by Gavin Lyall
Luiz watched them go, then said: ‘We’ve got a companycar outside. Can we drop you?’
The jeep was back in the cargo shed, being crawled over by experts. I nodded, and we walked slowly back across the bright loading bay.
J.B. said suddenly: ‘We got a public relations angle of our own to figure out. I don’t want anybody trying to tie the Boss Man in with a revolution.’
‘Just don’t let him write Diego’s murder into the script, then,’ I suggested.
Luiz made a wincing noise.
Halfway round the sandspit road into Kingston, J.B. said: ‘Tell the driver where you want to be dropped.’
But away from the police, I’d hadurneto catch up on my thinking. About time, too.
I said: ‘I think I’ll come all the way with you. I’d like a word with Whitmore.’
‘He’ll be asleep by the time we get in.’
‘No -1 don’t think so. And if he is – well, you’ll just have to wake him.’
She said, shocked: ‘We can’t dothat.’
‘Just tell him I’ve finally woken up myself.’
After a time, she leant forward and told the driver to go straight through for the north coast.
SEVENTEEN
It was one in the morning by the time we got to Oranariz, but there was a glow of light from the back of the bungalow. J.B. led the way round and up on to the patio.
Whitmore was sitting, stretched in his usual chair beside the refrigerator, and wrapped in a weird mixture of beach clothes and Bolivar Smith clothes, topped with an oily old beaded-and-fringed Red Indian jacket. He had a bottle of rye whisky at one side, a heap of account books, scripts, and western novels at the other.
He saw me, squinted in surprise, then said evenly: ‘Hi, fella. Beer or whisky?’
‘Both.’
‘Bad as that, huh?’
I just shrugged. Luiz walked across and opened the refrigerator door, Whitmore did his bottle-opening act, and tossed over a Red Stripe. Luiz found glasses and poured shots of rye for J.B. and my other hand.
She had flopped into a chair, suddenly white and drained. She took a gulp at the whisky, then said rapidly: ‘Well, it’s true, all right. He must’ve got killed soon after Luiz left him last night. Seems he got shot with a “snake pistol” – Carr figured that out. Apparently it’s some sort of-‘
‘I know snake guns,’ Whitmore said. He glanced at me, then back at J.B. ‘So what did the cops say?’
‘They took statements. They tried to walk over Carr a bit, but all they got was sore feet. That’s about all. Except one piece of news: it seems Diego was really-‘
‘Hold on, ‘ I said, Til tell this part.’
Everybody looked at me: Whitmore and Luiz with calm professional faces, J.B. widi a series of expressions that were probably just her exercising her face. Then she nodded and took another gulp of whisky.
I said: ‘Diego was Jiminez’s son. And you knew it all along.’
I hadn’t expected a vast reaction, not from these three. What I got was exactly nothing. The two actors went on looking like studio pictures of themselves, J.B. went on nuzzling her glass.
Then Whitmore said calmly: ‘Why d’you think that, fella?’
Suddenly what I was going to say seemed ridiculous out here on a quiet patio overlooking the dark sea, with no sound but the gurgling of the refrigerator, the hums and bumps of insects beating themselves on the lights along the patio roof.
I drank quickly from both hands and said: ‘That trip we did to Santo Bartolemeo-‘
‘You suggested that yourself,’ Luiz said.
‘Oh, I remember. You know, I was rather disappointed, thatfirst day on location; I thought I hadn’t seen any real acting. I was wrong; I saw some great acting. That question was a pure frame. You asked me for the nearest Spanish-style locations: you knew Ihad to say the República. And you asked me for somebody who spoke perfect Spanish. Another frame: you already knew I knew Diego; that was just a way of getting him up here without surprising me.’
‘Why the hell should we care about you?’ J.B. asked politely.
‘I’ll come to that. My point is Diego gotme into your job, not the other way around. You already knew him – and who he was.’
‘You’re guessing pretty wild, fella.’
‘You forget I’ve seen her at work. ‘ I nodded at J.B. ‘The day she hired me, she had a complete breakdown on my costs, she knew all my flying history, she probably has a set of my grandmother’s fingerprints. Don’t tell me she’d let Diego get mixed up with you without even knowing hisname. I just don’t believe she’d fall down on the job that far.’
