REMEMBER when you were a kid in school, and after the summer vacation your first assignment in class was to tell all the other kids what you did on your summer vacation? Well, here is what I did not do during my fun-filled eight-day cruise aboard the S.S. Carnival Queen. I did not lie beside the pool with a drink in my hand, and watch the girls go by. I did not play deck tennis or shuffleboard, I did not try my hand at skeetshooting, and I did not drive a bucket of golf balls into the Caribbean. I did not dance all night with the lovely ladies, nor did I see the inside of any of their cabins. I did not take a carriage ride through the winding streets of Nassau, I did not visit the tomb of Ponce de Leon in San Juan, I did not go snorkeling in St. Thomas, and I did not shop the sophisticated boutiques of St. Maarten. All I did, aside from eat too much, was keep a constant watch on Calvin Weiss, and play high-stakes poker with him every night. Even there, I didn't have the pleasure of winning, because I still was throwing him hands every time I could. I would not have minded any of this if, during all that time, I had pulled even a single lead on Madrigal, but after six days at sea and in ports I knew nothing more than when I had started. By then it was Friday and we were homeward bound, cruising off the coast of Hispaniola. We had one more day at sea, arriving back in Port St. James early Sunday morning.
"It's impossible," I reported to Sammy by telephone.
"Your favorite word."
"Look, you try it. I go around all day tapping heads, and all I get is Let's kill Calvin, let's kill Calvin. There are more than two hundred people into the game so far, and that's all they think about."
"And Madrigal has to be one of them."
"Maybe."
"Nothing maybe about it. If he-assuming it's a he-hasn't hit so far, then he's going to try it the night of that game, tomorrow night. It's his best shot."
I had to agree, but I didn't see what good it did me. "All I can do is continue to stay close to Calvin."
"What about Saturday night when he drops out of sight for the game?"
"I'll have to take my chances. Nobody knows where he goes."
"Not good enough. You'll have to be with him every minute that night."
"How am I supposed to do that?"
"Think about it. How much does the winner take out of that pool?"
"About twenty grand."
"And how much of the company money have you lost to Calvin so far?"
"A little under ten."
"Then don't you think it's about time that you started winning?"
"Oh."
"And don't tell me that you would have thought of it yourself."
"I would have."
He hung up.
That night, Calvin greeted me with an exuberant whoop as I sat down at the poker table. I was his buddy, but I was also his pigeon. "This is my boy," he explained to the table. "My boy Ben is better than MasterCard and he's better than American Express. He is my personal cash machine, I just push the right button and he throws money at me."
There were grins around the table. They had seen how often I had locked horns with Calvin, and had come out second best. I told them, "Not tonight. Tonight the worm turns, the empire strikes back, and the meek inherit the earth." I said to Calvin, "Let's make it easy on ourselves tonight. I'll cut cards with you now, one time and one time only, for fifty grand. Then we can have a couple of drinks, and relax."
His eyes narrowed. "You serious?"
"Sure. Look at all the time we'll save."
I wasn't serious at all. There is no way that I can control a cut, but I knew he wouldn't go for it, and I wanted to shake him right from the start.
"No," he said slowly, "let's do it the hard way."
"Suit yourself. Whose deal is it?"
That was about one-thirty in the morning. Four hours later a sweating, shaken Calvin Weiss asked me if I would take his personal check. He had been playing on markers for the past hour, and I had his IOU's for a total of forty-three thousand stacked in front of me. Three of the other players were also holding his paper, and he was in for over fifty large. He didn't have that kind of money in the bank, I knew that from tapping his head, but he wanted us to take the check. He was broken, and I was the one who had done the breaking, but I couldn't feel too sorry for him. Even with my particular advantage, I can't completely break a player, wipe him out and put him in debt, unless he insists on playing bad poker. There is no rule in the book that says that you have to play every hand and meet every raise. But that was his game, and it got worse when I started to turn the screws. After an hour of it he should have had the sense to cash it in and call it a night, but he went on chasing dreams until the sun was up and the coffee was cold. And now he wanted us to take his check.
The other people who were holding his paper weren't happy about it. They hadn't minded taking markers in the middle of the game, but they had figured on a settlement. Now they were being offered a piece of paper that was worthless in the middle of the ocean, and might be worthless on land as well. Trouble was, it was Calvin Weiss, a fixture in their lives, and none of them wanted to offend him. They looked at each other, unsure. I made it easy for them.
