The Devil's Game Page 8

  Byron Shaddock seems downright eager. He won’t have any trouble. Hell, his condition is better than mine, and not just because he’s younger. I know, I know, I booze too much sometimes, spend too many hours other times sitting around drinking coffee or blowing pot, swapping clichés with friends or bragging about the great things I’ve done, the great things I will do. I know my body’s begun to slump. The land’s no good for me. I’ve got to get away to sea, and soon, before it’s too late. How did Heyerdahl, Chichester, Slocum, any of those guys manage it? They weren’t rich either, were they? And how old this thought is, how old all of my thoughts are. There’s a whole wide planet out yonder, Larry Rance. What have you been waiting for?

  Answer: for a million dollars cash.

  Byron pays me no attention, and I don’t pay him much, because the lucky bastard’s walking hand in hand with Julia Petrie. Her figure’s even more beautiful, in a bikini, than her face. Oh, Christ, those boobs, those long arms and legs, that long belly, flat except where it rounds a little between the hips, the way a woman’s should! I know some’d say she doesn’t have enough ass, but it’s plenty for me, exactly right to grab while I go into her…. Does she notice me? She doesn’t. She’s got eyes only for Byron; she’s begun talking to him, too low for me to hear. Well, why not? He probably is her best ally if she can charm him. Should I try to make a deal of my own with somebody? I don’t need the whole million either…. Too bad, yeah, about her little girl.

  I suppose I’ve got a built-in weakness for tall woman with good bone structure. Both my wives were like that, of course, and I suppose most of what others I’ve managed to get in the sack.

  (Julia ought to be a safe lay, no interest in domesticating me; only trouble is I might fall in love with her, and what the hell, that’s a thing a man learns to outlive…..Domestication? No, I’m being unfair to my wives. Mary worked hard to help me through college. How proud she was when I got my engineering degree and my job at Boeing! Later, when I started feeling more and more hemmed in, she tried just as hard to cover for my drinking, my goofing off; when they finally fired me, it was me who told her she should leave. And Vivian, well, what’d she have to gain when she met me, this deckhand on the charter schooner down in these romantic waters? She had to fight that well-off family of hers to marry me. And afterward they too were decent enough. That management job her dad wangled me really would’ve had a future if I’d hung on. It wasn’t anybody’s fault but mine that the old pattern repeated, especially after the baby came, poor innocent yowling wet chaining-me-down son of my loins. True, Vivian left after less than three years, when Mary’d stuck it out for better than four, and Vivian did it on her own initiative, but then she had, she has, the cooler head of the two, and neither of them asked me for alimony or child support, though naturally I’ve made myself send Vivian something for Jerry whenever I’ve had something to spare, and it was a hell of a relief to learn she’ll soon remarry—

  Gayle Thayer has trailed the parade and stops. She’s got the same idea as Julia, plain to see. Why couldn’t they have chosen opposite targets? Because Julia’s got better sense and Byron more to offer, that’s why. “Oh, Larry,” Gayle murmurs. Her skin, bulging from her own two-piecer, is bedsheet white. Blue veins show her and there. “I’m scared.”

  Trying not to hurt her, I say, “You can quit whenever you want, remember. Right this minute if that’s your wish.” I smile. “So sit back, enjoy your vacation, watch the rest of us make fools of ourselves.”

  She stands a minute before me, staring down. I see a pulse flutter in her throat. Odd how moving it is to know that her heartbeat is as skippy as mine. Suddenly she straightens, throws me a look and says, “No, I’m sick of copping out. I’ll give this thing the best try I can.”

  Her eyes are lovely. I’ve only seen a finer gray in the eyes of Tammy McManus, when we lived together on that houseboat in Seattle (always excepting the gray of winter seas, or of clouds flying above them like smoke on a sunset wind). And it isn’t quite fair to call her thighs and stomach flabby. Call her, instead, wudgy. I’ll bet she sure knows her way around the bed. It could be fun.

  Only I’ve got to make clear that fun is where it will stop. Julia’s kid, well, maybe I can see my way to some kind of grant, if Morgana doesn’t turn out to be too expensive. But Gayle—why the devil should I support a perfectly healthy young childless woman in idleness, when I don’t want more than a romp with her at most? I’ll have to make her understand … if things go that far. “Well, good luck to you, lassie.”