There was another silence. Then Whitmore said, still calm: ‘Okay – so we knew. So what? He was a good kid. And he still spoke Spanish.’
‘You asked me another question that day,’ I said. ‘You asked me about a camera plane: something with twin engines where you could put a camera in the nose. That was a frame, too: the answerhad to be a bomber, like the Mitchell. And then Diego’s agent found one for you – and you gave Diego the okay to fly in it with me. Just what the hell were you and him planning with that bomber?’
After a while, Luiz sighed and said: ‘We’ve been called, Walt. Time to turn up our cards.’
Whitmore frowned, grunted, and lifted his huge shoulders in a slow shrug. ‘Okay, so you guessed it. Well, I guess after we’d finished with the plane and the kid knew how to fly it, we were going to let him use it.’
‘For what?’
He shrugged again. ‘He had an idea he could get hold of some bombs, then if all the jets were lined up, the way we sawthem, he could have’ – he snapped his fingers – ‘like that. Knock ‘em all out in one pass. Change the whole balance in the República.’
‘You were going to back abombing raid?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Hell – you saw what bastards were running the place, when we were down there.’
I stared around: at J.B., who was hunched in her chair, staring resolutely into her whisky; at Luiz, leaning on the refrigerator, thoughtfully opening and closing the door.
‘You all knew this?’ I asked.
J.B. took a fast jolt of rye. ‘I knew. Hell, I advised it, in a way.’
I said: ‘This isn’t just a cow-town with a crook sheriff and a drunken mayor; this is somebody’s country. Somebodyelse’s country.’
Luiz flipped the door shut with a thud. ‘It was my country -once. Long ago, and under a different name, of course. But I went to school with Jiminez. He is a good man. So – perhaps you could say it is all my fault.’ He frowned suddenly and very sadly. ‘Perhaps, anyway.’
Whitmore said: ‘Hell, no. I’d’ve backed the kid anyhow.’
‘I see.’ I nodded. ‘I see. Well, at least that means it doesn’t matter so much that he got killed, does it?’
Luiz stared sharply; Whitmore frowned. ‘How d’you figure outthat?’
‘Because the poor bastard would’ve killed himself anyway, trying to handle that Mitchell. And if he didn’t he’d certainly have got himself killed in the attack. He only had to miss one jet – one – and he’d’ve had Ned Rafter sitting on his tail inside three minutes.’
‘He was a good kid,’ Whitmore said.
‘He was a sports-car driver. That Mitchell’s a professional aeroplane – and an air war’s a professional business, too. It isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies. Why the hell d’you think the Republica’s paying Ned a thousand dollars a week or whatever?’
He’d looked a little pained at the crack about the movies. But then he sighed heavily. ‘Well – yeah, maybe you’re right.
But we had a sort of other idea, too. We kind of thought you might take it over. How d’you feel?’
What I felt was that the world was coming loose at the hinges if I was really sitting here with a drink in either hand being asked if I just happened to feel like going on a mission to bomb the bejazus out of somebody’s air force.
And what’s so odd about that? Less than two weeks ba
ck you were offered a job at$750a week to fly jets against somebody else’s rebels in somebody else’s hills. You didn’t think that was so odd. All right, now the other side’s made you an offer.
Well, maybe so – but these people aren’t rebels; they’re two Hollywood stars and a top American lawyer. The thing’s crazy. It’s like a Walt Whitmore film.
So? Maybe that’s exactly what he wants. He’s spent the last thirty years playing this part in the movies – maybe he wants to have a crack at it in real life. Maybe he thinks it’s just that simple. Haven’t you ever heard an actor talking politics before, Carr?
‘You’re a pro,’ Whitmore said.
‘No. That was a long time ago.’
Luiz said: ‘Such as last Saturday, over Santo Bartolomeo?’
I gave him a look, then said carefully: ‘Look – Diego’s been murdered already. That means-‘
‘Yeah.’ He nodded decisively. ‘I’d kind of hate to drop it now the kid got dead.’
‘The Diego Jiminez Ingles Memorial Bombing Mission,’ I said grimly. ‘But that means they know something’s up. They’ve already got me on the list – probably they know about the Mitchell, by now.’