"I'll buy your paper," I told them, "and I'll take Calvin's check for the total."
They were so relieved they practically threw the paper across the table at me. I paid them with chips, and put their markers with mine. The total came to fifty-three thousand and change. I showed the figure to Calvin, and he nodded. He whipped out his checkbook, and made out the check with all the aplomb in the world. He slid it across the table.
"Thanks, Ben. Appreciate the courtesy."
That finished the game, and the others drifted away, some still looking for action, some to bed, and some to the casino's hash-brown breakfast, which was the best food served on board.
"Have a drink with me," I said to Calvin.
He shook his head, grinning. "Gotta see a lady about a pussycat."
"Not this morning. We have something to talk about."
"Some other time."
"Now," I said firmly.
The grin was gone. He didn't like the tone of voice, but he went to the bar while I cashed in my chips. When I joined him, I didn't waste any time on it. I said, "Your check is no good. You know it, and I know it. What are we going to do about it?"
"Ben, baby, what are you talking about? You put the check in and it clears, no sweat."
"Bullshit."
"Bullshit, your ass. I'm telling you it's good."
"And I'm telling you it isn't." I went into his troubled mind, and plucked out a figure. "You've got maybe three thousand bucks in that account, give or take a little. Your house and your cars are hocked to the hilt, and all you've got is your salary."
"How do you know what I've got?"
"What difference does it make? It's true, isn't it?"
He stared at me, suddenly deflated.
"So let's get one thing straight. The check is n.g., right?"
He shrugged, and looked away.
"So I deposit the check when I get home, and it bounces."
He wouldn't look at me.
"Then I write a nice little letter to the Carnival Lines with a photocopy of your bum check enclosed, and you're out of a job."
"It never gets to that," he mumbled. "I figure to cover the check."
"With what? Calvin, please stop snowing me. You're talking now the same way you play poker. You're dreaming. There's no way in the world that you can cover that check."
"If you're so sure of that, why did you take it?"
"To save you the embarrassment. Why the hell did you write it if you knew you couldn't cover it?"
He sighed. "I figured… I'd figure something out."
"Like what?"
"I know some people who could maybe cover it."
"Fifty?"
He nodded.
"And you pay back sixty?"
He nodded.
"And a broken arm for every payment that you miss?"
He nodded.
"You're dreaming again. You'll never be able to make the payments. Not even the interest. You don't have enough arms and legs."
"Very funny. I make the jokes."
"I'm not trying to be funny, Calvin. I'm trying to help you out of a hole. There's a way."
He was instantly alert. "I'm listening."
I told him. A slow, sad smile worked its way across his face. "You know how much money I could have made doing that, I mean, all these trips. But I never did it, never once. I always played it straight."
"There's always a first time."
"Yeah, this time. Let's get it straight. You get to be the one who kills me, and I'm off the hook. You tear up the check, right."
"Right. No cash for you, but you owe me nothing."
"You'll still be losing. You'll only get about twenty."
"The other way I get nothing."
"All right, you got it."
"It's a deal?"
"I said you got it, didn't I?"
"There's one more thing."
"There always is."
"Wherever you hide out tomorrow night, I stay there with you. All night, until it's time to make the kill. Until the game is over."
"Trusting bastard, aren't you?"
"I can't afford to take a chance. You can see that, can't you?"
"Yeah, I can see it."
I grabbed a few hours sleep and got up at noon, in time to sign up for the Kill Calvin game in the Main Lounge. The officer in charge was Fleckmann, the second purser. I gave him my hundred dollars, and in return he gave me a receipt, an identification card, and one of those toy pistols that shoots pellets of paint. The paint came in three different colors: red, yellow, and blue. I chose yellow.
"Any particular significance?" asked Fleckmann.
"Cowardice. Real guns scare me."
He grinned. "Good hunting."
I took the pistol back to my cabin and examined it. It was roughly the same size and shape as the Walther in my suitcase. As far as I could tell without opening it, the paint was stored in the grip and was expelled in the form of pellets by a cartridge of compressed air. There was a Degas print on the cabin wall, the usual ballet dancer. I aimed, fired, and the pellet landed square in the tutu. I had no way of knowing how it would work at a greater range, but I didn't care. I had no intention of carrying the toy. I threw it into the suitcase, and tucked the Walther into my waistband under my shirt. Real guns really do scare me, but going up against Madrigal with a paint pistol scared me even more.
