“Oh. La Hispanidad, I think he said it was. Over to Lake Okeechobee, that’s where he said it was.”
“Did it sound nice?”
“It sounded all right, the way he told it. Why?”
“Do you think you could ever live in a place like that?”
Harold laughed. “Commune’s just a fancy word for a farm. I’ve seen enough of those.”
“But this would be different. This’d be a place where everybody would be working together, sharing.”
“And singing songs in Spanish? Hell, Nora, any way you cut it, it’s still farm work.”
“And you’re Finished with farming?”
“So far I like it here just fine. City life’s not so hard to take. You planning on going to a Spanish commune in Florida, Nora?”
She shook her head and came out of the window-seat. “I was just having a little fantasy. I like it fine here in Esmeralda. Especially now that you’ve come here.”
“That’s nice of you, Nora,” Harold said.
33
Jacinth had lunch with Uncle Ezra at the Hunt Club’s private dining room. They ate real food, not the synthetic stuff that the sustenance factories of the world kept churning out. Jacinth didn’t really like real food—at school she lived on Zeroburgers, with no calories or carbohydrates. But she knew real food was expensive, so she was determined to learn to like it. They taught her in school that a taste for anything expensive can be acquired, if one is willing to work hard enough at it.
They were on the roof terrace of Esmeralda’s tallest building, only twenty-two stories but commanding a splendid panoramic view of the entire island.
On the wall behind them, a gigantic monitor was tuned to The Huntworld Show. It flashed pictures of bloody street corners filled with curious crowds staring at draped forms lying on the ground in puddles of blood that sometimes came through a bright green due to atmospheric conditions which affected the automatic color-matching monitor. A voice-over commented, “Hi, this is Gordon Philakis, bringing you a summary of the day’s Hunting events. Early this afternoon Luther Fabius from Berlinsberg, West Germany, scored a clean kill over Biff Edmonson, of Calgary, Canada. If any of Biff’s friends or kinfolk are listening, I want you to know he died a quick death doing what he wanted to do. Al McTaggart, the three-Hunt victor from Boise, Idaho, tagged out Hernán Ibañez, the five-Hunt switch shooter from Buenos Aires. And this just in: Al Smith of Lansing, Michigan, just put down Edvard Grieg, of Oahu, Hawaii, but was fined ten points when his submachine gun went out of control and wounded several people in the crowd. You’ll never get to be Hunter of the Year that way, Ed. …
“And now on a lighter note, Maxwell Santini, a waiter at the Surfeater Arms in downtown Esmeralda, was killed this afternoon when he went to the room of Mr. V. S. Mikkleston, of London, England, carrying a ham and swiss on rye on a tray, and was impaled in the chest by a throwing knife when he opened the door. Mikkleston claimed that Santini didn’t knock, just ‘walked in without warning and fell foul to a spot of target practice with the old stiletto.’ Santini’s union claimed personal malice—the sandwich had been over an hour late—and took the matter to court. The ruling, rendered this afternoon, exonerated the Hunter, stating, “What does a waiter more or less matter, anyway?”
Jacinth raised her hand, causing the newscast screen to contract into a glowing pip, shielding them both from the light and sound of The Huntworld Show.
“All that sweetness and light makes me cross,” she said. “Louvaine always has it on, too.”
“Eh?” said Uncle Ezra, making use of the expletive which on Esmeralda is reserved for older people. “Doing all right, is he?”
“I suppose so—nothing’s happened yet. Funny the computer should match those two. The selection is supposed to be random, isn’t it?”
Ezra smiled and winked.
“Uncle, did you have anything to do with getting those two into a duel together?”
“I didn’t do a thing,” Ezra said. “I just asked the Hunt computer to do me a little favor. It knows which side its circuits are buttered on, so to speak.”
“I thought computers weren’t supposed to be able to do things like that.”
“They will if they’re fitted with the new Operator Preference Override Superimposing Code-Writing Program.”
“You cheated in order for Louvaine and Harold to meet! You evil old man!”