  “Thank you.” She squeezes my hand. “You’re real, Larry, you know?”

  One of her problems with me is that I’ve met her too often before, in too many not-very-different bodies and beds.

  Ha! You’re already playing God in your own skull, are you, Lauritz Rance? How about first getting through this day? (What can I do, demand, in the rest of it, after we’ve finished here? I’ve knocked myself out trying to think, and nothing seems worthwhile.) The rest have boarded. They’re staring at me.

  I jump in. The sailors cast off. Outboards cough to life, blow stink in my nose, and settle down to a steady, pushing roar. The land falls aft.

  I saw sails aplenty when I helped cruise tourists between Massachusetts and the Spanish Main. Aren’t there any around Tanoa? Not at Schloss Haverner, for sure. Well, the old monster wouldn’t be interested; no money in sail. And the Islandmen may be colorful, uncorrupted, religious, superstitious, close to nature, so ethnic that Joan Baez wouldn’t have it; nevertheless they’re the practical folk and I, the robot from Dollar Land, I’m the dreamer.

  (Morgana le Fay. I name you this, O beloved who has never existed, because she was a sea queen and a sorceress too, sister of Arthur in whose memory banners fly and bugles blow down the sharp winds of Land’s End, leman of wanderfooted Ogier the Dane, beautiful, magicful, laughterful beyond humanness.

  (I know you, Morgana. I make my women, but you I will build, Morgana, with these my hands. And you will live forever.

  (I have been in the yards and shops, to pick your timbers balk by balk and select each plank that shall be yours; in northern forests I have seen the trees for your masts, which I will fell, trim, season, and shape myself; a sailmaker it is not given me to be, but I know a master of the craft—the last of the black arts—to whom I will entrust the suiting of you, my darling, and he shall have the finest of fabrics for his work, and when he is done, I and no other will take the maidenhead of your sail tracks. I and no other will name you and launch you, and captain you until forever ends with the darkening of my eyes.

  (It’s a filthy world we’ll leave behind, the very waters always more crowded, evil-smelling, smeared, littered, and sick beneath poisonous dusty vapors. Less and less am I able to understand what they’re doing ashore, more and more do I doubt that they understand it either. I have less and less luck at my jobs, too, and this makes me angry and the anger spills off onto women who therefore put up with me for shorter and shorter times. Oh, I’ve got my friends, and they’re amusing; one or two are actually interesting, but what do we ever do, what are we for? And I have Kwannon, sloop-rigged, a whole fifteen feet LOA, to take out on the Bay: better than nothing, no doubt, and not really to be blamed for age and crankiness, when I can’t afford to get her the care she needs….) “Meester Rance. Meester Rance!”

  “Huh? Oh. Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

  “ ’Ere ees the place we decided on, Meester Rance.”

  “Sure. It is.” I blink around.

  The second boat has also idled its motor at Anselmo’s signal. We rock on station, a long easy swing in waves that have marched from the Antilles. When scant free-board separates you and them, they take you into themselves; you see how lesser waves, ripples, diffractions and interference patterns dance over their flanks until lost in the jewel-dazzle where sunlight breaks; you see living indigo, azure, emerald, white in arabesques; your bones hear them chuckle and rumble, feel them prance and stride; their changing airs and odors fi
ll you, and spindrift kisses your lips.

  No, I have got to get down to business.

  Gehinnom lies a pair of miles to the north. Behind it sweeps the curve of Tanoa, the Bight an impossibly green jut of forested upland, walled by the Iron Cliffs and roofed by the sky where a few clouds sail. The islet, or skerry or whatever you want to call it, is jagged-backed, bare and dark except for a silvery layer of dune grass, a few wind-crippled palms. It’s surrounded by reefs. The surf is snowy violence on them. Its drumfire reaches me louder than it ought to.

  I rise in the bows, clear a dry throat, point and say, “Please pay attention. I was out here before, and none of you were, and I don’t want to take advantage.”

  They listen. In this craft are Gayle, Orestes and Ellis; in the other are Matt, Byron and, damn it, Julia. The two hulls lie side by side, crewmen skillfully fending off with boat hooks, and words carry quite well.

