by Alan Judd
‘She might be off-duty.’
‘That’s probably what they call it here.’
They took a lift to what was called a floating bar. It was firmly fixed, windowless and charged for entrance. A white pianist sat at a white piano and sang badly. The barman did not know how to make Chatsworth a Pimms. Chatsworth then ordered Irish coffee but after a long search the barman announced there was no cream.
Chatsworth turned to Patrick. ‘Are you on expenses?’
Patrick had not thought about that. ‘I could be. I suppose I’m on duty, though no one’s supposed to know that. Perhaps I can claim it from my entertainment allowance.’
Chatsworth ordered a large whisky.
They went next to an indoor balcony which looked down on the people swarming round the gambling machines. One of the many security guards, a young and diffident black, tried to move them on: non-residents were not allowed on the balcony.
‘What makes you think we’re not residents?’ asked Chatsworth.
The guard smiled in embarrassment. ‘If you are not you must go, please.’
‘We’ll come to that in a minute. Why d’you think we’re not?’
Patrick was embarrassed for the guard. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘Not until I know why he assumes we’re not guests.’
The guard repeated that non-residents must go, Chatsworth repeated his argument and asked why he was thought to be one. Both men smiled whilst they spoke. The guard looked nervously over his shoulder. Chatsworth several times assured him, with a smile, that he really did not want to make trouble and the guard, also with a smile, several times nodded his agreement and said, ‘I know, I know, sir.’
Patrick recalled his own brushes with authority when with Sarah. It was different with Chatsworth; nothing ever seemed entirely serious. Nevertheless, he did not want the guard to be embarrassed. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Chatsworth held out his hand to the guard. ‘We are friends.’
The guard shook it. ‘I am pleased. My name is Gladstone.’
Chatsworth introduced Patrick, who also shook his hand. ‘We are not awkward,’ continued Chatsworth. ‘Just interested.’
Gladstone apologised again, and so did Chatsworth. Gladstone said his white boss had told him to keep nonresidents away from the balcony. It was a rule. He did not know why. Chatsworth said he understood. Throughout his life he had been troubled by rules and bosses. It was the same for Gladstone. Chatsworth said that he and Patrick were from the British embassy in Battenburg. Gladstone shook hands with both again. Chatsworth asked how Lower Africans treated black people in Sin City, there being no race laws.
‘It depends,’ said Gladstone cheerfully. ‘English white people have more patience with black people because they live with them in other parts of Africa. Lower African people are not patient; they do not like black people.’
He lived with his sister in a nearby village. Nearly everyone in the villages now worked in Sin City. He wanted to save money to go to boarding school so that he could become a scientist. He was sixteen. Many people from Bapuwana made much money from Sin City but only the bosses and relatives of the Lion were paid well. If he did not become a scientist he would become a lawyer.
Chatsworth asked which was the best casino to visit.
‘Raffles,’ said Gladstone, promptly.
‘Which has the most gamblers?’ asked Patrick, remembering what Jim had said of Arthur’s tastes.
‘Raffles. It is very expensive but I have some tickets for you which are very cheap.’ He produced a fistful of tickets from his pocket. They could have them at half price. He was always pleased to meet Englishmen. When more people came up the stairs towards the balcony he glanced uneasily over his shoulder. ‘I must go. People are coming. I am pleased to meet you.’
They bought two tickets. Gladstone and Chatsworth shook hands but after the first grip they angled their hands upwards and gripped each other round the base of the thumb. Patrick did the same, thinking it must be a convention on parting, and Gladstone left them with a broad grin.
‘What did that mean?’ asked Patrick.
‘Freedom handshake. It’s the one the terrorists use.’
‘Where did you learn it?’
‘In prison.’
‘Surprising thing for you to do, wasn’t it?’
Chatsworth shrugged. ‘He was a nice bloke.’
The man on the door did not want to see their tickets. There was no entrance fee to the casino. ‘Not just a nice bloke,’ said Patrick.
He had never seen a casino before. The murmur of voices and the click of roulette balls contributed to an undercurrent of tension which made the place seem exciting. ‘D’you gamble?’ he asked.
