Deathwish World

by Dean Ing

  Deathwish Policies. Anything goes in the Bahamas; they haven't got the restrictive laws we rejoice in at home. They figure any adult should be allowed to go to hell in his own way, just so that doesn't interfere with anyone else."

  "I'll be damned. You mean you can even buy heroin here, openly—and things like tobacco?"

  "Yes," the other told him ironically, flicking his cigarette butt into a waste receptacle.

  The metro system had probably been imported from the United States, Roy realized. The vacuum cars had them into downtown Nassau within minutes.

  They emerged from the central metro station onto an avenue teeming with pedestrians and bicycles but even more devoid of cars than an American city would have been. This was the downtown area, the harbor immediately before them. Roy's first impression was that the whole place was a museum. Only in historical films had he seen buildings which seemed to go back to at least Victorian days.

  Forry looked around too, a warmth in his squinting eyes. He obviously liked the town. He said, continuing his tour guide lecturing, "This is Bay Street, the main tourist shopping center. It's a free port, no taxes, so the tourists go hog wild. Over there is Rawson Square, with the government administration buildings. Over there's the post office, and that statue's Queen Victoria. The garden behind contains the Public Library and museum, which dates back to 1799 and was originally built as a jail."

  They turned left on Bay Street, walking along as rapidly as Ae shopping traffic would allow. The buildings seemed completely devoted to tourist stores, bars, and restaurants.

  Roy said, "I wouldn't think they'd have much need for jails in a place like this."

  His small gray companion laughed. "In its earliest days, this island was a pirate center. Blackbeard himself built a lookout tower down the beach a ways. After the pirates were kicked out, the Bahamas went into a depression until the American revolution, when they became prosperous smuggling military supplies to the colonists. Then they went into the doldrums again until our Civil War, when they became the clearinghouse for sneaking cotton out to England and France and smuggling guns in to the Confederates. Then another depression until Prohibition, when they all got rich running rum. Eventually they hit on becoming an all-out, any thing-goes resort area. Now they've parlayed that up to include international banking—and other criminal activities. Oh, never fear, they've always been able to use a good jail here in Nassau.''

  They turned down Parliament Street, and shortly the shops gave way to small business buildings and private homes. Even business was housed in ancient structures. The private homes were largely built of island limestone with upper porches that hung over the streets. To protect them from the sun, wide verandas had been built in graceful wooden construction with louvers to admit cooling breezes.

  The Wobbly organizer stared at something coming down the street. He said, "I don't think I've ever seen a horse-drawn carriage before."

  "That's a surrey," the other told him. "They hate cars out here. You seldom see one, except those used by government." The newsman looked at a card he drew from his jacket pocket. "This seems to be the address."

  It was a prosperous-looking business establishment, in the Victorian tradition. There was a small bronze plaque which Roy couldn't make out above the entry, and a uniformed black standing before it. The man touched his cap at their approach and held open the door. They seemed to use more manpower here than in the automated States.

  The interior continued the Victorian motif, with a few concessions to the tropics. There was a pervasive Britishness about it all. Roy had expected the company would be American, with some affiliation to a sinister background such as the Mafia.

  Forry Brown seemed to sense what his companion was thinking and said, "This outfit is a subsidiary of one of the big insurance companies in Hartford. It's multinational, of course, specializing in Deathwish Policies, though it has some other far-out bits of business going.''

  There was a sterile reception office presided over by a live receptionist, plain of face, her dull hair done up in an unfashionable bun. She wore a washed out, shapeless light dress.

  Forry said, "Good morning. Mr. Roy Cos on appointment to see Mr. Oliver Brett-James."

  "Very good, sir," she clipped, checking a notepad. "You are expected. Mr. Brett-James will see you immediately." She did the things receptionists do, speaking into a comm set, saying, "Yes, sir," a couple of times, and then pressing a button.

  She came to her feet saying, "This way, please," and led them down a short hallway.

  She held open a door and bestowed on them what she probably thought was a smile.