Luiz moved his shoulders delicately. ‘It will, indeed, be most difficult. For myself, I do not think one old bomber, one pilot – and afighter pilot, too – could do this thing.’
‘Hell, I coulddo it,’ I said. ‘I’ve practised ground-attack work, and if they’re lined up like we saw them-‘ Then I looked at him and said slowly: ‘You bastard. You tricky bastard.’
He smiled softly.
Whitmore said impatiently: ‘You fly this mission and you’ll get your plane back.’
After a moment, I said: ‘How the hell can you promise that?’
‘We can get you a written guarantee from Jiminez: when he takes over, first thing he’ll do is let you take your plane out. Okay?’
J.B. suddenly shook her head. ‘Let’s level with him, Boss. We’vegot a written guarantee from Jiminez. Got it that afternoon in Santo Bartolomeo. That was the real point of the trip: we’d arranged to meet Jiminez just out of town. By then you’d lost your plane, so we asked him for the guarantee. Just in case.’
‘Just in case,’ I said thoughtfully.
‘You’re a free man, Carr,’ she snapped. But she didn’t look at me. ‘You haven’t signed any contract for this. And the film job holds, whatever you do.’
But how free was I – without that Dove? I still owed money on her, and as soon as the film work was finished, I’d start missing payments on her. And London would start firing off sixteen-inch lawyers at me. I’d live through it – but I’d never own a plane again. It still wasn’t a very good reason for getting mixed up in someone else’s war.
I said: ‘That guarantee may not be worth anything, of course…’
‘I personally will back Jiminez’s word,’ Luiz said sharply.
‘Yes? But you can’t guarantee he’ll win his revolution, whatever I do. He may never get near die Dove.’
Luiz glanced at Whitmore. After a while, Whitmore said: ‘So put it this way: you fly the mission and you getsome plane. If Jiminez don’t get in or don’t pay out, you keep the B-25. Fly it, sell it, do what you like. It must be worth something. Maybe even the twelve grand I paid for it. All yours, fella.’
I smiled. ‘And if I get pinched in the process, the aeroplane’ll turn out to be mine, not yours – right?’
He shrugged; a huge slow movement. ‘You get yourself caught, fella, and I guess the generals won’t worry too much about whose plane it was.’
He had a point there, of course.
‘He hasn’t said he’ll do it, yet,’ J.B. said.
‘Haven’t I?’ I said. ‘Oh, I’ll do it, all right.’
This time she looked at me, quietly, carefully. And maybe even a little disappointed. Then she took a deep breath. ‘Okay – so the next problem: we’re going to have newspapermen down from Miami by noon. If they see that bomber, they might start getting some right ideas. Where can we hide it?’
‘Hideit?’ My mouth stayed open. But I saw her point. Now I knew why we’d got that Mitchell, it seemed horribly obvious. A tommy-gun under the pillow, Inspector? Oh, yes -that’s in case a spider comes up the plughole.
‘Would it help if we brought it up here, to the Ocho Ríosstrip?’ she asked.
‘Christ, the hydraulic pump’s off one engine-‘ Then I thought about it. ‘I can fly it like that, probably. But not to here. Your newsmen’ll want to interview Whitmore: they might take the local flight into Ocho Ríos. No-I’ll run it up to the Port Antonio strip. No reason why they should go there.’
‘Get it there before lunch.’
I nodded meekly.
‘And when they get on to you, don’t try and dodge them: that’ll just make them suspicious. Just tell ‘em the story. But maybe play down the ride into Santo Bartolomeo a bit.’
I nodded again, looked at the drinks in my hands, then remembered I was going to be flying before lunch and put them down. J.B. saw the move and stood up. ‘You can get a room at the Shaw Park, Carr. I’ll come down with you.’
Whitmore stood up slowly and stretched himself, an enormous movement that made the broad patio seem like a bathing hut. ‘See you ina coupladays, fella. We’ll figure the details then.’
Luiz nodded politely as we went out.
Out in the dim quiet parking bay, with thechauffeurasleep behind the wheel, J.B. paused before opening the car door and said quietly: ‘Well, seems you’ve got a new job, Carr.’