I spent the afternoon and the early evening trying to keep Calvin under observation, but it wasn't easy. He kept bouncing all over the ship, from lounge to lounge and group to group, whipping up interest in the game that night. It was a ridiculous sight, all those people flaunting their toy pistols, fake daggers, and lacy little nooses. I caught up with Calvin outside the Carousel Room, and pulled him aside. It was seven-thirty and the game began officially at eight.
"When do you disappear?" I asked.
"Very shortly. One minute you'll see me, and the next minute you won't."
"With all these people watching you?"
"I've been doing this for years. Don't follow me too close. Give me maybe half an hour, and make sure that nobody sees you."
I still don't know how he did it, but one minute he was in plain view, and then he was gone. A moment later, someone said loudly, "Hey, where the hell did Calvin go to?" But by then it was too late, as a bell rang to announce that the hunt was on.
I gave him his half-hour, and then joined him in his hidey-hole. It was a lifeboat, but not any old lifeboat. Both the port and the starboard sides of the Bridge Deck were lined with lifeboats hanging from davits, each about fifteen feet long and protected by tarpaulins, but the boat farthest aft on the starboard side was something special. Twenty-five feet long and painted a fire-engine red, it was a power launch that was built like a miniature tugboat with an enclosed cabin and a tiny wheel-house. Inside the cabin were two bunk beds, a folding table, a chemical toilet, and a sink. Not all of the comforts of home, but enough of them including the bottle of Scotch that Calvin had brought. The only inconvenience was that we could not show a light.
After I had settled onto one of the bunks, I asked, "Do you always use this place?"
"Always. It's amazing, I mean you'd think that somebody would check this out, but it's never happened, not in all the years I've been doing this. Sometimes I can hear them outside on the deck, but they never look here."
"How long do you stay?"
"Depends on how I feel. Sometimes I can catch some sleep in here, but if I can't then I get it over with early. Two, maybe three in the morning. I just show myself until somebody zaps me, and the game is over. You want a drink? It's gotta be from the bottle, I forgot to bring glasses."
He passed over the bottle. I took a slug, and gave it back. "That's all there is, so pace yourself," he said. "I could get it over with quick, you know, but I like to give them their money's worth. That okay with you?"
It was very much okay with me. I wanted to stay with him for as long as I could. "All night if you want to."
He grunted, and I took that for an agreement. We settled back into the bunks, shaking down for the night. It was dark in the cabin of the launch, and I could barely see his face. We passed the bottle back and forth, taking tiny sips.
"I shoulda brought some peanuts," he muttered.
"Peanuts are for sissies. Is it all right to talk like this?"
"Long as we keep it low."
"How do we pass the time? 'Sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings'?"
"Richard Second, Act Three." He laughed shortly.
"You patronizing me, quoting Shakespeare to a comic?"
"I didn't mean to. I'm sorry if it sounded that way."
"Forget it. I got a thin skin about things like that, comes with the line of work I'm in. You see the way people look at you, and you know what they're thinking. A comic, he's got no feelings. He's got no sensitivity. All he knows is how to drop his pants and make people laugh. We're not supposed to be like other people."
" 'And yet, if you prick us, do we not bleed?' "
"You gonna do that all night? Besides, that's about Jews, not comics. I know, I'm both." He was silent for as long as it took for each of us to take one of those ladylike sips from the bottle. "You remember that friend I told you about?"
"Mutt and Jeff?"
"The funniest part was that he was an Arab. An exchange student from Lebanon. Mutt and Jeff, the Arab and the Jew."
"And the Pom-Pom Queen."
"You got a good memory. You're not married, are you?"
"No."
"I didn't think so, and I can usually tell. Listen, what I said the other night about my wife…"
"You don't have to tell me anything."
"Yeah, but I want to. Whatever I said about her, I didn't mean it to sound like I'm blaming her. I've got a screwed-up marriage, but it isn't her fault. She just married the wrong guy."
"You don't know how it would have worked out with the other guy."
There was just enough light for me to see him shake his head. "You wouldn't say that if you knew Hassan."
"Mutt?"
"Yeah. Hassan was the straightest, sweetest guy who ever lived. Sure, we both loved her, but the way he loved her was different. Let me put it this way. If she had married him, she'd be happy today. And so would he. The marriage would have lasted, and the love would have lasted, too. That's the way he loved her. Forever."
"Nothing is forever."
