THURSDAY'S ORCHID

by Mitchell, Robert

  George had found the light globe I had dropped on my way out. He knew I hadn’t been an intruder, but he reckoned the story would stir the management and he would get his answer much quicker.

  It didn’t take them long to find out that the lamp had been scheduled for repair. One of the maids had noticed the blown globe. They gave George all the details.

  I only found this out the next morning, and by then I was feeling a whole lot better. I had calmed my nerves with a buxom red-haired piece from some exclusive church college down in Melbourne.

  Nancy – one of the receptionists – gave me the details. Nancy was a good kid. We had the odd roll in the hay from time to time when there was nothing else offering around the resort. It was mutual. She used me and I used her. No strings attached. Purely physical; and not a bad physique at that, although a bit hectic for me at times.

  It turned out that George had gone out on the game boat and had complained of stomach pains as soon as they had sailed around to the other side of the island. One of the crew brought him back to the resort in the dinghy. The captain reckoned he was seasick, and was glad to be rid of him. George had planned the whole thing. It would have worked too; except for an over-zealous cleaning maid.

  Nancy said that I should have thrown the light-bulb in his face as soon as he started to abuse me. She was one of the few staff members who didn’t like him, hinting that there was something devious about him. Nancy was right.

  Nothing happened for the next three days. I tried to keep out of their way, but it wasn’t always possible. Whenever I came across either George or Dotty I would feel my face redden. I couldn’t look either of them in the eye. Dotty was the same. She couldn’t talk to me without stuttering, poor bitch; but she had brought it upon herself.

  I checked with Nancy and was told the Coopers were booked to leave for the mainland the following day. At least things might get back to normal after they left, and I could stop dodging around palm trees and pillars and things; and with a bit of luck I might even persuade Dotty to accept a beer or two from me. Was it worth the risk though? The job was fine and the pay was reasonable – for the work involved. Where else could I pick up so many willing young nubile ladies without really trying? It was still something to think about.

  It was just before dinner on that final evening when the manager, Jim Munro, called me over and told me that George Cooper was upset. The bastard had left it to the last minute to stick the knife in and give it a twist. I looked across at Jim, waiting for the axe to fall.

  “Yes,” he said, hands in pockets, shoulders bent over. “It seems he had his heart set on doing a scuba course during his final week, but those so-called stomach-pains got in the way.” He smirked. “If you ask me, he’s been screwing the dolly birds and been too buggered to do anything else!”

  It was all I could do to keep a straight face.

  “He was wondering,” he continued, still wearing the grin,” if it was too late to have a couple of quick lessons in the morning?”

  Jim wasn’t asking me, he was telling me. He was always out to do the best for a guest, even though that guest was, unbeknown to him, screwing his wife.

  “Sure thing, Jim,” I replied, still trying to keep a straight face. There was no great formality on the island, which was probably one of the reasons he had been cuckolded; that and the attitude of misery which followed him everywhere, except when there were guests present. “I can give him a couple of preliminary lessons down at the north end of the beach first thing in the morning. That’ll give him plenty of time to pack before he’s due to leave. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they go on his account.” I couldn’t resist having a dig at poor old Jim. It kept him on his toes.

  “Yes, fine. Well, that’s okay then,” he replied.

  With that he strolled off to check up on one of the other hundred things he had on his mind. He could have his job. Twenty-four hours a day was not my idea of fun.

  Now that it was going to be out in the open I wasn’t worried any more. I could take care of myself in the water, and that extra weight of his wouldn’t help him one little bit, and besides, we would be in full view of the other guests. There would be no funny business from George Cooper.

  Promptly at nine-thirty the following morning he was down at the dive shop, and started in by thanking me for making a special effort to give him a lesson at short notice. I fell in with his small talk and we walked down to the beach carrying tanks, regulators, fins, masks and the rest of the paraphernalia. As we strolled along he spoke of the weather, the beauty of the island and a lot of other nonsense; but once we were away from the early birds, their oiled bodies stretched out on the sand, ready for the day’s torture, he went right in, there were no formalities.

  “How much?” he snapped, stopping suddenly.

  I was closest to the water’s edge as he leaned over and stared me straight in the eye, close enough for me to see the capillaries in his nose. This was a far different man from the one who joked with the staff and smiled at the guests. Gone were the laughter lines; the face now tight, unmoving.

  “Thirty bucks for each half-hour, Mr. Cooper,” I replied, straight-faced, although I could feel a trickle of perspiration running down the middle of my back.

  “Don’t get cute with me, son.” His eyes never left my face as he stood over me, not a muscle moving, just his lips. “I know it was you at the bungalow, and I know you haven’t blabbed to Jim Munro. I’m certain of that; just as I’m certain the miserable bastard wouldn’t do anything about it until I’d gone. Wouldn’t want to upset the guests.” He had Jim pegged right. “I’ve watched the expressions on the waitresses’ faces, and the rest of the staff – not a glimmer of a snigger. You’ve kept it close. What’s your angle, you little bugger?”

  The little didn’t go down too well. I was only a couple of centimetres shorter than he was, but standing on the high side of the beach had given him the advantage. I stepped up the sand a couple of paces, put some of the gear down and moved to his side.

