Death Trance (33 page)
Neil took out a small leather-covered notebook and jotted down Randolph's instructions with a gold ballpoint pen. Then, without lifting his eyes from the page he said, 'I really would find it a help if you could tell me a bit more about what you have in mind. I mean, I really don't think that an unsubstantiated threat against the Cottonseed Association is likely to make them change their minds.’ He paused and then added, 'I know for sure that Waverley Grace worthy does not take kindly to threats, especially from the Clare family.’
Randolph was tempted to say something caustic in return but he held his tongue and said, 'Just fix up the meeting, would you? And tell Wanda about it. She'll want to make all the arrangements.’
'Yes, sir.’
'All right, you can go now.’
There was one more thing, sir.’
Randolph looked up.
Neil, flustered, said, 'Apparently you came back from Indonesia with a gentleman called Michael Hunter.’
That's correct. How did you know?’
'Well, I make it my business when you're away to check every company expenditure over fifteen hundred dollars, and an extra air ticket from Bali to Memphis was charged to our travel account in the name of Michael Hunter. I assumed that he was a guest of yours, sir, so obviously I didn't query it.’
'You were right,’ Randolph told him. 'He is a guest of mine. I personally authorized the payment of that ticket.’
'Is Mr Hunter, er… is he staying here now?’
Randolph raised an interrogative eyebrow.
'What I mean is,’ Neil stammered, 'is he here now, in the house? Staying with you? I ask only in case he would like somebody to show him around Memphis.’
'No, he's not here now,’ Randolph said. And for the first time, he was convinced not just by Neil Sleaman's behaviour since the fire out at Raleigh, but by the man's sheer naked anxiety, that he was betraying him.
None of the evidence Randolph had was conclusive; none of it would stand up in court. But from the moment Stanley Vergo had suggested that the fire out at Raleigh was not accidental until Neil Sleaman had shown him this news report about Jimmy the Rib, two and two had been making four, and four and four had been making eight.
Why should Jimmy the Rib have been murdered - after all his years of precarious survival in the toughest districts of downtown Memphis - just after he had spoken to Randolph about Reece and the Cottonseed Association? Several white men had been seen leaving the building, just like three or four white men had been seen leaving the building when I.M. Wartawa had been murdered.
And who was the only person with whom Randolph had discussed his meeting with Jimmy the Rib? Chief Dennis Moyne of the Memphis police, the very man who had dismissed allegations that white men had been seen leaving the building and had laid the blame on black extremists.
And who was the only person with whom Randolph had discussed his meeting with I.M. Wartawa? Neil Sleaman, who was now trying to find out where Michael Hunter was staying.
Neil had defended Waverley and Orbus and the Cottonseed Association just once too often, which was evidence enough for Randolph of where his loyalties lay. Neil had been in charge of Clare Cottonseed's production department when the factory at Raleigh caught fire, and Neil had been in charge of making sure the plant got back in business. In spite of Neil's logical-sounding explanations, there had been nothing but technical delay, all of it just a little too technical to make sense.
There was only one question that stuck in Randolph's mind like a jagged piece of glass, a question he could not seem to crack. Why was Waverley Graceworthy so determined to destroy him, to destroy not only his corporation, but his family? Surely business alone had not driven him to murder. Hanging people and shooting them and cutting their legs off simply for the sake of a cottonseed-processing contract? Well, damn it, that seemed more fantastic than leyaks, and death trances and the Witch Widow, Rangda.
Yet Reece had probably murdered Marmie and the children on Waverley Graceworthy's instructions, and Reece had probably murdered Jimmy the Rib on Waverley Graceworthy's instructions, as well as I.M. Wartawa and God only knew how many other innocent people. And there was no doubt in Randolph's mind that Neil Sleaman was part of this conspiracy to exterminate everyone and everything that had anything to do with Clare Cottonseed. He had no proof. As far as he was concerned, he needed no proof. He had only to look at Neil sitting beside his bed, pale and confused and guilty, the epitome of Judas, to know that it was true.
Nonetheless he spoke quietly, with no evidence of anger, and he gave Neil Sleaman one more opportunity to prove that he was loyal.
'Mr Hunter is staying at the Shelby Motel on Summer. I didn't want him here for reasons of security.’