Ezra beamed. He loved to hear pretty young girls call him an evil old man.
“Yes, at Louvaine’s request I set it up. The boy needs an easy kill, Jacinth. Something to restore his confidence. He used to be good, Jacinth, very, very good. Louvaine was the classiest killer this town had seen in a long time. And he can be good again, with a little help.”
“But what you did was cheating,” Jacinth asked.
Ezra shrugged. “What does a little cheating matter when it’s for the family?”
Jacinth returned to Louvaine’s apartment thinking rather more deeply than she was accustomed to do. She found herself, in fact, in a dilemma. She wasn’t really certain that cheating, even for family, was right. Especially when this cheating was going to result in the death of Harold, a young man she had found not too unattractive and whom she was planning on dating as soon as she found a way to get him to ask her.
The more she thought about it, the more wrong cheating seemed, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. And the question really was, what should she do? It was really uncomfortable now knowing. She considered flipping a coin, then finally tabled the question by popping a sleeping pill.
34
Harold had just settled down for a nap in his new apartment when the telephone rang. It was Albani.
“Harold? I need you right away.”
“What’s happening?”
“Something important. Get over here quick. Don’t forget your gun.” He hung up.
Harold had been fully dressed. All he had to do was slip on his sneakers and check the load in the Smith & Wesson. Albani had insisted earlier that a gunsmith look it over. The gunsmith had replaced the barrel and all moving parts. Harold had test-fired it and had to admit it aimed better. But it still had the old feel, and that was important.
When he got to Albani’s house, Teresa showed him to the basement. Albani had his office there. There were maps on every wall, showing Esmeralda and the rest of the island in great detail. A ham radio sat on one table with a multiphone switchboard beside it. There was a small bronze replica of Rodin’s Thinker on Albani’s worktable. It was the famous Deathmaster Award for Best Spotter of the Year. But it was five years old, won when the fabulous Sanchez was still alive.
Albani was munching one of Teresa’s miniature pizzas and talking to somebody on the telephone. He waved Harold to take a seat. Harold pushed aside a stack of back-issue ManKiller magazines and sat down.
“Yeah,” Albani was saying. “Yeah, I hear you … Yeah. … Yeah. …”
Teresa said to Harold, “Would you like a miniature pizza?”
“Yes, ma’am, I would.”
“I have one kind with anchovy and another kind with pepperoni. Which would you like?”
“You pick for me,” Harold said, clearly meaning both. Teresa gave him two of each and a glass of beer.
“No beer for him,” Albani said. “He’s in training.” Then back to the phone. “Yeah. … Yeah. … ”
“These are really good,” Harold said.
“It’s my mother’s recipe,” Teresa said. “From Sicily.”
“All right,” Albani said into the phone. “We’re moving. I’ll contact you next on channel 5 on the CB radio.”
He hung up and said to Harold, “I think we’ve got him.”
“Louvaine?”
“Who else would I be talking about, Zasu Pitts? Yes, Louvaine, big as life and twice as snotty. He’s just gone into a bar downtown in the Latin Quarter, a place called La Petite Moue, and ordered a double frozen strawberry daiquiri. He’s out there in the open, and we’re
going to get to nail that sucker right now.”
“You mean right now?”
“I sure as hell don’t mean next Thursday. You got your gun? Is it loaded? Let me see.”
“Come on,” Harold said.
“I’m your Spotter, I have to check the details.” He looked at Harold’s gun and handed it back. “OK, let’s move.”
“How come he’s just sitting there like that?” Harold asked. “Do you think he didn’t get his Hunt notification yet?”
“That would be too much to hope for. But it has been known to happen.”
“It doesn’t seem fair to kill him if he doesn’t even know he’s being Hunted.”
“It’s perfectly fair,” Albani said. “I’ll explain it to you later.” He took a high-powered hunting rifle with an infrared sniperscope off the wall, checked its load, and stuck it into a gun bag.
“What’s that for?” Harold asked.
