Читать книгу The Search for the Dice Man - Luke Rhinehart - Страница 16

Although I went searching for Honoria to gloat with her about what a big deal the Japs thought I was, it turned out I wasn’t given much chance to brag about my triumph. In the gardens out east of the mansion she and Kim were sitting on a stone bench overlooking a small pond on which four or five ducks swam in picturesque bucolic charm, but, from what the gardener said, probably shitting and pissing the pond into an unusual state of pollution. It was a lovely Indian summer afternoon, with a few early-fall leaves floating in the pond like tiny toy golden ships.

But Honoria and Kim were clearly oblivious to the weather. They were bent in fierce concentration over some document. Kim, still wet from a dip she’d taken in the pool, was wrapped in a gaudy striped towel over her black one-piece suit. When I approached, the two of them looked up at me with disturbing seriousness.

‘Have you see this?’ Honoria asked and handed me three photocopies of something.

At first I thought they were copies of some financial article and was thus unprepared to see some pages of the tabloid World Star.

‘What’s this all about?’! asked.

‘Someone showed it to me in LA,’ said Kim, who now began towelling her shoulder-length hair, wild with untamed natural curls. ‘I recognized the name and remembered that Nori’d told me your father had an interesting past. He sounds great!’

When I looked carefully at the first page the main headline sent a chill through me: ‘Dice Cult Creates Robots’ A lesser headline proclaimed modestly: ‘I was a Random Sex Slave’. The next page was equally straightforward: ‘Dice Commune Worships Chance and Chaos’, and a subhead proclaimed: ‘Mysterious Leader Still Sought.’

Standing in front of the bench I looked down balefully at Honoria, who looked back with her usual cool aplomb. Then I slowly lowered myself on to the bench next to her and read on.

According to former sex slave Anita Ransom, the commune brainwashed people into giving up their free will to the commands of dice. Diceguides forced everyone to break down habits and inhibitions and become random multiple personalities. Ms Ransom painted a lurid picture – cult indoctrination into a ‘schizophrenic existence where you had to be somebody you weren’t’, ‘where you could lose your life savings in a second, or make money by stealing or prostitution’ ‘Nothing was taboo,’ said Ms Ransom. ‘People were doing everything!’ The cult worship of their Dice Daddy Luke Rhinehart led to random ‘contributions’, orgies, and perhaps even some sort of Russian roulette human sacrifice. Luke himself appeared constantly in new disguises and personalities, a master fox, thus evading the FBI now for twenty years.

There were only two small photographs connected with the articles – one of Anita Ransom of sex-slave fame, who looked about as sexy and abused as a slightly stoned McDonald’s counter clerk; and a second of Luke, a photo I immediately recognized as having been taken fifteen years earlier at Luke’s trial. My father was smiling benevolently through his thick glasses at the camera, looking for all the world as threatening as a slightly tipsy stamp collector.

With a grunt I shoved the pages away on to Honoria’s lap.

‘Utter total bullshit crap,’ I said, angry at the articles for both their lies and their probable truths.

‘But such entertaining crap,’ said Kim.

‘I’m afraid that the accepted cliché is that where there’s smoke there’s fire.’ said Honoria.

I looked at her and slowly shook my head.

‘Jesus. And yesterday two FBI agents wanted to know if I knew anything about my father.’

When both women expressed surprise I had to fill them in on the interview, talking about it adding to my overall annoyance. When I’d finished, Kim was sitting on the edge of the bench in bright-eyed excitement, her soggy towel folded on her lap and her tanned legs stretched out in front of her, while Honoria was looking again at the pages.

‘I hate to think what my father would think of this,’ Honoria said after a pause, then turned to me. ‘You’ve got to find your father. If he has anything to do with this nonsense you’ve got to convince him to stop.’

‘Shit on that,’ I snorted, the idea of wasting any time at all on my father having all the appeal of a barium enema.

‘And if he’s alive,’ Honoria went on, ‘you can find out what this is all about and get your father clear of this mess, maybe offer him some money, if that’s what he needs.’

I stood up and strode away from the bench, staring bitterly at the cluster of ducks which had paddled over hoping for a handout. First my father deserts me when I need him, and now he seems to be returning when I least want him.

‘I don’t care about this fucking mess,’ I snapped. ‘As far as I’m concerned this man is not my father.’

‘Unfortunately, his name is Luke Rhinehart,’ commented Honoria.

‘So?’