  Roy and Forry entered a moderately large office, once again with a Londonish feel—stolid, spotless, cold. Mr. Oliver Brett-James was standing behind an old-fashioned wooden desk. He was tubby, almost naked of scalp, red rather than tanned, his complexion more from bottles man the Bahamian sun. His smile was conservatively polite, though he seemed surprised to see two of them. "Mr. Cos?" he said.

  "That's right," Roy told him. Neither of them made a motion toward shaking hands. Under the circumstances, it didn't seem exactly called for.

  "And you, sir?" the Englishman said to Forry.

  "Forrest Brown," Forry said. "I'm Mr. Cos's business agent."

  "Business agent? Well, no reason why not, I daresay. Be seated, gentlemen. Shall we get immediately to business? Here is the contract. It goes into effect tomorrow. And here is your International Credit Card, drawn on our Swiss bank in Beme. Each day, as you undoubtedly know, you will have one million pseudo-dollars at your disposal. It doesn't accumulate, of course, but each day you have that amount available."

  Roy and Forry had taken chairs in front of the desk. Forry said sourly, scratching a thumbnail over his meager mustache, "Suppose we read the contract before signing."

  "Certainly, old chap," the Briton said. "I merely thought that you were already cognizant of its contents, in which case there'd be no point in mucking around." He handed a three-page sheaf of paper to each of them and then leaned back patiently in his swivel chair.

  His two callers read what he had given them carefully.

  Forry had already dug up copies of the standard Deathwish Policy and this didn't deviate from it.

  After a few minutes, while they were still reading, Brett-James cleared his throat and said, "Please take note of Clause Three. You must understand that we will not tolerate frivolous expenditures. That is, suppose you decide to purchase a diamond or a painting. If the price is over 10,000 pseudo-dollars, we will have an expert evaluate the item. We do not expect to have you spending, say, 50,000 pseudo-dollars on something which is really worth but 15,000. We expect our specialists to check out the true value, within reason. Of course the gem or painting, as the case might be, reverts to us upon your, ah, unfortunate demise."

  Forry looked up finally and said, "Just how much does the policy pay off in benefits to you when Mr. Cos, ah, passes on?"

  Oliver Brett-James stiffened. "I say, that isn't really a concern of yours now, is it?"

  Forry took him in. "Yes," he said. "The details of this transaction will help me in supervising his interests."

  The other didn't like it, but he said finally, "Our corporation will receive ten million pseudo-dollars in the way of benefits."

  Forry said gently, "And how much are the daily premiums that you must pay?"

  "See here, Mr., uh, Brown. This is of no interest to…"

  "We think it is," the ex-newsman said. He brought a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook forth a smoke. "We either find out, or Mr. Cos doesn't sign." He put the cigarette in his colorless lips and brought forth his lighter.

  Brett-James stared at him for a long moment, but finally said, "The daily premiums are one million pseudo-dollars."

  The gray-faced Forry nodded as he lit up, blowing smoke through his pinched nostrils. "Clear enough. You have to do Roy in within ten days or you start losing money."

  The signing of the contract wa
s witnessed by the receptionist and another nonentity she brought in, a young man who avoided Roy's eyes as he signed.

  When the two witnesses were gone, Brett-James rubbed his hands together and said, "Jolly well. I daresay you'll be returning immediately to the mainland. Where will you be staying?"

  Forry looked at him flatly. "Get serious," he said. "Do you think we'd give you that much of a head start?" He put Roy's copy of the contract into his attache case.

  When they had left, the other pressed a button on his desk and four men entered, one of them the young witness. Brett-James said, "You've got the photos, the tapes and all?"

  The oldest of the four nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "Very well, get to work on both of them. Check out this Forrest Brown chap. We'll want to know just where he fits in." Brett-James made a motion with his hand. "All right, Maurice, tail them. Follow the instructions I gave you earlier."

  As they walked back toward Bay Street, Forry looked at his wrist chronometer. "We've got over an hour before the next shuttle to Miami. We might as well eat. Blackbeard's Tavern is a good place."

  "Right," Roy said, immersed deeply in bleak thoughts.