'Ah, the Shelby,’ Neil nodded. 'Would he like a tour, do you think? I mean, this is a pretty interesting time of year what with the Beale Street Music Festival, the Cotton Carnival and the International Barbecue Contest.’
'Well, no, Neil, I don't think he's the kind of person who would go for a tour,’ Randolph replied. 'He's what you might call a spiritual type.’
'Maybe he'd like to see the Mid-South Bible College.’
'I don't think so. Thank you for your consideration anyway.’
Neil was very agitated now. 'Would he like to see Beale Street? Or maybe Mud Island? It seems a pity he should visit Memphis and never see Mud Island.’
Randolph smiled and shook his head.
'Okay,’ Neil said. 'I was only trying to be hospitable.’
'Surely,’ Randolph acknowledged.
As soon as Neil left, Randolph picked up the telephone and asked Charles to put him through to 386-3311. Charles knew better than to ask what the number was or why Randolph was calling it. The phone rang two or three times and then a voice said, 'Shelby Motel. How can I help you?’
Randolph said, 'I want to make a reservation. A double room in the name of Michael Hunter. Yes, tonight.’
Later that morning Randolph climbed painfully out of bed and Charles helped him to the patio, where he read for a while, drank two or three small cups of black Mocha coffee and watched the wind ruffling the azaleas. He supposed that he should have felt deeply grieved by Neil Sleaman's betrayal, in much the way he should have felt deeply vengeful against Richard Reece. But he felt that Neil and Reece were only stick men, treacherous and dangerous certainly, but motivated only by money, not by malice.
It was the Cottonseed Association that was at the heart of the darkness: Waverley Graceworthy and Orbus Greene. Against them Randolph felt a righteous hunger for revenge that would have to be satisfied before he could ever find peace.
They had killed his wife and children; they had tried to kill him too. In return, they would have to be punished. And since they had succeeded in butchering almost everybody who might have been a witness against them, there was only one place Randolph could go for evidence: into another death trance to talk to Marmie.
Close to lunchtime, Wanda came out onto the patio.
She was wearing a pale blue linen business suit and she looked very smart and efficient.
'Well,’ he smiled, shading his eyes from the sun, 'the ideal secretary.’
'I brought you some papers to sign. Sven Petersen wants to tie up that cattlecake contract with Southern Feeds.’
'Sure. Just bring me a pen.’
Wanda sat down opposite him, laid the papers out on the wrought-iron table and showed him where to sign.
'You know,’ she said, 'I really appreciated that compliment you paid me this morning.’
He squiggled 'Randolph Grace' and then looked up. 'I meant it. Besides, it wasn't a particularly easy compliment to pay. When you really mean something, the words never seem to come up to what you're trying to convey.’
Wanda watched him sign his name two more times.
'Is that it?’ he asked, and she nodded.
'You know something?’ she said. 'I feel guilty about the way I keep thinking about you.’
'Why should you?’ he asked in the gentlest of voices. 'I think I feel the same way about you, and I don't feel guilty.’
'But Marmie, and the children -’
'They're still there, and just as soon as these stitches come out, I'm going to go talk to them. Wanda, I love Marmie. I loved her before she was killed, I love her now, and I will probably love her forever. But that doesn't mean that I can't have feelings about you too.’
He was silent for a moment and then said, 'It may not be fair of me to ask you to wait for a while. You have your own life to lead, and I can't control it. But the time will come when I can give you all the attention you deserve… provided you can accept that I was once married to a lady called Marmie and that she didn't leave me because I stopped loving her, and that I once had three children called John and Mark and Issa and that somewhere in this universe I always will.’
Tears glistened in Wanda's eyes and she stood up, bent over him and kissed his forehead. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow with some more papers. Neil told me about the meeting with Waverley Graceworthy.’
Randolph grasped her hand. 'I love you,’ he said unaffectedly. 'But there's one thing more. I suspect that Neil may be thinking of leaving us. I'm not certain, but it could be that another processor has offered him more money. So for the time being, could you make sure to be careful of what you tell him? Don't talk about me, for example, or Michael or Dr Ambara. Don't talk about any confidential memos that may pass over your desk. Don't make him feel that he's been marooned, but don't let him know anything particularly confidential either.’
'All right,’ Wanda said. She kissed him again and left.