"Like I said, you never knew him. But it was different with me. I'm a fuck-up, and I've always been a fuck-up. All I knew was that I wanted her. So I woo'd her, and I won her, but it was still a fuck-up."
" 'Men are April when they woo, December when they wed.' '
"Enough. Pass the bottle." I heard it clink against his teeth. "You know the line from the act after that, the one about the clown?"
" 'It is meat and drink to me to see a clown?"
"That's it. Meat and drink. Remember that."
"What happened to Hassan?"
"He took second best. Consolation prize."
"The Poodle?"
He did not answer, and he was silent for a long time after that. Once he mumbled about not bringing peanuts. Once he grunted as he took off his shoes and stretched out on the bunk. After that I heard his even breathing as he slept, and then I heard him turn over.
"Ben, you awake?"
"Yeah."
"What time is it?"
"About two."
"Listen, you got that check of mine with you?"
"Uh-huh."
"Could I have it back now? I mean, once we walk out of here and you zap me, it's over. So could I have it back?"
There was no reason not to. The check had served its purpose. I dug it out of my pocket, and handed it to him. I heard him rip it in half, and then in half again. He said, "Thanks. Is it enough to say thanks?"
"Don't get sloppy on me. Go back to sleep."
I heard him turn over again. My own eyes felt heavy, and I fought the temptation to close them. Only a few more hours and the hunt would be over, but I was beginning to get the feeling that I was guarding an empty castle. If two hundred players in the game couldn't find Calvin, then how was Madrigal going to do it? Only through a stroke of luck, and the professionals of David Ogden's world didn't operate on luck. So how? If I were Madrigal, how would I…?
And there it was. So simple, really.
"Calvin."
"What?"
"How much did the other guy offer you?"
"What other guy?"
"You sold me out. You made a deal with someone else."
He was silent.
"Didn't you?"
"No, I swear I didn't."
I went into his head. He was lying. It was all there, screaming guilt. He had made the deal, all right, and someone was waiting out there on the deck. I said quietly, "How much did he promise you? Half of it? More?"
"Hey, do you really think I'd do something like that?"
"Which was why you had to have the check back. How much, Calvin?"
He sighed. "Half. Guy comes up to me yesterday afternoon, makes me the offer, and 'I did greedily devour the treacherous bait.' '
"No more Shakespeare. Talk."
"Look, do you know how often I get a proposition like that? At least once every trip, and I always say no. But I figure, I already sold out to you, so why not? Ten grand from him, and if I can get the check back from you I'm home free. Which is just the way it's working out."
"Cute."
"Remember, I told you I was a fuck-up."
"So you did. And, of course, you told him where you would be hiding."
He shrugged. "How else?"
"Which means he's waiting out there now."
"That's the deal. Hey, where are you going?"
I was off the bunk and moving aft to the cabin door. "Calvin, you're right, you're a world-class fuck-up, and if you want to do something right for just once in your life you'll stay here and keep quiet. You understand? Don't move, not for anything."
"What are you going to do?"
"I have an investment to protect."
I went out of the cabin on my belly, rolled over the side of the launch, grabbed the davit, and dropped to the deck. I took out the silenced Walther, and let it hang in my hand at my side. The Bridge Deck looked dark and deserted, and I did not try to hide myself. Madrigal would be looking for Calvin, not for me.
I started forward, leaving the launch behind me, and I felt his presence before I saw him. He was about a hundred feet up the deck, and I went into his head as soon as I got within range. It was a cool head, uncluttered. He had what he saw as a simple job to do, and he was ready to do it as soon as Calvin showed his face. With what as a weapon? I tapped deeper. One of those paint pistols? Not likely. I pushed harder on the tap. Yeah, a paint pistol, but then I saw what he had done to the toy they had given him in the Main Lounge. He had modified the paint mixture with a strong dose of-I had to stretch for it-Saxitoxin-D. Talk about biological assault with a vengeance. One drop of that on Calvin's skin, thirty seconds to kill him, and the beauty part is that it comes out looking like a heart attack. Very sophisticated high-level Agency equipment. The night was warm, and I was suddenly chilled.
I saw him then. He was standing with his back against the rail. It was too dark to see his face clearly, or to tell his age. He nodded as I came near.
"Hi, there," he said in a low, smooth voice. "You playing the Calvin game?"
"That's right. You, too?"
"I was, but I think I've had enough. Time to turn in. Good luck, and happy hunting."
