I was at the gallery a few minutes to nine o’clock and I didn’t have to wait long. As the minute hand of my watch moved on to the hour, I saw Raimundo and Timoteo coming across the sand.
I watched them come. Raimundo walked with his usual swagger. Timoteo, his head bent, shuffled along, a step or two in the rear. He was wearing his sun goggles and his shirt was already sticking to him.
I had the rifle ready. I didn’t know what to expect and I wasn’t in a relaxed frame of mind. My jaw was sore and the bruise was turning black. I still couldn’t believe a slob like Timoteo could have punched that hard.
When they were within ten yards of me, Raimundo said something to Timoteo who stopped short and stood like an ox waiting for the yoke. Raimundo joined me.
“Take him,” he said. “He’ll do what you tell him. Get him shooting, soldier. Don’t chat him up. Just get him shooting.”
I beckoned to Timoteo. I decided to treat him like an Army recruit : nothing personal and all business.
Without looking at me, he walked slowly and heavy-footed into the lean-to and stopped, looking helplessly at the distant targets.
“Get those goggles off !” I barked.
He flinched, but took them off. As he was about to put them in his shirt pocket, Raimundo moved forward.
“I’ll have them.”
Timoteo hesitated then handed them over. Raimundo took them, paused while he looked at Timoteo, then he dropped the goggles on the sand and trod on them. I wouldn’t have done that, but I was glad it was done. The goggles were to this goon as a rag is to a kid who thumb-sucks.
“The rifle is loaded,” I said. “Get shooting.”
He took the rifle. There was a dumb, broken look on his face. I suddenly thought : suppose he turns the rifle on me or Raimundo? What a couple of jerks we’d look ! Seeing the way he stood, wavering, the rifle in his hinds, brought me out in a sudden cold sweat, but it was all right. I could see the thought had never entered his head. He turned and went to the shooting rest.
This was the first time he had looked through the telescopic sight. I saw his back stiffen as the target seemed to leap at him.
“Take your time,” I said in my instructor’s voice. “Get the cross wires on the bull. Don’t pull the trigger; squeeze it.” I gave him a couple of seconds to get ready. “Shoot when you want to.”
Another couple of seconds crawled by, then the rifle banged.
Both Raimundo and I looked towards the target. He had hit the bull dead centre.
“Good shot,” I said. “That’s the way. Now keep on shooting.” With that telescopic sight, unless you had Parkinson’s disease, you couldn’t fail to hit a bull, but with his next ten shots he only hit the bull twice.
I kept him at it : reloading for him, handing the rifle back without looking at him.
Raimundo sat on one of the benches and smoked. After the first shot, he didn’t bother to look at the target, but he sat there and I knew his presence was keeping Timoteo shooting.
After an hour, and after he had scored ten bulls out of sixty shots, I said, “Okay… break it off.” I turned to Raimundo.
“Take him for a walk. I want him back in an hour,” and I walked out and headed towards the bungalow.
Lucy was busy scraping the paint off the front door. She paused in
her work and looked inquiringly up at me.
“He’s taking time off,” I said. “How are you getting on? I have an hour. I’ll give a hand.”
“It’s all right. I like doing it.” She stood up. “Do you want a beer?”
“It’s too early.” I moved to one of our crummy sling chairs on the verandah and sat down. She joined me.
“I didn’t hear any shooting.”
“He’s using the silencer. He’s shooting… not bad.”
“But how is he?”
“He’s okay. He’s shooting. That’s all we need worry about.”
“Is that man with him?”
“Raimundo? Oh. sure. He’s sitting in on the session. He’s the oil that makes the goon function.”
“Oh, Jay! Haven’t you any heart? Can’t you see this boy is frightened to death?” She wrung her hands. “Can’t you see this awful man is terrifying him into shooting?”
I rubbed the back of my neck while I restrained my impatience.