Randolph sat in the midday sunshine and listened to the sounds of the birds and the insects. He thought he heard a boy shouting in the distant shrubbery; it was a voice just like John's, but when the breeze dropped for a moment, he realized it was only a dog barking.
'Oh, God,’ he said sadly.
Michael was stretched out on his bed at Days Inn watching 'The Price Is Right' when Dr Ambara knocked at the door.
'It's me, Ida Bagus Ambara.’
Michael swung off the bed, shuffled across the floor, rattled back the door chain and opened the door. He was wearing only bright red undershorts and smoking a cigarette. His hair was tousled and he looked as if he had not slept well.
Dr Ambara quickly closed the door behind him. 'It's all right, I wasn't followed.’
'Pity,’ said Michael. 'I could use some excitement.’
Dr Ambara looked at him questioningly through thumb-printed glasses but Michael reached for his shirt and said, 'It's okay, Doctor. I was only joking.’
'Randolph is much better today,’ Dr Ambara reported. 'He sends you his salutations.’
'As long as he keeps on sending his money as well.’
Dr Ambara took off his coat. 'He's not cynical about you, you know.’
'I know,’ Michael acknowledged, 'and I'm not cynical about him. It's just that you don't want to go through a death trance like that every day of the week.’
'What does that mean?’
Michael stood by the window buttoning up his shirt and looking down at the bright, glittering blue of the Days Inn king-sized swimming pool, where blond heads bobbed up and down and tanned bodies stretched out under the sun. Trying not to sound too negative, he said, 'It means that every day of the week is far too often. In fact, once in a lifetime may be too often.’
Dr Ambara was loosening his striped necktie. 'What are you trying to tell me?’
'I don't know.’ Michael breathed smoke and then crushed out his cigarette in an ashtray. 'I guess I'm trying to tell you that I'm all washed up.’
'You mean you don't want to take me into a death trance to meet my Ana?’
Michael ran his hand through his hair. 'I don't know. Maybe I'm feeling cooped up. Maybe I need to get drunk. Maybe it's just that I've arrived in America and half of my personality has suddenly found that it's home. I've been down by the pool listening to young people talking. I've been watching television. I've been standing out front just watching the cars go by. A whole part of my personality is home, Dr Ambara, and suddenly the temples and the death trances don't seem so important any more. Well… it's not that they aren't important, it's just that I see them in a different perspective.’
Dr Ambara said gravely, 'You mean that they have diminished in your esteem?’
'No, Doctor, not diminished, but somehow they seem to be different.’
Dr Ambara took off his glasses and carefully wiped at the corners of his eyes with the tips of his fingers. 'What about Randolph? Will you take him into a death trance to meet his family?’
'I guess I'm going to have to. A contract is a contract, after all; and unless he pays me, I won't ever get back home.’
'Do you want to go back?’
'I'm not sure. I haven't seen enough of America to be able to judge. But I have to take him into that one last trance, and I'm sorry, Dr Ambara, I really am, but that's the last trance I ever want to do.’
Dr Ambara swallowed, lifted one hand helplessly and dropped it again. 'So I don't get to meet my Ana after all.’
Michael said hoarsely, 'I'm sorry. I've been sitting here all morning wondering how I could tell you.’
'Well, it's not your fault,’ said the doctor. 'I should understand fear more than anybody.’
'You're right,’ Michael replied. 'It's fear. Two bad death trances in a row, and the leyaks seem to be getting more cunning too. I'm not sure I'm going to be able to survive many more trances.’
Dr Ambara said, 'I have learned most of the chants and the mantras. Is it possible that I could enter the death trance alone?’
'Are you kidding? Your very first death trance?’
Dr Ambara stood up, his hands clasped in front of his chest. 'I have studied this subject very thoroughly, Michael. I know theoretically what to do even if I am something of an innocent when it comes to the practicalities.’
Michael took out another cigarette and lit it. He stared at Dr Ambara through the smoke. 'You know what the practicalities are, don't you? These practicalities you're something of an innocent about?’
Dr Ambara said nothing but remained standing in the same position, a position that seemed to be one of supplication and devotion, but also of determination.
Michael said, 'The practicalities are leyaks, real leyaks, who can tear your lungs out. And the Witch Widow Rangda, who can do ten times worse.’
'I know of all these dangers,’ Dr Ambara said quietly. 'I know of all the demons, and of all the difficulties.’