‘Used to but I got bored. It’s like sex: initially interesting but after a while you need something else, you need conflict. I ceased to care whether I won or lost.’
‘That doesn’t sound like you.’
‘It wasn’t my money.’
It was mostly roulette and blackjack. Patrick knew no more how to play than to knit but Chatsworth spoke with authority. Patrick listened but was more impressed by the atmosphere, the ritual murmur of the croupiers and the beguilingly unfamiliar jargon. Most of the croupiers were women whom Chatsworth said were recruited or trained in London. An unwise management made them wear black one-piece swim-suits to which bits of white fluff were stuck like rabbits’ tails. They were supervised by slick and bored-looking men who walked from table to table with their hands behind their backs, intervening whenever misunderstanding threatened.
The liveliest table featured a big noisy woman in her forties, who was gambling heavily. She had dyed red hair and her neck and wrists were festooned with gold. Her ample body was squeezed into a white shoulderless dress and the freckled skin of her arms and shoulders was burnt a dirty brown. She kept up a constant backchat with the male croupier who flattered her and took her money. Behind her stood her escort, a dull-eyed, stupid-looking man. His shiny black shirt was undone almost to his waist, revealing a heavy gold pendant that reached below his chest to his belly.
‘White trash,’ said Chatsworth. ‘Let’s have a drink.’
They were served by a blowzy big-breasted blonde. The natural bad temper of her features was emphasised by heavy make-up. ‘Slack Alice’, Patrick christened her. They drank and stood looking at the other customers. None were black although there were one or two wealthy-looking Indians.
‘I think we should go,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s a waste of time. We wouldn’t recognise him anyway.’
‘It’s not wasting time if you’re enjoying it.’
‘I’m not. It’s boring.’
‘That’s your fault.’ Chatsworth smiled at Slack Alice, who ignored him.
A short man in a white dinner-jacket approached them. One of the croupiers stopped him and asked something. He nodded authoritatively. Slack Alice made herself less slack. The man walked slowly but his eyes moved quickly, never resting anywhere. ‘Are you two from the embassy?’
They introduced themselves. He held out his hand with a quick grin. ‘Whelk, Arthur.’
‘Told you,’ said Chatsworth.
21
Arthur Whelk had crinkly black hair and a tanned, lined face. He still had his neat moustache. His manner was crisp. ‘Sent you to find me, have they? Thought they’d hear where I was some time. Doesn’t matter. I’m safe enough as long as I keep in with the people who run the place.’ He turned to Patrick. ‘You’re the one living in my house? Sorry about the sudden removals. Had to be done like that. Trust they took nothing of yours?’
‘D’you work here?’ Chatsworth interrupted.
Arthur Whelk smiled. ‘I run ’em. The casinos, that is.’ His eyes quickly surveyed the bar and two or three gaming tables. ‘I think we all need more drink, don’t you?’ A table was found and a bottle of champagne produced. Arthur lit a cigar with a gold lighter. ‘Daphne coping with the visas in my absence? I was sure she would. She’d cope with the whole blood
y embassy if they let her. Clifford still faffing around?’ Patrick told him about McGrain. Arthur laughed briefly. ‘Poor old sod. I’ll tell you where he fits in. Tell me first about Sarah, Deuteronomy and Snap.’
Finding Arthur was neither surprising nor momentous. Once it had happened it seemed normal. Patrick tried hard to see something remarkable or different in him but he was merely plausible, like a competent salesman, easy on the ear and eye. He was entertaining too, even jovial in a foxy sort of way. He sat back and crossed his legs and waved his cigar as he spoke. The champagne bottle was emptied rather quickly and another produced. Chatsworth was enjoying himself, as would Patrick had he been better able to concentrate. Champagne made him heady. He didn’t particularly like it but it slipped down easily.
‘I’ll keep it simple,’ Arthur said after various preliminaries. ‘No harm in people knowing now. In fact, it may help. I was involved in a bit of playing – gambling – myself when I was in Battenburg. You may know that. Strictly illegal, of course, but lots of people do it and it supplemented the allowances, paid for the booze and so on. The main thing was, it added a bit of spark to life. Living death in the embassy, don’t you think? Old women of both sexes fussing around, worrying about what the whole world thinks when in fact no one gives a damn. Frankly, I decided some time ago I was through with the Service. It gets harder to take seriously as you get older. I admit it’s been good to me one way or another but I’ve done it a few favours too – not always appreciated, mark you. Also, all that’s left for me is another London posting or maybe a European one. Don’t want either. Africa’s the place for me. A man can still breathe here.’