“I couldn’t talk him into shooting. You couldn’t mother him into shooting. Okay, Raimundo is scaring him into shooting. He’s got to shoot. I’m being paid fifty thousand dollars to get him to shoot so…”
She got up abruptly and went into the bungalow.
So we were going to start this all over again, I thought. I sat there for five minutes, feeling the ache in my jaw, then I got up, kicked the chair away and walked into the living-room.
She was sitting on a stool, facing the empty fireplace, her clenched fists against her face.
“Lucy, will you please try to be helpful,” I said. “It’s tough enough to have this nut in my hair without you going neurotic on me. This is important to us ! I’m trying to earn…”
“Oh, stop it !” Her voice was shrill and her eyes a little wild. “I’m not neurotic! You’re just mad about money ! Can’t you see…?”
“Lucy ! My bark stopped her dead. An Army voice when it is pitched right can stop a clock. “What’s with it between you and this goon? Are you falling for him? Have you fallen for him?”
Her face crimson, her eyes shocked, she stared at me.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m asking you. What’s all this protective stuff with this creep? What’s he mean to you?”
“He’s a human being! He’s frightened ! I’m sorry for him. That’s what he means to me!”
“Well, okay… just stay sorry for him, but nothing else. asked you, Lucy, to keep out of this. Please stop throwing spanners in the works ! I have enough to handle without you getting protective.”
“Money means everything to you, doesn’t it?”
“We’re not talking about money ! We’re talking about this goon !”
“To von, it’s the same thing.”
“I’m being paid to teach him to shoot. That’s what I’m trying to do!”
“He doesn’t want to shoot… he told me.”
I held on to the explosion that was building up in me.
What he told you and what he is going to do are two different things. Will von please leave this to me?”
“Why don’t you find out why he doesn’t want to shoot? Why don’t you start treating him like a human being? Why do you let a thug dictate to you and to him?” She jumped to her feet. “I can tell you! All you think about is the money you will make!”
“Is that something to be ashamed of?”
“I think it is.”
I touched my aching jaw. It looked to me as if we were back on square A.
“I’m sorry you feel this way about it, Lucy,” I said. “You’ve made your point. This is a job I’m going through with. I’m asking you to stick with it for another eight days.” I didn’t wait for her to make a come-back, I left her and returned to the shooting gallery.
I would have to get Timoteo shooting soon at moving targets. Nick Lewis had an antiquated machine which I had inherited. Sometimes it worked… sometimes it didn’t. It was run by a small electric motor which turned cogs which turned a conveyor belt. Attached to the belt were six screw bolts. On the bolts you could fix decoy birds, targets, beer cans and so on. The motor could be speeded up if it felt like speeding up or it could take the targets along at a snail’s pace.
I was working on the machine when Raimundo and Timoteo came in.
“We’ll keep to target shooting for today,” I said to Timoteo as I handed him the rifle. “Tomorrow, we’ll try a moving target.”
I wasn’t sure if he had heard me. He didn’t look as if he had, but I was past caring. His despairing, broken down look bored me.
He shot until noon. His score of bulls was increasing. A few minutes after noon, his concentration began slipping and I could see it was time to stop.
I turned to Raimundo who was lighting yet another cigarette.
“I’ll take him to the bungalow and feed him. We’ll start again at 14.00.”
Raimundo got to his feet.
“I’ll feed him, soldier. He stays with me. Come on, Mr. Savanto, let’s go see what Nick’s cooked up for us.” He cocked a mocking eye at me. “I’ll have him here at 14.00.”
That suited me. The less I had to do with this goon the better I liked it.
I watched them walk off towards the line of distant palm trees, then I went back to the bungalow.
The next three days are of no interest to record: they followed the same pattern. Raimundo delivered Timoteo to the gallery at nine o’clock every morning, took him away to eat at noon, brought him back at 14.00 and took him away at 19.00. During this time Timoteo shot, used up a lot of ammunition, did what he was told, often badly and sometimes better than badly.