“Just in case God, in His infinite mercy, grants us a nice clean shot from beyond pistol range.”
“Michelangelo,” Teresa said, “you shouldn’t blaspheme.”
“Who’s blaspheming? I’m praying. Let’s go, Harold. He won’t sit there forever even if he is working on a double frozen strawberry daiquiri.”
The Café La Petite Moue had a glassed-in front which extended over the sidewalk. Albani, with Harold beside him, was examining it from the shadowed entrance of a bar across the street with high-powered binoculars.
“It’s him,” Albani said. “Look for yourself.”
Harold took the glasses and saw Louvaine’s long-nosed profile bent over a very large violently colored drink.
Harold said, “I guess you were pretty smart, bringing along that rifle. I could get him right through the window.”
“Forget it,” Albani said. “Bulletproof. But look to your left. The side door of the café is open. You’ll go around the block and approach from the other side. That’ll put you behind him. As you come past that mailbox there you’ll have a clear shot through the open door into the café. You’ll have to keep your gun hidden until the last moment. We don’t want spectators reacting and giving away the show. You got it?”
“Yes, I got it,” Harold said.
“Then go out and do it,” Albani said.
Harold stood perfectly still for a moment, and Albani wondered if he was going to freeze up on him. That’s all he needed, a first-time Hunter with stage fright. He really should have insisted on payment in advance.
Then Harold gave him a quick nod and slid out the door. Albani watched him go, and something like an emotion arose in his chest. This boy was going to be all right.
Louvaine wondered why on earth he had ordered a double frozen strawberry daiquiri. Probably because it was big enough and colorful enough for even so dull-witted a Spotter as Albani and his associates to discover. He took a sip. Too sweet, as usual. Then he winced as the tiny radio receiver in his ear crackled with static. It was Souzer, reporting from the rooftop.
“They’ve arrived,” Souzer said. “Albani and Erdman. They’re in the entrance of the bar across the street. They’re looking over the setup.”
“I wish they’d hurry,” Louvaine said, subvocalizing into the tiny throat microphone. “This drink is giving me a headache.”
“Harold’s coming out now,” Souzer said. “He’s going around the block, just like I figured he would. Are you ready?”
Louvaine nodded, then realized that Souzer couldn’t see him through five floors of concrete and steel. “Yes, I’m ready.”
“Is the mirror OK?”
“Yes, it’s working fine.”
Previously prepared by Souzer and set above him on the café wall was a small telescopic mirror. Through it Louvaine could see the street down which Harold would come. In his hand he held the transmitter, disguised as a pack of cigarettes, which would set off the shotgun Souzer had rigged inside the mailbox. Louvaine would have to press the switch just at the moment Harold appeared in the mirror. The double blast at ten-foot range ought to take care of the rest.
It was a pretty good plan, especially on short notice, and it was nice that Albani had been dumb enough to fall for it. Louvaine only hoped nobody else was passing the mailbox when he let Harold have it. His uncle Ezra had had some difficulty fixing things a few Hunts ago when Louvaine had thrown a hand grenade at a target in a crowded department store, getting his man and a few others besides. Ironically enough, the store had been having a sale on bulletproof vests.
“He’s coming around the corner now,” Souzer reported. “Get ready, he’s only about ten feet from the mailbox, he …”
“What?” Louvaine asked. “What’s happening?”
“He’s stopped.”
“What do you mean, he’s stopped? He can’t stop! What’s going on?”
“Somebody is talking to him. Oh my God!”
“What is it! Who’s he talking to?”
“It’s that goddam Gordon Philakis!”
35
Huntworld had seven television channels. Six of them showed reruns brought in by satellite from the United States. The seventh, devoted to round-the-clock coverage of Hunting activities, was The Huntworld Show, with its popular master of ceremonies, Gordon Philakis.
Philakis had a square tanned face and a big jaw and brush-cut hair. He had a breezy, rapid-fire delivery and was never at a loss for words, even when he had nothing much to say, which, considering the nature of live broadcasting, was much of the time.