  “The object of the game,” I say, “is to reach that rock. It’s doubtless further than any of us are used to swimming, but we’re all fairly good swimmers and the boats will stand by for rescue work. Yell if you think you’re in trouble. Otherwise keep your cool. Remember, this is warm water, reasonably calm till you get close inshore. It won’t drain your energy fast. When you get tired, you can float with very little effort, resting. The real danger, besides sharks or barracuda, is from the surf when you come near land. It can haul you under or throw you on some mighty sharp-edged rock. So … look close. Does everybody see that break in the surf? That’s the reason we’re on this side. A safe channel. Steer for it and you’ll be okay. The boats will follow and take us off.” I stop for breath. “Questions? Arguments?”

  Ellis shakes his head; he’s taped his glasses securely on. Does he, inside, believe what he wants most in the world is not to rape the sea but, like me, in his perverted way—love her?

  And me? Is this really happening to Lauritz Willem Rance, that everybody but his half-homesick Dutch mother calls Larry? Who am I that it should? Who do you have to be?

  (Born and raised in the Los Angeles area. Only child, maybe technically somewhat neglected—Dad in school on GI the first years of my life, then an underpaid young engineer in a recession, and meanwhile Mom working to bring in extra money; when he began earning pretty well, she didn’t want to quit and turn into just a housekeeper, but I enjoyed the independence; I like them both to this day and am often sorry I’m such a disappointment to them; they gave me a boat to keep in San Pedro and let me single-hand her out to Catalina or the Channel Islands whenever I wanted. I am nobody that wild things happen to!

  (Well, true, I did get into scrapes in high school. I was lucky that pregnancy case, back when abortion was unthinkable, got settled by a quiet adoption. Nonetheless I joined the Air Force at age eighteen to get away for three years, and was lucky in being sent to Japan…. Bells and pure gardens in Kyoto, curve of Fuji against a moonlit heaven, cute little bodies climbing over me in whorehouses and later Suiko, oh, Suiko, maybe I should’ve stayed…. Did my luck run out with my youth, the way strength and senses do?)

  A trivial discussion. Then, “I theenk you can start, ladies and gentlemen,” says Anselmo. The cameramen get busy. Enjoy at the far end, Haverner, enjoy, enjoy.

  I dive. The water takes me, flowing around in a million million cool caresses, such as Suiko could only try to give. It’s tawny green down below. I glimpse a fish dart off, can’t identify it but it’s brightly colored and has an extravagant tail.

  I break the surface and sunlight pours across my head.

  To do this in a thousand waters for the next fifty years!

  (Fifty? I am thirty-five, closer to thirty-six. Keep moving, son.)

  I strike out for the goal, an easy crawl soon joined in rhythm to the waves. Byron passes, laughs and flaps a hand at me. The rest—I look back and see Orestes swim with skill, Julia with grace, Ellis with competence. Just Matt and Gayle are actually toiling.

  Those last two may not make it, but seems like everybody else will. What then? I have till tomorrow daybreak. I’ve got to find another challenge! Why can’t I? Well, keep ’em in suspense, hey?

  Or save my energy. I can’t hope to eliminate the lot by myself, and some nasty surprises could lie ahead. I must last out the course. Here in the brute and subtle honesty of the sea, I understand that this is my final chance.

  (Morgana, I have so much to show you on our honeymoon. The Santa Barbara Channel, where porpoises will still come rolling and tumbling to play with you, where as we lie in a hushed young morning, waiting for a breeze, maybe barely ghosting, a pair of seals or a pod of killer whales will travel by, stick their heads out and bid us a polite hello. Victory over fogs and crosstides down the Straits of Juan de Fuca, till we round Cape Flattery and meet the heavy, shuddering strength beyond. Lost little bays in New England. Bermuda afloat before us like a dream at dusk. The black bulk of Diamond Head at midnight, made starry by lights. The Ryukyus rising from the horizon at dawn, pink as that incredibly early brightness. Hokusai’s Fuji.)

  The growl from ahead is suddenly louder. I feel a savage playfulness in the currents that wrap me. Am I so close? It hasn’t seemed a long time. I peer about. Anselmo’s boat is quite near, a crescent moon on patrol, between me and Shaddock in this area, Cruz and Julia to rearward. Further back, Captain York’s craft watches over Gayle, Nordberg, and (why?) Flagler.