I had to contain my impatience and control my temper when he started on the moving targets. He either shot ahead or behind, but after some hours he began to hit a few beer cans that were being conveyed along at the slowest speed the machine would operate at.
Lucy continued to paint the bungalow. She no longer asked about Timoteo. She had no chance of seeing him anyway. Our personal feelings for each other had suffered a knock. We were both too goddam polite to each other, and we had long minutes of complete silence that hadn’t come into our lives before.
I knew she was worried sick and she was hurt, but I kept telling myself that when this was over it would be forgotten and we would get together again as before.
After the third day I became more aware that time was running out and I began to turn on the heat. It wasn’t good enough for Timoteo to hit two beer cans out of five as they crept along the belt. He had to sharpen up his ideas.
I gave the wheels driving the belt some machine oil and advanced the motor.
The cans jolted along at three times their previous speed. He fired off forty shots without hitting a can.
Exasperated, I shouted at him, “Shoot ahead ! All the time you’re shooting behind !”
I didn’t believe anyone could sweat the way he sweated. He was trying all right, but his reflexes were those of a cripple.
He kept shooting, kept missing, and I could see by his desperate expression he was becoming hysterical.
“Okay, stop.” I turned to Raimundo. “Take him away. Let him relax.” I switched off the motor. “I’ve had enough of him for today.”
Raimundo stared at me, his black eyes evil.
“He hasn’t time to relax, soldier. Mr. Savanto is coming to check on him the day after tomorrow. You’ll be the one who’ll need to relax if he isn’t doing better than this.”
I would have to be deaf not to catch the threat in his voice. So I kept him shooting until dusk, but it was a waste of ammunition. He hit three of the beer cans out of a hundred shots. By then he was in no condition even to hold the rifle.
“That’s it,” I said in disgust. “He can’t shoot any more. Take him away.”
I was sweating myself. If Savanto was coming in forty-eight hours and expected to see something for his money, time was certainly running against me.
When they had gone I returned to the bungalow. I could smell onions frying. I found Lucy in the kitchen, preparing a curry… one of my favourite meals and the one thing she could cook well.
“Hi!”
She looked over her shoulder and gave me a ghost of a smile.
“Through for the day?”
“Yeah, I’ll take a shower.”
“It’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”
“It smells good.”
She nodded and turned back to the stove. I eyed her for a brief moment, feeling depressed and wanting to touch her, but there was no invitation to touch her in that stiff slim back. It’ll work out, I told myself. It’s got to work out.
After the shower, I put on fresh slacks and a shirt.
We had dinner. The curry was good : just the way I liked it, but I didn’t have much appetite: nor did she.
“He’s bogged down on the moving target,” I said. “It’s going to be a miracle if I ever make this sonofabitch shoot.”
She moved the food about on her plate with her fork. She didn’t say anything.
“His father is coming to check on his progress the day after tomorrow.”
That got a reaction. She looked up, her eyes widening.
“Is he?”
“Yes. I wish I hadn’t taken this job, Lucy.”
“You still have six days.” She put down her fork. “You can’t expect to make all this money without working for it. That’s what you said, wasn’t it?”
“That’s what I said.”
Then followed another of our long, depressing silences.
“I forgot to tell you,” she said. “Colonel Forsythe came for his lesson. I told him the school was closed.”
“Did he take it all right?” I couldn’t care less about Colonel Forsythe or any of my other pupils.
“Yes.”
Again a long silence.
“I guess it’s too hot to eat,” T said and pushed my plate away. She had scarcely eaten anything.
Without looking at me, she got up from the table and went out onto the verandah. From force of habit, I turned on the TV set. A blonde with a mouth as big as a bucket was yelling about love. I turned the set off.
Through the open window, I saw Lucy walking towards the sea. I hesitated for a moment, then went after her.
Side by side, and in silence, we walked along the deserted beach.
After a while, I reached for her hand, but she didn’t reach for mine.
By lunch-time the next day, I knew there was going to be no miracle.