“Hi, folks, this is Gorden Philakis bringing you The Huntworld Show straight from the capital of the killers, good old Esmeralda in the sunny Caribbean. Yes, friends, it’s the friendly live local murder program with the international following. It’s the program that some governments tried to ban because they thought you folks out there needed protection from the sight of real live honest-to-Sam mayhem and that you ought to be happy with the fake crime shows your own studios keep on producing. But you didn’t let them do it, and I take off my hat to you. When they tried to ban us, you kept right on buying our cassettes under the counter, because you knew it’s perfectly all right to watch scenes of actual violence as long as those scenes are only between consenting adults.
“Once again, ladies and gentlemen, our camera crew is roving the streets of Esmeralda, bringing you interviews with participating Hunters, zeroing in for the kills, bringing you all the thrills and chills of the wonderful world of violence.
“Excuse me, sir, I see by your badge that you are a Hunter. Is that a Smith & Wesson you’re carrying?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. If you’ll excuse me—”
“How many Hunts have you had, Mr.—?”
“Erdman. Harold Erdman. This is my first.”
“A first-time Hunter! How about that, folks? Where do you come from, Harold?”
“Look,” Harold said, “I’d love to talk with ya some other time, but right now—”
Philakis smiled knowingly. “Whatsa matter, you got a case of Tourist Tummy, or, as some call it, the Huntworld Heaves?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then tell us what’s the trouble. We’re all just plain folks around here, we’ll understand, no matter what it is. Got a date with some little cutie?”
“Well, if you must know,” Harold said. “I was just about to kill somebody.”
“Oh, you’re Hunting! You should have mentioned it in the first place! Probably a little late now. But don’t worry, you’ll catch up with your Victim later. You’re not sore about this, are you, Harold?”
Harold grinned. “Maybe it’s all for the best. I didn’t have a real good feeling about this setup, you know?”
Philakis nodded solemnly. “Hunter’s instinct. All the good ones have it. Who’s your Spotter, Harold?”
“Mike Albani.”
“Of course, one of our well-known and well-liked old-timers. He’s been having a run of bad luck recently, but you’ll change all that, won’t you?”
“Do my best,” Har
old said.
“Listen, Harold,” Philakis said, “I feel a little bad about you missing out on what might have been a good chance for a kill. Maybe I can make it up to you. Have you had dinner yet?”
Harold hadn’t.
“Good! How would you like to be our guest reviewer on The Huntworld Restaurant Review Show? Come on, we’re going to do it right now. You’ll get one of the best dinners on the island, and we’ll get a few laughs, I hope.”
Philakis linked his arm with Harold’s and walked him down the street, followed by camera and soundmen and the usual crowd of people hoping to get in front of the camera so they could see themselves later on the TV news.
They soon reached the restaurant, a place called Le Morganthau. Philakis, Harold, cameramen, lighting men, script girls, assistants, and junior account executives squeezed into the vestibule, where they were greeted by good smells and a small worried-looking man in his forties wearing a white tuxedo.
“Why, hello, Gordon!” the small man said.
“Hello, Tom,” Philakis said. “We decided to review your restaurant tonight.”
“Oh my God,” Tom said.
“We’ve brought along a guest reviewer. Tom, meet Mr. Harold Erdman, a recent arrival to our sunny shores, an accredited Hunter, and your guest for dinner. Harold, all you have to do is eat and give us your opinion of the food.”
Tom directed Harold to a table, and the light men arranged a nice backlighting. Silverware and napkins were laid out. A red wine with a genuine French label was brought, uncorked, poured. Harold raised the glass to his lips, tasted it thoughtfully, swallowed.
“Well, Harold?” Philakis said. “What do you think?” He winked.
Harold understood. There comes a time in the life of a man when a sudden insight must help him overcome the limits of decency and fair play with which he was conditioned since childhood.
Harold was up to the occasion. He said, “Well, it’s not bad—”
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