  (Oh, but we have many more discoveries to make together, Morgana. I have seen them in my mind, how often, but now I will see them with you. Distant, distant yellow Kerguelen, halfway from Africa to Australia, off in the middle of Kipling’s “excellent loneliness”; swart escarpments of Tristan da Cunha, velvet-green hillsides of Fernando Noronha, those twin legacies of Henry the Navigator with the whole South Atlantic between them; ragged sails of the pearl-shell fishers off the almost unknown palm-studded coast where Thailand reaches Buddhist into that Moslem peninsula which at last becomes Malaysia; sheer cliffs and rushing falls along Hardanger Fjord, whence the vikings rowed; cloud-crowned mountains of New Zealand, whither the mightier Maoris pad-died; Rio de Janeiro, Buenos Aires, Valparaiso, the names make a song; the Inside Passage to Alaska, loveliest of channels on this overwhelmingly lovely globe; but afterward open water again, Morgana, a thousand miles of sea room and the wind a-boom in your sails, outward bound, my darling, to wherever the hell you and I may choose!)

  Surf spouts and bawls around me. I am slapped across the eyes, tumbled, hauled about. In a faraway fashion, I feel my left shin slashed by an edge. The slot between the reefs isn’t near as easy as Anselmo led me to believe.

  I make it okay, though, wade through the shallows, flop down on hot volcanic rock beside Byron, who’s already there. As the wetness steams off me, I feel salt crusts itchily forming. I taste them on my lips. Light flames.

  He grins. “Well,” he says “thanks for a refreshing trip. What’s next on your agenda?”

  “Let’s see how the others do,” I mutter. For I find that I am worried. That really is a dangerous approach, if you’re less of a swimmer than I am.

  Suppose Julia gets cracked into a reef and drowned, suppose I see her afterward, eyes abulge and teeth gleaming through a cheek tom open? How could I ever explain to her little girl?

  Byron seeks what shade he can find under one of the twisted screw palms. That’s wise, when you’re in nothing except a pair of trunks. But I have to see what’s happening at the barrier.

  The coral of the outer ridges extends an arm clear to the islet. I pick my way out on that: slowly and carefully, because not only is the stuff jagged, thick waves often break across the lower parts and can knock you over. I glimpse anemones and tiny crabs in a tide pool, outrageously peaceful. Finally I reach a vantage point.

  Orestes is coming in. Julia isn’t far behind. A crosscurrent grabs her, whirls her against the channel side. She isn’t too badly cut, but her blood comes out with weird fluorescent brilliance, and she yells and goes under. I see her flounder; I start, unthinking, to scram
ble down after her. Orestes has stopped; he treads water, turns his head, sees her drawn below. He darts back—afloat, he’s smooth, quick, easy—gets a grip just beneath her breasts. Through the roar and whoosh I can’t hear what he tells her nor see very well what happens through the tossed-up spume. I do make out that she’s in full control of herself, she doesn’t struggle but cooperates. He hauls her free of the churning and lets her go. They swim slowly to shore.

  Byron rises to greet her. She turns instead to Orestes (in that direction their figures are small but clear) and I can guess how she tries to thank him without letting on to Byron that there’s been what I may claim is a violation of my rules. Neither has noticed me where I am. I suppose he asks Byron about that, however, since the rich man points at me. The three of them stare my way. After a moment Orestes turns his head and spits.

  Sickness rises in me. I send my gaze back seaward. Anselmo’s boat is standing offshore, York’s trailing the last players. (Neither can have seen what happened between the reefs.) Nobody’s far off now except for Gayle. Ellis, swimming stoutly, is ahead of Matt, who appears to have difficulties.

  And then Gayle screams. I don’t understand how I hear it, when she’s such a ways from me. Maybe I only know it. I see her go wild, flail away her strength, and I see what brought on that panic, the tall swift fin.

  Shark? Barracuda? I can’t quite make out across this glare. It vanishes—dives?—for the attack? I leap about, not caring what I may do to my feet, I wigwag and bellow and shriek.

  (I have seen a film where sharks ate a dead whale. They come in fast; there’s that monstrous ripping snap; the skin and blubber and flesh are peeled off to leave a pit; fragments befoul the water, and then comes the next pass and the next. Silly little Gayle, who meant no harm to anybody, who offered to help Julia if she—pathetic hope—happened to win!)