Odds On: A Novel

by Michael Crichton

  “Excuse me,” Jencks said politely. “I’m very sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation about Africa. I was wondering if you knew my father.”

  “Was he in the Eighth Army?” the old man asked, moustache quivering. He was thinking to himself, “This fellow doesn’t sound English. Perhaps half English.”

  “Yes, sir. Major Jencks, Seventh Armored Division. Does it strike a bell?”

  The old man considered gravely and shook his head. “Sorry, no, but I was only there a short time. Not that it wasn’t enough, you understand.” He guffawed. “Bloody well enough for any man, unless he was a scorpion lover or a devotee of sand. To this day, I can’t abide sandy beaches. Your father was British?”

  “Yes,” Jencks said. “My mother was, too. They met at Oxford.”

  “But surely you’re not English?”

  “No longer. I’m the black sheep that left the fold. Six years ago I accepted an offer to join the Ford Motor Company in Detroit.”

  The old man nodded. Perhaps this fellow’s father had worked for Nuffield after Oxford. Automobile people tended to keep it in the family. “Your father wasn’t a career officer, then?”

  Just like the English, Jencks thought. Pin it down, to the last ancestor and the final drop of social status. Get everything right. “No, he worked for ICA until the war. He died at El Alamein.”

  “Dreadfully sorry,” the old man said.

  “Doesn’t matter. I hardly knew him.” Jencks maintained the right note of cheerfulness and quiet poignancy.

  “Yes, quite.”

  “What brings you to the Costa Brava?” Jencks asked, as if he wanted to change the subject—which in fact, he did.

  “We’re on our way to Africa,” the woman said. It was the first time she had spoken, and her voice was remarkably strong for her age. Jencks didn’t even want to guess how old she was—sixty or ninety, it was impossible to say. “We’re visiting Alfred’s old haunts.”

  Alfred laughed. “Yes, you know, Shepheard’s and all that. Although, of course, Shepheard’s has been rebuilt. But it was quite the place in the old days.” He smiled, and patted his wife’s hand reassuringly, as if to tell her that he was not going to explain how racy it had once been—at least, not in her presence.

  “I’ve never been to Africa myself,” Jencks lied. “I understand it’s quite exciting.”

  “Oh, marvelous,” the old man said. “Simply marvelous.”

  The discussion rambled on. Jencks managed to discover that the old man could easily afford the trip; he was retired, but went around the world every second year, though getting clothes for each journey was such a bore. Simpson’s simply wasn’t as efficient as it used to be. That was in the days of George VI, ha-ha. But Alfred was looking forward to this trip; he had a new Leica which he wanted to try out. Jencks also noted that the old man wore a Rolex watch.

  He asked if they had a nice room and was told that they did. Only on the second floor, but it faced out on the sea. Look, you could see the room from here—it was the one with the striped towel over the balcony railing. They had set it out to dry. Wonderful the way things dried in this climate.

  Jencks looked up and made a quick mental calculation. It was room 148. It would be included on Saturday.

  Conversation turned back to Africa and Montgomery. Jencks, who had read Montgomery’s autobiography, threw himself into the discussion, recalling in particular one comment which had impressed him greatly, “In battle, the art of command lies in understanding that no two situation are ever the same; each must be tackled as a wholly new problem to which there will be a wholly new answer.”

  After an hour, he excused himself, pleading hunger.

  “Nice enough chap,” Alfred said to his wife, as Jencks left. “Bloody nice for an American.”

  “Don’t forget, dear. British parents. It softens the coarseness of the New World.”

  “Quite, quite,” Alfred said, stroking his moustache.

  BARCELONA, SPAIN: They stopped for lunch at a roadside restaurant just east of the city. It was a distressing region, Miss Shaw thought unhappily, as she sipped her gazpacho. An area of cheap, middle-class resorts at the southern end of the Costa Brava.