  They reached the shopping center and turned left.

  The little ex-newsman stopped at a shop and said, "Just a minute. I might as well stock up here."

  The sign said, 'Solomon's Mines,' and they entered to find the store devoted almost exclusively to tobacco products. Roy muttered, "Jesus Christ. In the States this shop would've been raided before it opened."

  His companion ordered a dozen packs of Russian Imperial Gold Tip Blacks and began stuffing them into his pockets. "A fraction of what they cost on the black market at home," he said. "Here, stick these away." He handed Roy six packs.

  "Wait a minute," Roy Cos said indignantly. "Suppose they nail me with them at American customs. It's a bad policy for a member of the Wobblies. A radical can't afford to be anything else offbeat. It gives them a handle to get at you."

  Forry said impatiently, "They never search your person at customs unless you're a known smuggler or have a criminal record when they check you out in the data banks."

  Roy shrugged in resignation and distributed the six packages of cigarettes about his pockets.

  As they left the shop, the little newsman was tearing one pack open. He shook out a gold-tipped, black-papered cigarettee and said, "Like to try one?"

  "For God's sake, do I look stupid? You think I want to wind up with my lungs eaten away and my heart pounding overtime?"

  Forry grinned. "They've been denouncing alcohol for centuries, but I notice you're not particularly opposed to taking a drink."

  "It's only excessive use of alcohol that's condemned," Roy told him, his tone righteous. "Moderate use of alcohol has been a blessing to man since prehistory."

  "By Christ, you radicals are the most conservative cloddies going. You're worse than the United Church. Excess of anything will do you in. Drink enough water and you'll drown."

  They argued companionably, deliberately avoiding the subject uppermost in both their minds.

  Blackbeard's Tavern turned out to be a cozy bar and restaurant, with a small calypso band playing in the background, surprisingly softly. They took a table and a white-jacketed, barefooted black was there immediately to take their order.

  Forry said, with obvious anticipation, "Native Bahamians have their own food specialties that are hard to get elsewhere. Conch, for instance—a kind of shellfish. We'll have conch chowder, green turtle pie, and baked Andros crabs. And black beer to go with it."

  Roy put down his menu and let the other do all of the ordering. When the waiter was gone, he said, "I think we were followed."

  "Yeah, I noticed that," Forry said. "Forget about it. The contract doesn't go into effect until tomorrow. But don't forget that tomorrow starts at midnight. Meanwhile, they most certainly don't want anything to happen to you before then. That bastard tailing us is more like a bodyguard than anything else, at this stage. It'll be something else if we see him tomorrow."

  The waiter brought large mugs of very dark beer and, shortly afterward, the conch chowder. They ate without joy, stolidly going through the motions while lost in their thoughts. It had been one thing, planning this coup, but getting down to the nitty-gritty in Brett-James's office had brought home reality. The contract was signed now and there was no going back; as of midnight, Roy would have a price on his pelt.

  Again they avoided saying what was uppermost in both of their minds. Forry skated near it with, "Funny how societies always seem to provide for the future by accident. Ever consider that maybe this bland food is preparing us for a dull future?"

  Roy frowned at his plate. "It is kind of tasteless. You mean we're getting ourselves ready for an era of the blahs?"

  The little newsman said, "A slow dissolution, maybe." He nodded agreement with himself. "Without necessarily deliberate planning, society provides for the future. In this case, a future in which over ninety percent of the population became proles. The big difference between proles and slaves is that the slaves had to work to maintain the upper classes. But now machinery does practically all of the work and proles are real drones, absolutely worthless."

  Roy said, scowling, "How do you mean society provided for my future? I didn't ask to become a complete drone. It was foisted on me."