For three solid hours, Timoteo fired at the moving cans, using up ammunition and hitting none of them. He was trying all right, but his reflexes seemed to be paralysed. Even when I slowed the moving targets down again to a crawl he still couldn’t hit them.
Finally, I took the rifle out of his sweating hands.
“Sit down, Tim,” I said. “Let’s talk.”
He stood there, his head lowered, his face grey and drawn. He looked like a bull with the pies in, waiting for the blade.
“Tim !” I barked at him. “Sit down ! I want to talk to you!”
The snap in my voice brought his head up. The despair and the hate in his eyes shocked me. Then he turned and moving like a zombie, he walked out of the gallery and into the hot sunshine. He hesitated for a moment, then set off with his slow, shambling stride towards the distant palm trees.
I looked at Raimundo who was sitting on one of the benches, watching me.
“That’s it,” I said. “I’m quitting. I know when I’m licked. He’ll never make it. I want to talk to your boss.”
Raimundo flicked his cigarette away.
“Yeah, it’s time to talk to the boss.” He stood up. “We’ll go and talk to him now. I’ll fix your car.”
I knew this was the end of my dream of owning fifty thousand dollars and I realised with a sense of surprise, I didn’t care. No money was worth what I had gone through during the past days. If I had had only Timoteo to handle I might have had some regrets even though I had learned the hard way he was beyond teaching, but it wasn’t only Timoteo. Because I had been hypnotised by the thought of all that money, I was spoiling my marriage.
“I’ll meet you at the bungalow,” I said.
I found Lucy in the kitchen, preparing the lunch.
“I’m seeing Savanto now. I’m returning the money. In a few hours we will be rid of them all,” I said, coming to rest by her side.
She stiffened, staring at me.
“What happened?”
“I suddenly realised I need this job like I need a hole in the head,” I said quietly. “He’ll never learn to shoot. I’m quitting, and we’re going back to square A.” I grinned at her. “I won’t be long, honey, I’m getting the money.”
I went out through the back door, dug up the biscuit box and took out the bond. Before, I had handled it with reverence, now I stuffed it into my hip pocket. It was nothing to me but a piece of paper.
As I returned to the kitchen, through the window, I saw the Volkswagen pull up.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” I said. “Wait for me?”
“Yes.”
There was a fiat note in her voice and uneasiness in her eyes. Then she went on, “Oh, Jay! Why didn’t you realise this before?”
Raimundo, sitting in the driving seat, blared the horn.
“We’ll talk about it. I’ve got to go. Wait for me.”
There was something in the way she was holding herself that warned me not to touch her. I blew her a kiss and then went out and got in the Volkswagen.
We drove in silence along Highway 1, heading towards Paradise City. Raimundo drove well and as fast as the car could make it.
I turned over in my mind what I was going to say to Savanto. I remembered Raimundo’s words: If you flop, then you are not only going to lose the money, but you will be in personal trouble.
A cheap gangster’s bluff?
I looked at him. His handsome profile gave away nothing of his thoughts, if he was thinking: a hard, cruel face : a man to take seriously.
Personal trouble?
I felt a spasm of uneasiness.
This is the age of miracles, Savanto had said.
But within reason. You had to have talent and a lot of willingness and Timoteo had neither. He did try. I had to admit that, so perhaps unwillingness was unfair. He had some deep mental block that prevented him from shooting. I remembered Lucy had urged me to ask him why he didn’t want to shoot. I had never got around to asking him, but I doubted if he would have told me if I had bothered to ask. Maybe, I thought, I should have made the effort, but I was a shooting instructor, not a psychologist.
I wasn’t aching to talk to Savanto. He would blame me for losing him half a million dollars. I had to convince him that no one alive could teach his son to shoot. In some tactful way, I had to tell him that when he got drunk in the future not to make bets. I didn’t know how he would take it, but it had to be said.