  Miss Shaw disliked anything cheap, and everything middle class. From her birth in Hampstead through her life in Brighton, she had been raised in an elegant and expensive fashion. When her family fortune, heavily invested abroad, was lost in the war, she had done her best to continue a life becoming a gentlewoman. And thus far, she had succeeded. It was a struggle, of course, and she could not call it pleasant. But success had its own satisfactions.

  She looked out at the road, and at the Continental parked in front of the restaurant. It was a bit too much, that car. Oversized, overpowered, too flashy. As a purchase, it could not be justified on the grounds of taste. It was a luxury, an indulgence, and she regarded it in that manner. She liked big cars, despite their essential vulgarity. Someday, perhaps, she would buy a Ferrari. That would be nice.

  She looked over at Jean-Paul, who had already finished his soup. “You must learn to eat slowly,” she said. “You are in too much of a rush. Moderation in all things.”

  Jean-Paul smiled wanly and took a pull at his flask.

  “Not in public, please,” she said. “It is bad enough that I allow you to eat your meals with me—after all, you are my chauffeur. Do not abuse my democratic instincts. I have very few.”

  He returned the flask to his hip pocket. He really wasn’t a bad boy, she thought—good natured and agreeable, despite his appalling habits. He would be useful to her.

  “You know,” he said, “I really am becoming curious about you.” Could this little lady be a dope peddler?

  “Patience,” Miss Shaw said sweetly.

  The waiter came, bringing the second course, pollo con ajillo, chicken with garlic. They would both stink frightfully when they were through, Miss Shaw thought; she would have to remember to buy some mints. Mints were the answer, as they were in so many of life’s situations—a little judicious sweetening, to mask the unpleasantness.

  Bananas, she thought, did the same thing. Perhaps a banana after lunch instead of a mint.

  Later, they took the coast road through Mataro, Blanes, and Tessa del Mar. The landscape grew more rugged, the road narrower, until finally it was a thin strip cut into the wooded hills which plunged into the sea. It was tortuous; Jean-Paul had all he could do to maneuver the big car around the hairpin turns. They passed one small resort after another—the hotels newly constructed, cheap and white, built for the tourist boom which had come to the Costa Brava in the last three years. Signs in foreign languages, mostly German, advertised plots of land, housing developments, apartments for sale. The air was clear and salty, the earth red, the sea a clear blue.

  “Not precisely unpleasant,” Miss Shaw said, looking at the view. Jean-Paul noticed that she sniffed whenever they passed a German.

  He swerved the Lincoln around to pass a little Hillman sedan. A man was driving, heavyset, with a thick red neck. He looked hot and uncomfortable.

  “Gracious!” Miss Shaw said. She looked back at the man as they passed. Her view was cut off as they took the next curve.

  “Someone you know?” Jean-Paul asked, braking gently.

  She peered back silently for several moments. The car was in sight again, then blocked once more. She turned back.

  “No,” she said. “Nobody at all. Drive on.”

  Bryan Stack opened the door, and Annette stepped into the room.

  “Hello,” she said, smiling. She had a nice smile, he thought. He smiled back.

  On the writing table was a large silver tray, with a bottle of vodka, a bottle of lime juice, a pitcher of ice and two glasses. She looked at it.

  “You seem to be planning a party.”

  “I was hoping you might stay for more than one. It wouldn’t do to run dry.”

  She laughed and sat down on the bed. He wondered if that was significant; after all
, she might have chosen a chair.

  “Are you a good bartender?”

  “Why,” he said, “are you looking for one?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. We’ve hired three since the hotel opened, and none have been satisfactory. The dry martini that all the American and English clients ask for is just beyond their understanding.”

  “Watch,” he said. “Two vodka gimlets coming up, dry as the Sahara.” He paused, looking discomfited. “I forgot the lime peel. Is that all right?”

  “Probably.”

  “I see you’re not a purist.”

  “Not where drinks are concerned.”

  “A man lives as he drinks.”

  “A woman doesn’t, necessarily.”

  He went to the tray, added ten shots of vodka to the pitcher and a few drops of lime juice, and stirred the mixture. He poured it over ice and gave one drink to her. She sipped it and puckered her lips.