‘Do you play much?’ asked Chatsworth.
Arthur exhaled smoke and watched it curl away. ‘Mug’s game. Why are the casinos rich? No, I used to organise it, lay on facilities, look after the banking and so on. Well, the long and the short of it is that the Lower African security people got to hear of it – LASS, you know, the lot everyone always makes a fuss about. Actually, if the two they sent to see me are anything to go by they’re quite charming. I mean, it takes something to be charming when you’re trying to blackmail someone.’
Chatsworth nodded. ‘It does.’
‘Especially as I didn’t want to do it.’
‘Do what?’ asked Patrick.
Arthur’s eyes flickered. ‘Well, it’s a bit of a shaggy dog story. Not worth going into now but it boils down to the Lower Africans wanting to round up a terrorist network they reckon they’ve discovered. Actually, it’s more criminal than terrorist. White gunrunners bringing arms in for blacks paid for by other whites abroad. Some of it from church funds, they reckon. Anyway, one or two of my player-contacts turned out to be peripherally involved and LASS wanted me to implicate them. Set them up, in fact.’ He relit his cigar. ‘Lots of things I would do but that ain’t one of them.’
‘Bad for business,’ said Chatsworth.
Arthur turned to Patrick. ‘What really did for me was that they wanted me to finger poor old McGrain. That stuck in my throat a bit. He’s a loyal old dog and he just takes messages. Doesn’t even know what they’re about. So I played them along for a while, kept them talking whilst I thought it over. If I refused outright they’d do me for playing which would mean I’d be kicked out, back to London in disgrace, never to return. On the other hand if I confessed all to the Office it would be the same only less public. Posted double-quick.
‘Well, I like this place. Lower Africa suits me. I reckoned the best thing was to lie low and let them find some other way of rolling up the villains then they wouldn’t bother me any more. Most likely they’d leave McGrain out of it, with me gone. I had one or two contacts here, knew there was a job going and so I did a bunk.’ He smiled. ‘Very nice bunk it is, too. Sorry you’ve been left with McGrain. I owe his wages for the last two sessions. Now you’ve found me I must do something about getting them to him.’
‘He’ll be glad of that,’ said Patrick. ‘So shall I.’ He noticed his glass was empty again. Arthur refilled it.
‘Look after you nicely, do they?’ asked Chatsworth.
Arthur smiled. ‘Very. Money’s good, work’s a pleasure, one’s needs are well catered for. Only thing is, it would be nice to be able to pop back to London now and again. There’s a chance of acquiring some business interests there but I can’t do it without travelling through Battenburg. Also, wouldn’t mind doing something about my pension rights. Still, I can’t complain that people have bothered me. No one’s even looked for me until you two. Beginning to feel quite unwanted.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’
Chatsworth asked about the financial side of the business; Arthur asked Chatsworth about his own line. It was soon agreed that they would both profit from further discussions. Patrick said little. There was some sort of filter between himself and his perceptions. He suspected he was seeing and hearing things a little later than usual.
‘Did Jim Rissik and the police know about LASS and all the rest of it?’ he asked abruptly. His speech sounded loud. The others looked at him.
‘Don’t know,’ said Arthur after a slight pause. ‘No idea what they tell each other, if anything. They could’ve been hand in glove all along but my guess is they weren’t. If LASS ask someone to work for them and he doesn’t they’re not likely to broadcast their failure.’
Patrick leant forward rather too quickly, losing his thought on the way. He had to wait for it to return. ‘It was Jim Rissik that told me you were here.’
‘Well, they all have their contacts.’ Arthur drained his glass. Chatsworth did the same. Patrick put his on the table without spilling it. ‘Come on, let me show you round. I’ll introduce you to some ladies later. We have some very charming girls – not the rubbish you see now.’