  The newsman nodded again and put down his fork, giving up the food for which neither of them had found enthusiasm. "You're an exception. But over a century ago society was already preparing for the day of the prole. Most kids at that time were already spending more time watching TV than they were spending in school. Oh, there were good schools in the United States, such as MIT, Johns Hopkins, Berkeley, Caltech, and so on. And the good schools turned out possibly five percent of the college graduates of the time. But the rest of the school system was a shambles. Kids got out of grammar school unable to read and write. Hell, many of them graduated from high school unable to function as adults—couldn't make out an application, couldn't keep up a checkbook. Their reading was confined to comic books or strips in the newspapers, or painfully wading through the sports pages. They got their news, to the extent they were interested at all, from TV commentators."

  "I still don't see how that leads to society preparing for the future," Roy said, scowling still. This wasn't gospel as laid down by the Wobbly movement.

  "Our people were being prepared for becoming proles, unemployables. In modern society you've got to have a good education to hold down a job. Fine, the five percent needed today got a good education. It's not necessary that the ninety percent have one. In fact, it's a disadvantage. An educated man, unemployed, is a potentially dangerous man. He can think, and question, and act on the answers he comes up with. Our educational system was weaning our youth away from an aggressive approach to life, taking the guts out of them, preparing them for their future as proles."

  Roy said softly, still in rejection, "So what's our future? What lies ahead for us!"

  "Probably more of the same. And the upper class will continue to get richer and smaller, as it eliminates the lower levels of its own class, who are thrown down into the ranks of the proles if their fortunes are lost by whatever means— including being pissed away."

  The Wobbly looked at him, thoughtfully. He said, his voice slow, "You're more interested in these things than you've admitted, aren't you, Forry? How come you picked a Wobbly on this project of yours? Why not a Luddite, or Neo-Nihilist, or possibly a Libertarian? And why meT'

  Forry Brown tossed his napkin to the table and looked at his wrist chronometer. "We have to get going," he said, bringing his card from his pocket. "You weren't my first choice, Roy. I approached another National Organizer of the Wobblies before you. He evidently wasn't cut out to be a martyr. He turned me down."

  Chapter Seven: Lee Garrett

  Gary McBride entered the Nuits St. Georges restaurant, his eyes on his wrist chronometer. He looked around hurriedly, frowned, and then went into the bar
lounge.

  Lee Garrett sat at a small table, a glass before her. She seemed not at all impatient.

  He came up to her, his smile just slightly drawn. "Ms. Garrett, of course?" he said. He took in the glass with its light golden contents. "By George," he said. "Not a drink before eating the specialties of Burgundy?" He took the table's second chair. "I'm Gary McBride."

  She smiled brightly at him, her almost unbelievably blue eyes taking in his male fashion model appearance. Not only was Gary McBride handsome, in the best upper class tradition, but he was dressed for the part. His suit, shirt, and shoes were exactly what the youthful senior executive in Manhattan was wearing, not just this year, but probably this week.

  She said, after shaking hands, "Only a sherry."

  "Tio Pepe, I should hope," he said. "Anything stronger or less dry would play havoc with one's palate."

  She did a little laugh, as though he were joking. "Tio Pepe is so dry it gives me heartburn."

  "Then not another sip of that," he told her severely. "Andre would be desolate. Shall we go to our table?"

  He took her arm and led her to the dining room. Lee was dressed in green Irish tweeds which would have denigrated any figure less superb than her own. She looked very businesslike, her simple white blouse and low heels very sincere.

  The maitre d' greeted them unctuously and led them to a table tucked intimately away in a small nook. The decor was early French bistro: reproductions of Toulouse Lautrec's posters, aged advertisements of Ricard, Pernod, and a Rheims champagne. The room was moderately full of prosperous diners.

  Andre put menus before them, brought forth a pad and stylo, and looked inquiringly, politely, and most earnestly at Gary McBride.

  Gary McBride said to Lee, "The menu is in French. Shall I order?"

  "Please do," she said, putting down her own carte.

  Consulting with the headwaiter as he went, very seriously indeed, Gary McBride ordered as their first course Oeufs en Cocotte Bourguignonne, with a Meursault '48 to accompany it. When the wine arrived, Andre again presided pouring a small amount into McBride's tulip-shaped glass. He sipped it carefully, after he tested the bouquet, and thoughtfully pursed his lips.