  “Dry enough for you?”

  “You’re hired.”

  “What’s the pay?”

  “Not enough, I’m afraid.”

  He sat down across from her and suddenly found himself with nothing to say. It was odd; they had certainly begun well, and he should have had no trouble nudging the conversation toward her work and the life of the hotel. He looked into her blue eyes and just didn’t feel like it. Getting soft, he thought. He smiled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.” He took out his cigarettes, offered one to her. “I was just thinking you’re very pretty.”

  Come now, he thought. You can do better than that. Put your heart into it. It’s a million dollars, after all. Certainly a worthy price for a little deception.

  She got up and walked to the balcony and stared out. “What do you do?” she asked.

  “Import-export. Mostly fruit.”

  “Do you travel a lot?” She was looking at his battered suitcase.

  “Almost constantly,” he said. “How about you? Do you have much chance to get away?”

  “Yes. Odd weeks, here and there.”

  “Where do you go?” He could not shake the feeling that he was stiff, stultified, too obviously acting.

  “Majorca, places like that. You’d think I’d go north, to get away from the sun, but I don’t. I like it.”

  He looked at her skin, a light honey color. “You don’t have much of a tan.”

  “I work indoors most of the time.”

  “At the desk?”

  “Ummmm.” She looked back at him, a very direct, slightly puzzled stare. She held her drink in slim fingers, the nails carefully lacquered. She was standing very straight.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No. But it’s a very good drink. May I have another?”

  He took her empty glass and refilled it. As he did so, he was aware of her eyes on him, and he had the distinct feeling that he was doing something quite wrong, something she did not understand.

  “What brings you to the Hotel Reina?”

  “I’m on holiday, the same as everyone else, I expect.”

  “Married?”

  Now that, he thought, is getting right to the point. No pleasantries, just straight home. What had become of that Swiss discretion? “No, as a matter of fact. Does it matter?”

  “No,” she said, a little uncertainly.

  Bryan got up and walked over to her. Go on, he thought, get started right now. Kiss her and press her up against the glass and get started. It’s always easier to talk in bed.

  He stood looking out at the tennis courts and said, “It must be a pleasant place to work.”

  She shrugged. “Yes and no.”

  “Why did you ask if I was married?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t.” She thought, I’ve never asked anyone else before.

  He laughed and finished his drink. “Let’s have another.”

  “I shouldn’t. I have to work this afternoon.”

  “You work every afternoon?” He hated himself, as he poured another drink.

  “Yes. Four to seven.”

  “At the desk?”

  “Yes. I have an office, near Mr. Bonnard’s—he’s the manager—but I hardly ever use it.”

  “And after seven?”

  “Officially, I’m free. But there are usually odds and ends that I—”

  “Free for dinner?”

  She shook her head. “Not usually. But—”

  “Yes?”

  “Tomorrow I have the entire day free.”

  “What a coincidence. So do I.”

  She smiled.

  “Would you care to be spirited away from here for a day?”

  “I’d love it.”

  He raised his glass in a toast “Consider yourself spirited away.”

  Jencks stopped by later, after she had gone. He glanced over at the drinks, the half-empty bottle of vodka and the melted pitcher of ice. Bryan was sitting in a corner chair, smoking a cigarette and staring at nothing.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Fine,” Bryan said. “It went fine.”

  “You don’t seem very pleased about it.”

  “I’m just tired. I’ll be all right in the morning. We’re going away tomorrow, for the day.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “Right.”

  “Good,” Jencks said. “See you later.”

  He shut the door, and Bryan was left alone, still hating himself. Why do they always have to be so damned nice, he thought. Why couldn’t she be a real bitch?

  “Son of a bitch,” Dr. Baker said. “I tell you I’m terrified. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Because it’s a worldwide trend, no doubt about it.”

  “None at all,” Jencks agreed, trying to think of a way to end the conversation. Dr. Geoffrey Baker was an ass, conceited, narrow-minded, and priggish. His wife was the same, but fortunately she had already left to dress for dinner. Now Baker was giving it to him, man-to-man.