  “No angle,” I said. “If you want to screw the manager’s wife, that’s your business; and hers as well, I suppose.” As far as I was concerned, that was all there was to it. He had been screwing and had been caught. So what? I went on arranging the scuba tank. “Sure, I could have dropped a word in Jim’s ear, or your wife’s.” I fitted the regulator to the tank. “But where would that have got me?”

  “Nowhere, my young friend.”

  He moved up the beach a step. I countered and he moved again. I stayed put. He could keep his advantage. It wasn’t worrying me any more. I had one of the weight-belts in my hand and it was going to play havoc with his knees if he made any fast moves. I looked up at him.

  “Then again,” I said, swinging the weight-belt, “I could’ve put the hard word on you – pardon the pun – for a couple of hundred bucks.” His face clouded over. “Although, on the other hand, the whole thing might’ve blown up in my face. It’s just not worth the money or the trouble. As I said before, what you do is your business. If Dotty wants to hand it about, then that’s her affair. Why should I complain?”

  He was starting to look like the old George Cooper again. There was even a smile forming as his chest sank back to its normal position.

  “And besides,” I continued. “Putting the black on either of you would’ve had me looking over my shoulder for months to come. Why not forget it?” I laughed, turned to the dive tank and then looked back at him. “Tell me, though, does she prefer light beer or heavy?”

  He took a quick boot at my backside as I ducked out of his way, but this time he was definitely grinning.

  “Jeff,” he said laughing. At least he knew my name, which was more than most of them did. It was usually: Hey you! “That’s probably the smartest decision you’ve ever made.” He was serious again, although he didn’t bother to raise his gut this time. “If you tried to put the heavy on me, life definitely would be miserable for you, but you wouldn’t be in misery for long. You wouldn�
�t be looking over your shoulder for very long at all.”

  With that off his chest he relaxed even more. “Okay, enough of this scuba-diving crap. Make me out a bill for half an hour and let’s go get a cup of coffee.”

  We walked back to the pool area, to the outdoor coffee-lounge, and he motioned me to a chair. It wasn’t really allowed: fraternizing with the guests – not out in the open, anyway. He saw me peering around.

  “Don’t worry, Jeff. The half hour isn’t up yet. If Jim Munro gets uptight, tell him I was asking you whether I should go further north next year or come back here.” Nancy was right. He was a devious bastard. “So, forget him. Anyway, maybe I can interest you in something a bit better than worrying about that miserable bugger all the time.”

  I sat up in my chair and leaned forward, curiosity aroused.

  “How much do you make on this island?” he asked. I told him; keeping quiet about the size of the tips in case he really was a tax inspector of some kind. We had them through from time to time, making checks on the big-spending guests and asking questions that later turned out to be embarrassing.

  “Hmm,” he replied. “Not much is it.”

  It was enough to keep me happy, but then maybe my needs weren’t as great as his.

  “I’ve only got one other question, Jeff,” he continued. I told him to go ahead.

  “Right,” he went on. “What do you really want out of life?”

  One short question, and one I could ponder over for a day and still not come up with an answer good enough to satisfy the other hundred questions that would then spring to mind.

  “Shit,” I said, staring out to sea. “I don’t really know, not right at this minute.” He had me confused. It wasn’t the conversation I had expected when I first met him down by the dive shop. I stirred my coffee a few times to give myself time to think. It didn’t help much. “To be truthful,” I continued. “I hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought. Naturally, I’d like to make a lot of money and enjoy the good things in life. I’m probably not making a lot of money here.” I couldn’t help the grin. “But I sure am having plenty of fun.”

  I wasn’t coming across too well, but did I really have to justify myself to him? And yet somehow I felt it was important for me to do so. I could see that he was interested and not just trying to make me think he was a good fellow. He sat quietly waiting for my answer, the coffee cup in one hand, rubbing the lobe of his ear with the other.

  “Basically, Mr. Cooper,” I went on. “I suppose I’m moving around while I’m still young and with no responsibilities. The thought of being tied down for the rest of my life is a bit scary.”

  He glanced across at his wife – sitting on a deck-chair down by the beach – and nodded his head once or twice, and then said: “I know what you mean, although it took me a lot longer to come to the same conclusion.” He smiled. “Still, it has its moments.”

  “Mr. Cooper, I suppose what you’re trying to get me to admit is that I should start thinking about getting a pile of money together and stop buggerising about.” There was a slight nod. “You’re right, of course, but, to be honest with you, I’m not sure how to start. You need money to make money and my modest pile is simply not enough.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, stared off into the middle distance, and then replied: “Well, Jeff, I suppose for a twenty-one-year-old ex-rouseabout from a broken home, that’s quite a reasonable attitude.”

  He must have been talking to Nancy. She was the only one who knew that much about me.

  “Always kept clear of the law too, from what I hear. Either well-behaved, or cunning.”

  “Cunning,” I shot back at him. “Make no mistake about that.” Which was a lie. I had never done anything really dishonest in my life.