A half a million dollars was a hell of a lot of money to lose, but Savanto had made the bet. If he turned rough, I too could turn rough. I was being straight with him. He was getting his money back. I would even return the five hundred dollars he had advanced. To be rid of Timoteo I would be ready to give for free those days I had had him in my hair.
We were approaching Paradise City. I was expecting Raimundo to keep straight ahead, but he abruptly slowed the car, then swung on to a secondary road that led towards the sea.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I asked sharply. “The Imperial Hotel isn’t this way.”
Raimundo kept on driving.
“He’s moved,” was all he said.
We turned up a narrow road, hedged by sand banks. A little later, we turned on to a narrower road and he had to cut speed. After a mile or so, we came on a small, white painted house with a sandy garden full of weeds and clumps of coarse grass, and a wide, walk-around verandah. Away from the house were two sheds that served as garages.
He stopped the car at the gate, cut the engine and put the key in his pocket. He got out.
I followed him up the path. As he got half way to the house, Savanto came out through the front door. He still wore the black suit and slouch hat, and he still looked like a vulture.
He lifted his small fat hand in greeting as Raimundo stood aside and I continued on up the three steps that brought me on to the verandah.
“Come and sit down, Mr. Benson,” Savanto said. “I was coming to see you tomorrow.” His little black eyes ran over my face and then he walked heavily to a bamboo chair and sat down, waving me to another chair. “What have you to tell me?”
I sat down.
Raimundo climbed the steps and walked into the house. I heard him greet someone. I heard a deep male voice return his greeting.
“Well, Mr. Benson?” Savanto asked.
I took from my hip pocket the twenty-five thousand dollar bond, carefully unfolded it and offered it to him.
“This isn’t the age of miracles, Mr. Savanto,” I said. “I am sorry. It didn’t work out. I also owe you five hundred dollars.”
He studied me, his face expressionless, then he took the bond, looked at it, folded it back into its creases, took out a well-worn wallet, inserted the bond and returned the wallet to his pocket.
“Do you want more money, Mr. Benson?” he asked. “Would you be more interested if I offered a hundred thousand dollars?”
I stared at him, my heart beginning to thump. A hundred thousand dollars! I could see by the look in his eyes he was serious. It made sense. He would still be saving himself four hundred thousand. Just for a second or two I was tempted, then I thought of Lucy and the dismay that would come into her eyes if I returned to tell her the shooting was on again. Then I thought of Timoteo. I knew no money on earth would make that goon a marksman.
“No, I don’t want more money,” I said. “I couldn’t earn it. No one can teach your son to shoot. There’s something stopping him : a mental block. Maybe if you took him to a head shrinker, it might fix him, but I can’t.”
Savanto nodded. He stared out across the neglected garden, his eyes sleepy, his small fat hands resting on his knees.
There was a long, uneasy silence.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally. “I’ll let you have my cheque for five hundred dollars. The food and drink are more or less intact. Your men can take away what’s left.” I got to my feet. “I’m sorry about the bet, but you shouldn’t have made it.”
He looked up at me.
“There was no bet, Mr. Benson… just a harmless piece of fiction. Don’t go away. I want to talk to you. Please sit down.”
I hesitated. Then I remembered Raimundo had the key of my car. I remembered there was another man in the house. The instinct I have for danger was alive.
I sat down.
“Would you like a drink, Mr. Benson?”
“No, thanks.”
“Change your mind… I am going to have one.” He looked over his shoulder and called “Carlo!”
A giant of a man appeared in the doorway. He must have been standing just out of sight all the time Savanto had been talking to me. He was built like a boxer with enormous shoulders, a slim waist and long tapering legs. His moon-shaped face was flat and brutish, his eyes small, his nose spread across his face and he was as bald as an egg.
“Two whiskies, Carlo,” Savanto said.
The giant nodded and went away.
“That is Carlo,” Savanto said. “He is a dangerous man when I need a dangerous man.”