‘Too early for the good ones?’ asked Chatsworth.
Arthur smiled. ‘You’re learning, my boy. Follow me.’ He took them from table to table, occasionally whispering some snippet about a punter. Some of them greeted him. The croupiers were invariably respectful. He smiled and nodded as he spoke, his eyes darting from person to person. Chatsworth asked many questions. Arthur was eventually called to attend to some matter in another casino. He said he would be back. Another bottle of champagne awaited them at their table.
‘I knew I’d like this place,’ said Chatsworth, pouring. ‘We’ve done what we came to do, we’ve met a nice man who can help us in our careers – mine, anyway – we’re treated like princes, we’ve got the run of the whole joint and the night is young. Aren’t you glad we came now?’
Patrick was not glad. He wanted to talk to Joanna, he wanted to go and he wanted not to be drunk. Somewhere in the back of his mind, somewhere not yet beyond reach, was a question he wanted to ask Arthur. It had to do with whether or not Arthur was coming back and with what he should tell the ambassador, but it was difficult to formulate. His glass was in his hand again. He raised it to his lips and put it down untasted. Slack Alice from the bar looked as if she was about to lean over and engulf him.
‘You all right?’ he heard Chatsworth ask.
‘Yes.’
Slack Alice loomed. She was saying something and Chatsworth was answering. She pointed back towards the bar. Some people there were looking at them. One of them was Jim Rissik and one was Piet, the policeman he had brought to Patrick’s house one night. The others looked familiar; after a few moments he recognised them as the ugly trio from the restaurant. Slack Alice was saying that he and Chatsworth were invited to join them for a drink. Chatsworth was suggesting they should share the champagne.
Patrick stood at the bar with everyone else. There were introductions. The ugly trio was known to Piet. They talked excitedly, except Piet who talked slowly and pedantically. Only Jim said nothing. He leant against the bar and watched. Patrick was very aware of Jim. He turned with difficulty so that he faced him. The thin man of the trio had just asked him something and he did not like the thin man. He did not like any of them. The woman had a horrible, abrupt lau
gh and her mouth was stupid. He had just said something to someone about mouths. To talk to Jim he had first to close his eyes, think what he wanted to say then quickly say it.
‘I’ve drunk too much,’ said Jim.
Patrick recognised the brutal heaviness of his features from the time they had fought. ‘Me too,’ he said. He told Jim he had found Whelk. Jim knew, he had seen them talking. Patrick asked how Jim knew where Whelk was. Word had got around. He asked what Jim was doing there.
‘Chasing tail!’ bellowed Piet, and everyone laughed.
‘What are you going to do about Whelk?’ asked Jim.
‘Nothing. He wants to stay here.’ Patrick thought he must be getting better. ‘I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk.’
Jim’s dark eyes glistened. ‘I thought you’d be down at the coast. I didn’t think you’d come.’
‘I wasn’t. I was. I was going.’ Patrick mentioned Joanna and stopped. He was filled with feeling but there were no words. Instead, he asked Jim if he’d been told why Whelk had left Battenburg. Jim had. LASS had heard that the police had discovered where Whelk was and had come clean.
‘We’ve no more excuses to talk,’ said Jim, grinning. ‘Now we’re just rivals.’
Patrick took it seriously. ‘We can still talk.’
‘Can we?’
Patrick raised his glass. ‘We can drink.’ He didn’t want to drink.
They drank. Jim put his arms round Patrick’s shoulder. ‘This is the guy who pinched my girl,’ he announced. Patrick could feel Jim’s breath on his cheek. He concentrated on trying to remain steady on his feet. ‘He should’ve been with her this weekend. But look, now he’s drinking with us instead.’ They touched their glasses at the second attempt. Patrick looked at the faces before him. They were individual but he was unable to respond individually. Chatsworth said something to Piet.
‘Now you come chasing black tail in Battenburg,’ said the fat man.
‘Is that what he did?’ asked Jim, in mock surprise. Patrick shook his head. ‘No, no.’
‘They did. They were mauling the waitress. They couldn’t keep their hands off her.’ The fat man gulped his beer and dribbled. He said something in Lower African and the others laughed.