‘So my father will go through the roof if he sees an article like this. If we can’t clear it up there’s no telling what he’ll do about our getting married.’

‘It’s company policy,’ I said, looking sullenly back at her, ‘that my father is dead.’

‘I’m afraid this father,’ said Honoria wryly, holding up the xeroxed pages, ‘is not dead.’

‘But what can I do!?’

‘Find him and kill him,’ said Kim gaily. ‘Isn’t that the Freudian solution?’

I turned back to the ducks and the pond. ‘It looks to me like a hornets’ nest,’ I finally said. ‘And my father’s already stung me enough.’

‘But it would be an adventure,’ protested Kim. ‘When do we begin?’

‘Begin? Begin what?’ asked Mr Battle, abruptly appearing along the path alone.

‘Begin to clear up the, uh, unpleasantness that may be brewing about Larry’s father because of the FBI,’ explained Honoria, casually folding the xeroxed pages of the article and shoving them into a pocket of her jacket. ‘By going and finding him.’

‘No, no, no,’ said Mr Battle. ‘That man should be buried, not dug up.’

Honoria blinked uncertainly at her father but then continued.

‘And by finding and confronting his father,’ she persisted, ‘he could complete his relationship with the man and stop being insane on the subject.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Battle. ‘He’s perfectly fine the way he is. I never understood why he bothers with psychiatrists anyway. Any man who can sell short November soybeans on Monday and buy them back on Friday for a two hundred per cent profit has no psychological problems whatsoever, believe me.’

‘Thank you,’ I said gloomily, now facing the three of them with my back to the ducks, who were squawking in discontent.

‘If he weren’t obsessed with his father he might have made three hundred per cent,’ said Kim.

Mr Battle frowned as he considered the suggestion.

‘Well no, no,’ he finally concluded. ‘It may well be that Larry’s brilliance as a trader depends on his complicated attitude towards his father. Perhaps a cure would ruin him.’

‘Heaven forbid,’ said Kim, winking at me.

‘But Daddy,’ protested Honoria. ‘Think of how upsetting it would be to have Larry’s father dragged back here in chains spouting his idiocies about dice – just when Larry and I are going to be married.’

‘Well, perhaps,’ said Mr Battle, scowling, ‘but the easiest solution is news management – perhaps even prepare some papers proving he was an adopted child.’

While staring absently out at the ducks I found my irritation and confusion slowly coalescing into something firm and undeviating: anger.

‘Larry is perfect the way he is,’ Mr Battle finally added.

‘Except when he raves on about his father,’ said Honoria.

After an awkward silence had stretched into too many seconds I turned back to the others.

‘By God,’ I said. ‘I’m going to find the bastard!’

That’s terrific,’ said Kim, springing up and running to give me an unexpected kiss on the cheek. ‘You’re going on a quest!’

‘I say the Dice Man is better off dead,’ Mr Battle muttered grimly.

‘I do too,’ I said firmly. ‘And one way or the other I’m going to bury him.’

I stood there feeling angry, determined and noble.

Behind me the ducks continued to paddle and poop.

FROM LUKE’S JOURNAL

Exactly what are the problems we humans would like to solve?

The problem of unhappiness. Men don’t like being unhappy. Frowns are bad for the complexion.

The problem of death. Death is felt to be a drag. Its silence is suspicious, a bit malevolent maybe. It is considered somewhat too permanent.

The problem of failure. It’s not considered as much fun as success but seems to arrive more frequently.

The problem of pain. Ingrown toenails, arthritis, headaches: the body always seems to stay one step ahead of Extra-Strength Tylenol.

The problem of love: it doesn’t last, isn’t returned, or is returned too zealously and jealously.

The problem of purpose: we don’t seem able to find one or, having found one, we lose interest too rapidly.

The problem of reality: it’s never quite clear what it is. John’s and Jane’s always seem to differ. Today’s reality is tomorrow’s illusion. And today’s illusion

The problem of evil: usually other people’s. Too many bad people are doing it to too few good people. God’s police force is understaffed.

The problem of self: we can never quite figure out who we are or, having figured it out, find it pretty depressing.

The problem of enlightenment: we often want it, but seldom have it. We know there is some better way of life, know we’re currently not living it, and want to get there from here.

Life, as the Buddha said, is a thousand follies. And the sage is he who plays with the thousand follies.

‘There is one way to be wise,’ said the Buddha.

‘What is it, O Master?’

‘To play the fool.’