  “Yes,” he replied, and then was silent for a moment. I could see that he was coming to a decision, and it was taking an effort. Finally: “Tell me, Jeff; are you averse to bending the rules in order to make a profit?”

  What was he: Taxation Department, or mafia?

  “I presume we’re talking about hypothetical cases, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Of course, my boy.” He raised both forearms, palms forward, fingers slightly open. “Would we be speaking any other way?”

  “Well,” I replied. “In that case, no, I wouldn’t worry about bending a few rules as long as no-one got hurt. Tell me though, as a matter of interest, what do you do for a living?”

  If he was really interested in me then it was time for him to open up a bit about himself.

  “I’m a promoter,” he said. “I promote various deals: real estate, import-export. I’m into a lot of things.” His right hand moved to and fro. “And I have a slot in my enterprise that’d be just right for a young chap of your temperament, your ability to keep a confidence.” Now it was becoming interesting. I put the cup to my lips. The coffee was cold, but I drank it anyway. “I’m prepared to start you off at double what you’re earning, including tips. Are you interested?”

  The ability to stay in one spot for any great length of time was never one of my strong points. The tinsel of the island was losing its glitter; and Jim Munro was starting to get to me. Perhaps this was the time to make the move. At least it would get me back to civilization and I would be in a position to look for something if George and I couldn’t get along or, more to the point, if he was all hot air.

  “Okay,” I said, jumping in with both feet, as green as they come. “When do we start?”

  Two

  When I look back on that day it’s hard to appreciate both how smart and how stupid I had been as I bandied words with George on that sun-drenched beach. Smart, because he started me on the road to the good life, the rich life. Stupid, because George Cooper was a much bigger man than I had envisaged, with connections on both sides of the law. If I had tried to blackmail him over Dotty, there’s every chance that I might have finished up using crutches for six months, and a cane for maybe a year or two.

  But for some reason George had taken a liking to me. Perhaps I was the son he never had. I don’t know whether it was him or Peggy who had the problem, but they had never been able to have kids. Peggy was great company once you got to know her: a dry sense of humour, and a sharp tongue. But she only used that tongue when she was right and you knew damned well you were in the wrong.

  Never once did I hear her argue with George. She questioned his ideas many a time, but never kept on about it. Once a point had been made, that was it. If her observations were ignored, it didn’t matter, as long as she had been given a hearing. She didn’t even come out with any I told you so’s when something went wrong – which wasn’t very often.

  They complemented each other. George was big and boisterous, and talked incessantly. Peggy was quiet, with hardly ever a word to say. But what she did say was to the point and concise. George was personable, in a bear-like kind of way. She was plain. My mother always said that a woman is never ugly, only plain. Well, she was that all right, but George was certainly fond of her, in his rollicking way.

  There were no business premises as such. Everything was done out of an apartment on the Gold Coast, just south of Brisbane. It was one of the first blocks to be built back in the early sixties: four stories high, no elevator, close to the foreshore, with a magnificent view of the Pacific Ocean. I spent many hours sitting on the balcony staring far out to sea, wondering where the great ships were going, and what their captains were thinking about. I didn’t realise then that I would one day find out – the hard way.

  For the first few weeks of our association I stayed with them; but it soon became apparent that it wasn’t going to work. There was plenty of room for the three of us: three bedrooms, a study, separate dining room, lounge, etc; a large apartment by current standards. Plenty of room for three, but not for four. Peggy was broad-minded, but I couldn’t bring myself to take a girl back for the night. It just didn’t seem right. And those four flights of stairs to the top floor would dampen the ardour of most young ladies.
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  I could see that I would be spending a fortune on motel bills unless I found a place of my own. It wasn’t hard to find: a newer, compact unit about two hundred metres down the road. Not as flash as George’s, and no view to speak of; but I only wanted it for sleeping and entertaining, so it suited me fine.

  As George had explained to me over that cup of cold coffee on the island, his business was, to all appearances, promotion. If somebody had land they were thinking of developing then George would line up the finance, bribe a couple of city councilors to issue the necessary permits and then organize enough shifty salesmen to sell whatever swamp it happened to be. The entertainment business was another side of his operation. George would engage up a couple of has-been performers and spend a huge amount of money on advertising – haul the crowds in. Then he would collar the gate-money and pay peanuts to the entertainers. They complained but couldn’t scream. George kept the books. They never knew how much was collected, and he made sure they realised they would never get another job if he let it be known they were hard to get along with.

  Those were the legitimate sides of the business – if you could call them that. Those were the deals on which the tax was paid, what there was of it. But we had to pay something to the government. We had to show we were earning some sort of income to justify our existence. They were the front for the real money-spinners, the profitable side of things. Dealing in land and entertainers would have left us both broke in no time flat.

  During the ten years or so that I worked with George – he took me in as an equal partner after six months – we travelled to nearly every part of the globe: bribing government officials and others in places too numerous to mention; smuggling; fencing stolen goods: diamonds and other items of high value; exporting stolen luxury cars; arranging for experts to attend to certain matters on behalf of interested parties; industrial espionage, and so on. The money that passed through our hands and into Swiss banks was mind-boggling. If there was a dollar to be made, we would be in on it.