"Thanks, but I'm not hunting anymore, Mister Madrigal. I found what I was looking for."
He stiffened, and then forced himself to relax. "Well now, what have we here?"
"I'm a messenger, and if I know your name, then you know who sent me."
He stood motionless. "That's impossible. He's dead."
"There are other people who know who you are."
"What's your message?"
"Your assignment has been aborted. At the highest level. It's over."
"That's also impossible."
"Don't give me that crap about Gilbraltar Rules. We're playing by new rules now." I showed him the pistol. There was light enough for that. "My rules."
"Is he up there in that launch?"
"Maybe you didn't hear me, I said that it's over. If you try to get him, I'll have to stop you."
"I'm unarmed."
"Except for that pistol in your pocket."
"That pistol is a toy, a paint gun for the game."
"And the paint is loaded with Saxitoxin-D."
"Christ, how the hell…" He thought about it. "You're a sensitive."
"And you're a murderer, but not this time. Reach into your pocket and take out that toy. Take it out by the barrel. If it comes out any other way, you're dead. Take it out, and toss it over the side."
"I don't give up my weapon, not to anyone."
His voice was hard. I was inside his head, and I could feel the anger there. He was working himself up to make a move.
"Take it out and toss it over."
"And if I don't?"
"This pistol is silenced. It wouldn't bother me one little bit to blow your head off, and dump you over the rail."
"You? I don't think so." He blew out air like a bull snorting. He was still working up to it. "Sensitives are gentlemen, they play by the rules. They don't do cold-blooded murder."
"Let's not find out. Come on, the toy."
He was ready, he had decided to do it. Inside his pocket, his fingers closed around the pistol, one finger on the trigger. I could see it all inside his head. He was no more than six feet away from me, and I knew what a drop of that paint could do.
He shook his head. "No, you'd never do it. Not a sensitive. Not a gentleman."
He started to pull the pistol from his pocket. I shot him twice, and the bullets hurled him back against the rail. The pistol never came out. He stared at me, his eyes wide with shock and surprise. They were starting to glaze.
"Gentlemen don't cheat at cards, either," I told him, but he did not hear me. He was gone. He sagged against the rail, and I caught him before he could fall. I grabbed an arm and a leg, and rolled him over the rail. It was a long way down, and I never heard the splash. I threw my pistol after him, and looked up and down the deck. It was empty.
I heard a scream, and I jumped. I heard another, and another. They were coming from the launch. I sprinted aft, scrambled up the davit, and swung on board. I went through the cabin door shoulder first, and stopped. Someone had turned on a light. Calvin lay flat on the bunk, and he was covered with red and blue spots of paint. Two young women stood over him, toy pistols in their hands. They were screaming at the top of their lungs.
"We killed Calvin, we killed Calvin."
One of them saw me, and said, "You're too late, we got him first."
Calvin looked up at me, grinning, and shrugged.
"You can have him," I told them.
I went back to my cabin and tried for a few more hours of sleep, but I awoke in the middle of a dream. Someone had accused me of cheating at cards, and I was trying to hide under the poker table. I hit my head on a table leg, and that was what woke me up. It didn't take a genius to figure out a dream like that. I tried to laugh it off, and I called Sammy.
"Ball game's over," I told him. "The good guys won."
I heard his breath go out. "What about the bad guy?"
"He tried to go swimming, but he wasn't very good at it."
"Any problems with the suits?"
"None that I can see. Fill me in on the others. How did Snake do?"
"A winner."
"Terrific. Vince?"
"Another winner."
"Martha?"
"She broke her leg."
"Christ. What about the girl?"
"She's safe." He told me what had happened. "Chicken really came through."
"Sounds a little dicey. What if she talks about what happened?"
"What's there to talk about? Nothing actually did happen, did it? Chicken has her convinced that it was a party that got out of hand."
"She bought that?"
"She's not the brightest," Sammy admitted. "Chicken says she'll keep quiet, and I'm going with his judgment. He's changed a lot, Ben. He's grown up."
"As long as she doesn't tell her grandmother."
"I have a different sort of problem with the grandmother." I heard the change in his voice. "Jessup turned it up. It seems that Ogden had an intercept mounted on her mail for years."
"On Violet Simms? What the hell for?"
"He was reading every letter that she wrote, and every letter that she received. Not the agency, just Ogden."
"I don't get it. What does it mean?"
"I'll know more about that after I speak to the lady. I've asked our friends to pull her in for questioning."