I didn’t say anything. I was now certain I had walked into trouble. I thought I could take on Raimundo, but not Raimundo and Carlo together.
We sat there in the shade, looking at the neglected garden and listening to the sound of the distant surf until Carlo returned, carrying a tray on which stood two glasses of whisky and ice. He put the tray down on the table and went away.
“Mr. Benson, you spoke of my son having a mental block,” Savanto said. “You are right. He does have that. For you to understand why, I am going to tell you a little story that I hope you will find interesting.” He took one of the glasses, saluted me and sipped the whisky. “My father lived in Venezuela : he was born there and he died there. He was a peasant and poor in spirit. He was also a dreamer and very religious. He believed a life of abject poverty was the will of God. He had two sons: myself and my brother, Antonio. My mother died of starvation. My brother and I decided to leave the but that my father proudly called our home. This was a serious decision because the sons in this district always did what their fathers wished and my father didn’t wish us to leave.” He paused, looking at me. “There is a strong tradition among the people I come from that children have to obey their parents: it amounts to superstition. If they disobeyed their parents they came to no good. Anyway, my brother and I left this miserable hut. We came to some good. We discovered a gold mine on our travels. By that time my father had also died of starvation. My brother and I became very rich. We married : each of us had a son. My brother had Diaz. I had Timoteo. Diaz took after his father. Timoteo took after his grandfather.” Savanto shrugged. “I became interested in politics. I was forever remembering that my mother and my father had died of starvation. My brother became interested in power. We disagreed, quarrelled and parted. Now my brother is the Chief of the Red Dragon organisation which works with the Mafia. I am the Chief of the Little Brothers who represent the rights of the peasants.” He paused to sip his whisky. “Am I boring you, Mr. Benson?”
“No, but I don’t see why you are telling me all this.”
“Be patient. You have seen something of Timoteo. He isn’t an impressive man, but nor was my father. He is a dreamer and an idealist and he is intelligent. He is also sentimental. He met a girl and fell in love with her. He came to me and said he wanted to marry this girl. He brought her to me.” Savanto fumbled in his pocket. “Have you a cigarette, Mr. Benson, you can spare? I never seem to carry cigarettes with me.”
I put my pack of cigarettes on the table. He helped himself and I gave him a light.
“As soon as I saw this girl I knew Timoteo was making a mistake. She was not for him. She was pretty and so on, but light- minded. I told him so, but he was in love.” Savanto shrugged his shoulders. “I persuaded him to wait a year.” He studied the end of his cigarette and then went on. Now we come to my nephew, Diaz Savanto. He is as like Timoteo as a tiger is like a lamb. He is a big, fine-looking man; very athletic, a splendid polo player, a good shot and a great success with women. He too met this girl Timoteo had fallen in love with. He knew Timoteo was in love with her.” Savanto paused again, frowning. “My brother and I quarrelled bitterly. Diaz despised the Little Brothers, despised me and despised Timoteo. He is a bad man, Mr. Benson. He decided this girl gave him the opportunity he had been waiting for to show his contempt for me, my son and my organisation. He kidnapped the girl, raped her and branded her. In the old days, members of the Red Dragon organisation branded their cattle with their symbol.” Savanto looked down at his fat hands, frowning. He remained like that for some moments, then went on. “He branded this girl with the Red Dragon symbol. An insult like that can only be wiped out by death. I am the Chief of the Little Brothers. I had only to raise my hand and my nephew would die. But I am unable to do this because what he has done is a personal insult to my son. It is my son who has personally to avenge the insult.”
I moved uneasily, but I was listening.
“All the members of the Little Brothers know of this insult,” Savanto went on. “They are waiting to hear that Diaz Savanto is dead, killed by my son’s hand. They know Timoteo is taking shooting lessons. They are patient people, but they are waiting and they are becoming less patient. Diaz knows Timoteo is incapable of killing anyone. He knows Timoteo takes after his grandfather : a life is sacred and belongs to God. That was what my father thought and that is what Timoteo thinks. This is the mental block you speak of. But revenge is part of our tradition. My people don’t think the way Timoteo thinks. If he doesn’t kill Diaz the name of Savanto will be disgraced. I will no longer be Chief.” He finished his whisky. “Now, Mr. Benson, perhaps you understand my problem.”