I nodded slowly. ‘It does seem that way, doesn’t it?’
‘Just as a matter of interest – why did you take it?’
‘You talked me into it.’
‘You’re still a free man, Carr,’ she snapped.
‘Am I? Well – I’m getting the Dove back. And maybe something to do with Diego getting killed.’
She was quiet for a while, then asked gently: ‘Do you miss the war flying much?’
“The RAF didn’t exactly fire me, you know: not after Korea. I’d have a squadron by now, maybe a wing.’
‘So why’d you quit?’
I shrugged. ‘No matter how many rings you’ve got on your sleeve, there’s always somebody with more. Now, at least I can tell anybody to take a running bite at his own backside.’
‘Like you did the Boss Man.’
I looked at her curiously. ‘I thought you were helping plan this attack?’
‘I was. When it was just young Diego’s stunt, it seemed… ah, hell.’ She sounded angry, but uncertain about what. ‘Just the way when the Boss Man calls for a posse to trail the bad men, everybody jumps on a horse.’
‘He’s buying the horses. Now wake up the driver and tell him he’s picked to lead a battalion of tanks into Santo Bartolomeo on Tuesday.’
She gave one fast, hard look and jerked the car door viciously.
EIGHTEEN
I got the Mitchell off the ground just before the first airliner from Miami got in, and had an interesting flight to Port Antonio – nearly fifty miles east along the coast from Ochoríoswith the loose hydraulic pipes sealed off with corks and the wheels hanging down all the way. But at least J.B. had been right about the newspapermen: they were filling the Myrtle Bank like thirsty locusts when I got back in the afternoon, queueing up on the bar stools to borrow the phone and ring home to say it was a great story and send more money.
They were right, too, although the best of it was in the diplomatic rumpus, which mostly bypassed Jamaica. Venezuela kicked off by sounding worried about the safety of its citizens, but a little embarrassed about them turning out to be Repúblicarevolutionaries. The Ingles/Jiminez family was less inhibited, and came in calling the Repúblicarégimeseveral things – all of which were probably true, but hardly rare in that part of the world. And dead on cue, the Repúblicaboosted its own tough image by carefully muddling who’d insulted them and inviting Venezuela to step outside and say that again – remembering, of cours
e, that ‘outside’ was a safe 500 miles of sea.
That took the first two days, after which the Ministry of Foreign Insults in each country handed the file down to the clerks to keep the row going for the usual fortnight with the usual notes and leaks.
With all this going on, nobody even tried to tie Whitmore in with the political side of Diego’s death. After all, you don’t suspect Hollywood of revolutionary politics any more than you do the Catholic Church. Sure, some film stars have friends on the shady side of the street, but how about the Church in its time? In Hollywood, a rebel is still a man who drives a Porsche instead of a Jaguar and comes to cocktail parties in a dirty tee shirt.
Even I got off lightly. The newspapermen came in with a fixed idea about me: with my Korean experience, I was obviously a restless-war-hero-looking-for-trouble. But that itself made me conventional and dull – they’d spent years writing the same story about pilots who’d flown for or against Castro. With the diplomatic fuss, the family angle and Whitmore there wasn’t much room for me anyway.
Nobody went near Port Antonio.
Come Sunday lunch time most of the journalists had got all the local colour, heat, and smell they could stand from Kingston and had either flown home or evacuated to the north coast to pester Whitmore. So I was quietly waterlogging my sorrows in the Myrtle Bank when J.B. came on the phone telling me to turn out and help a company car meet the five o’clock plane.
Apparently somebody from the Jiminez/Ingles family was flying in from Caracas to collect Diego’s body, and since the film company was shooting that day, it was thought that I’d add tone to the proceedings by forming a guard of honour. Myself, I wasn’t so sure, but she’d rung off before I could think up an excuse. So by five I was waiting outside Customs in my Sunday suit, at least seven-eighths shaven and three parts sober.
I missed her the first time. Rather, I didn’t exactly miss her – I’d have to be blind to do that – but I didn’t immediately think of her as somebody who’d come to collect a corpse. Although shewas dressed in black: a silk sheath dress high at the neck and nearly as high at the knees, a black silk headscarf, and a vast black crocodile handbag.