other odd jobs. We let chaps like you and Jimmy here look to the politics.”
“Are you leaving before or after independence?” Duncan asked Hardcastle.
“I’m here another six months. The Minister has demanded that I stay on for at least that long. He says I’m the only one who understands the blessed postal system. Of course, he’s wrong. I have young Obaji coming along nicely. He should be more than well-suited by then. Very intelligent fellow.”
“They run their Ministries much better than they play poker, Clint,” Jenaro said.
“How long have we been playing together?” Carpenter asked.
“Five years now—at least I’ve been in the school that long,” Duncan said. “And I’ve lost a pile, too, I don’t mind saying.”
“Upshaw,” Hardcastle said, “d’you find it rather strange business, hopping into a country like this, sizing up the political situation, and then trying to change it or influence it, overnight, so to speak?”
“It’s different,” I said. “But it seems to be a growing industry. In England or the States a candidate won’t blow his nose in public until he’s consulted his public relations counselor.”
“Do you actually believe that public relations is a business?”
“Sure. I know it is.”
“But is it a profession?”
“Like a doctor or lawyer or certified public accountant?”
“Quite.”
“No. I’d say it was a calling—just like the lay ministry. You don’t need any special training or education, you just get the call, announce you’re a public relations expert, whatever that is, and you’re in business.”
“That sounds suspiciously as if you’d like to see some sort of licensing regulation,” Duncan said.
“Not at all. To be a real success in public relations, you have to be half charlatan and half messiah. The same qualifications make a good teacher or a good Member of Parliament or U.S. Senator. In fact, you can go a long way in just about anything with those qualifications. Look at Shartelle, for example.”
“You’re not in public relations, are you, Shartelle?” Carpenter asked.
“No, sir, I’m not. I’m just a man who dabbles in politics because it’s a pleasant way to make a living without having to carry a briefcase full of papers home every night. And you don’t have to catch the 8:22 or 9:17 of a morning. When I was starting out in life I had to make a choice. I could have been either a professional gambler, an oil wildcatter, or a political manager. Same man offered me all three jobs that very same day. I chose the political route and you know what he said to me?”
“What?” said his reliable straight man, Peter Upshaw.
“He said: ‘Boy, you probably made the right choice. But don’t ever get to feeling that you’re better or smarter than your candidate, because they’re smart enough and rich enough to hire you, and you ain’t smart or rich enough to hire them. And don’t ever run for anything yourself because of necessity, you’d wind up with a liar as a candidate. Now, I followed his advice and I can’t say I’m sorry.”
Hardcastle produced a cigar and lighted it. “The thing that bothers me is that the Americans are making it impossible for the average chap to run for office, not only in their own country, but it’s getting that way at home. Now this election in Albertia is costing a packet. These fans you ordered through our Ministry, Jimmy. Where’s the money coming from, although I dare say you won’t give me a straight answer.”
Jenaro grinned. “Sure I will, Mr. Permanent Secretary. The money’s coming from the people.”
Hardcastle grunted. “Clever idea though. Using cottage industries to make the fans. Should drum up a bit of support, although we had the devil’s own time convincing the Minister that his village shouldn’t get the entire order. But if you have any more ideas like that, come see us.”
The talk went o
n for ten or fifteen minutes more and then it was back to the cards. The game settled down to five-card stud more often than draw. I played careful, dull poker, pairing only a couple of times on the first three cards and once going for a heart flush that busted on the fifth card with a three of clubs. Then Hardcastle, on my right, got the deal and announced a game of draw. I looked at the cards he dealt me and found four sixes and a nine of spades. It was my open. I checked and prayed. Carpenter opened for a pound and Jenaro bumped him five pounds. Jenaro had hit. Shartelle stayed; so did Duncan and Hardcastle. Then it was six pounds to me and I raised the bet by ten pounds.
“The sandbag just landed on the back of my neck,” Jenaro said. I smiled politely. Carpenter folded. Jenaro raised my ten pounds another ten and Shartelle stayed. Duncan called and Hardcastle, after a moment’s hesitation, tossed in his hand. I called and raised twenty. Carpenter folded, Jenaro, Shartelle, and Duncan called.
“Cards?” the dealer asked.
“One,” I said.
“None,” Jenaro said.
“Well, now,” Shartelle said. “I’ll take two.”
“I’ll play these,” Duncan said.
I had drawn a queen of hearts. I waited for someone to say something. “First raise bets,” the dealer said. “Your bet, Jimmy.”
Jenaro looked at me and grinned. “The first pat hand bets twenty-five quid into the sandbag raise.” He shoved some chips into the center of the table.
Shartelle shook his head sadly and tossed his hand into the discards. Duncan, also holding a pat hand, shoved twenty-five pounds into the pot. “Call,” he said.
“Up to you, Pete,” Jenaro said.
“See your twenty-five and raise fifty,” I said.
“Call,” he said.
“Call,” Duncan said.
It was a nice pot. I put my cards down carefully, face up, and tried to keep from looking smug. I didn’t call my hand; I was going to let somebody else do that, but nobody ever did. The door to the poker room burst open and the steward darted over to Jenaro and babbled at him in the dialect.