“I don’t know why you are telling me this. I have returned your money and that lets me out,” I said as I got to my feet. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
He put his hand gently on my arm.
“Have patience with me for a few more minutes.” Then raising his voice, he called, “Raimundo ! ”
Raimundo came out on to the verandah carrying a curious- looking instrument. It was made of iron, set in a wooden handle: the end of the iron was red hot.
“Demonstrate to Mr. Benson the Red Dragon branding-iron," Savanto said quietly.
Raimundo pressed the red-hot iron against one of the wooden uprights of the verandah. I watched the wisp of smoke spiral away from the wood. Raimundo removed the iron, then with a quick look at me, he went back into the house.
“Please look at what he has done,” Savanto said. “It is the brand of the Red Dragon. It is of historic interest.”
I moved over and looked at the brand-mark. It was about an inch long, depicting a crude animal with a forked tail and a snout like crocodile.
“That was branded on the face of the girl Timoteo wished to marry,” Savanto said.
I turned.
“Are you and your tribe so primitive that you can’t turn this over to the police?” I said.
“Yes. It is a personal thing.”
“Did the girl think so?”
Savanto shrugged his shoulders.
“It is not the girl. It is the insult.”
“What happened to her?”
"Mr. Benson, don’t become too curious. Please sit down.”
“I don’t want to hear any more.”
“You are involved in this.” He stared at me. “Let me finish. Please sit down.”
So I sat down.
“You will understand from what I have told von, I had a problem. I suspected Timoteo couldn’t do what was expected of him. I heard about yon : a first-class shot : a man who spent three years in the jungle as a sniper. A sniper is a legalised killer, Mr. Benson. I decided you were the man I was looking for. I let it be known that Timoteo was taking shooting lessons. The news pleased my people and it amused Diaz because Diaz is no fool. He knew, as I suspected, that no one could teach Timoteo to shoot, but my people don’t know and that is important.”
“They’ll know now,” I said.
“Not if my thinking is correct,” Savanto said. “You see, Mr. Benson, you are going to deputise for my son : you are going to kill Diaz Savanto.”
I sat for a long moment staring at him. I felt a cold prickle run up my spine.
“Your thinking is not correct,” I said.
"Mr. Benson, this is important to me, to Timoteo and to my organisation. It is not that I mind losing the power I have. I am getting old. If there was someone to replace me, then I would go, but there is no one. I represent the rights and interests of a quarter of a million peasants. Because of my efforts, they are no longer starving, but there is still much to be done. I…”
“Your thinking is not correct,” I repeated.
“I am now offering you two hundred thousand dollars to take my son’s place. Think carefully, Mr. Benson. How many men have you already killed in cold blood? Eighty-two? What is one more life to you?”
“I was a soldier… a soldier has to kill. I’m no longer a soldier so I am not doing it. And let me tell you something : your son’s thinking is right. If you are too primitive to know this, then take it from me.”
I got up and walked into the lobby of the house.
Raimundo was leaning against the wall close to an open door through which I could see Carlo, sitting at a table, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood.
“I want the key of my car,” I said to Raimundo.
I was set to hit him. I knew I hadn’t much of a chance.
He looked at me thoughtfully, then he took the key from his pocket and tossed it to me.
I backed away, turned and started to cross the verandah.
“So you are leaving, Mr. Benson,” Savanto said.
I ignored him, going down the steps to the car.
“If you are returning to your wife, Mr. Benson, there is no need to hurry. She won’t be there.”
His words came clearly to me as I was opening the door of the car. I stood for a moment feeling the hot sun on my face, then I closed the car door and came back on to the verandah.