  “Take France. It’s typical of the state of European medicine in many ways—suppositories for everything, even sore throats. Now doesn’t that strike you as ass backwards?” He laughed heartily, then broke off to light a cigar.

  He waved it in the air. “The leadership is uncooperative, that’s what I mean. Absolutely uncooperative and unsympathetic. DeGaulle. That’s what I mean. Do you remember what he said when the doctors were considering a strike for better pay?”

  “Not clearly.”

  “Well, that son of a bitch said the doctors could damned well go on saving patients at their current pay, because after all ‘he saved France on a colonel’s pay.’ Now, that’s typical. No wonder there’s no progress, no advancement, no decent treatment. Initiative is stifled, standards fall, everything goes to the dogs. And who suffers? The patients, that’s who!”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Jencks said. Jesus, would this fellow never shut up? Long ago, he had discovered what he wanted to know. Dr. and Mrs. Baker were returning from a three-week visit to the French Riviera, where they had bought a great deal of art and had spent a great deal of money. In a moment of chummy indiscretion, Dr. Baker had confided that it was a good thing they had paid their room charges at the Reina in advance, because otherwise they wouldn’t have the money to get home. They’d spent it all. Of course, they might hock some of Emily’s jewels (Baker chortled) but she hadn’t brought any this trip. Nasty thing had happened to a fellow doctor and his wife in Cannes—burgled during the film festival in May. So Emily had decided to leave her jewels home this trip.

  It was all Jencks wanted to hear, all he needed to know. Yet Dr. Baker rambled on.

  “Now, take England. God damn it, you haven’t got the same kind of medical facilities there that you had before National Health. You may not be aware of it, but standards have fallen, I tell you, fallen dangerously. Doctors don’t care anymore—how can they? Their offices are filled with cranks and hypochondriacs. And when I think that my own office in Grand Rapids soon will be in the same sh
ape, I tell you I’m just plain terrified. No other word for it. Terrified.”

  “I can see your point,” Jencks said, rubbing his eyes and sighing.

  The sun was setting as the big Lincoln Continental rumbled across the bridge and drew up in the traffic circle. Jean-Paul leaped out and opened the door briskly, before the doorman could. Miss Shaw stepped out slowly, and breathed deeply.

  “Marvelous!” she said.

  Jean-Paul was amazed. Her whole manner, her expression and bearing had changed. She was now an absent-minded, soft-headed, puffy old lady; the gleam of shrewd intelligence was gone from her eye, replaced by a stupidly happy look.

  “Do park the car, Jean-Paul,” she said. Jean-Paul bowed stiffly.

  She went inside.

  “Good evening, my dear,” Miss Shaw said, smiling sweetly at the girl behind the reception desk, “My name is Shaw.”

  She stood quietly, head back, looking down her nose while Annette checked through the register. “Of course, Mrs. Shaw.”

  “Miss.” A slight, prim, stiffening of the body.

  “Of course. I’m sorry. Two singles, I believe.”

  “Quite so, quite so. I’m pleased to see we have that straight.”

  “Yes,” Annette said, taking out the forms. “May I have your passport, please?”

  “I dearly love this country,” Miss Shaw said. “Such marvelous fruit. Do you know, I don’t believe I’ve ever been here before. Is this a new hotel?”

  “It opened last year,” Annette said, filling in the form.

  “That’s before my time,” Miss Shaw said vaguely. “But I must say it looks splendid.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Splendid,” Miss Shaw repeated, still looking around.

  “Yes,” Annette said. She hesitated. “The second room …”

  “For my chauffeur, of course.”

  “I see. If you prefer, we could arrange for him to stay in the servants’ quarters, on the mainland. They are quite nice, and it is more the rule.…”

  Miss Shaw held up her hand, closed her eyes, and shook her head, making little tutting noises. “Never, my dear, never. Though I must say you’re very sweet. Frankly, I do not believe in treating servants like dogs. A bit out of fashion, you know, although it had its advantages in the old days. Nowadays,” she said, “nobody knows his place.”