'You'll die,’ Michael assured him. 'You'll die and Rangda will eat your soul. You'll spend the rest of eternity as one screaming soul inside one screaming cell inside the blackest, most disgusting body in any demonology anywhere, period. Listen, Doctor, do you seriously want to be part of some raddled witch's septic ovaries? Forever and ever and ever?’
'I thought you would help me to find Ana. I thought that was part of the agreement.’
The only agreement is that I may try one last death trance, and on the other hand, I very well may not. And since Randolph Clare is the man who's footing the bill, I think
he
has the right to meet his family, don't you? Instead of your meeting your Ana? Believe me, this is nothing personal, Dr Ambara. If I thought I could handle it, I'd do it for you. But that last death trance, that was just about the ultimate. I was two feet from being chopped liver that time, and believe me, my guardian spirit was trying to
tell
me something right then, like "Stay away from Rangda and stay away from the leyaks. Stay on your own side of the grave, where you belong.’"
'But if I attempt the death trance on my own?’ Dr Ambara persisted.
Michael shook his head. 'Even if you manage to get into the trance without killing yourself, the leyaks will immediately pick up your jitters and your inexperience. You'll die, Dr Ambara, believe me.’
'But the power of Rangda is not as great here as it is in Bali.’
That's only a guess. Nobody has ever tested it out.’
'Perhaps this is the time.’
Michael shrugged. 'I can't stop you,’ he said, 'but you could take a camera along for protection if you think it could help.’
'Well, I'll see,’ said Dr Ambara, knotting his necktie again and pulling on his coat. 'I'm disappointed of course, but maybe this is all for the best.’
'Yes,’ Michael said. 'Maybe it is.’
He opened the door and Dr Ambara hurried out and along the blue-carpeted corridor. Michael stood there watching him for a moment, then went back into the room and chained and bolted the door behind him. Through the window he could see Dr Ambara walk quickly across the courtyard beside the swimming pool and towards the parking lot.
Michael had never admitted his fear before, not as openly as this, and never to a man like Ida Bagus Ambara, who was not much more than a stranger. Perhaps his first real admission of cowardice had been his promise to Mungkin Nanti that he would never try death trances again. Both of the last two trances had affected him as would a serious car accident, and it was going to take a supreme effort of will for him to enter any more. With a grim smile, he thought,
I'm a burned-out pedanda, a half-caste high priest with nothing to look forward to but a Balinese government pension and a lifetime of selling plastic sandals.
He finished his cigarette and then went through to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Even in the flattering lights of the hotel mirror he looked thin and haggard and haunted, a man who only recently had seen death in all its grisly glory.
He splashed his face with cold water and then dabbed it dry with a hand towel. It was just then that there was another knock at the door and he called, 'Who is it?’
'Mr Qizilbush? This is room service. I have those drinks you ordered.’
Michael went across and loosened the chain. 'I didn't order any drinks. You must have the wrong Qizilbush.’
Immediately the muzzle of a.45 automatic was thrust through the crack in the door and a thick voice demanded, 'Take off the chain. Open up or we'll blow your head off.’
Michael jerkily did as he was told. The door burst open and two men came in waving automatics. He recognized one of them as Reece; the other he did not recognize at all. He was short and thick-set, with a prickly shaved head and bright blue eyes that stared with a kind of incandescent madness. This must be Frank Louv, Michael thought, the fourth man in the quartet that had followed Randolph Clare to Bali and back.
'So, we got you,’ said Louv. Reece said nothing but twisted Michael's arm behind his back and pushed the muzzle of his automatic against the side of Michael's head.
'You been giving us trouble, you goddam slant,’ the mad-looking Louv grinned at him. Then he jabbed his gun into Michael's genitals, so viciously that Michael gasped and tried to jackknife forward, until Reece forced his arm back up again.
'Good thing that doctor friend of yours led us here, ain't it?’ asked Louv. 'Not that he
knew.
I mean, he was trying his best to shake off any tails, but what was he looking for? Cars, that's what he was looking for. It didn't occur to him to look for a motorbike, now did it? It never does, not to car drivers. That's what we call psychology.’
He paused, looked around the room, and then gratuitously jabbed Michael in the genitals a second time.
'That sure hurts, don't it? Just like my ass hurts from riding around on that motorbike following that stupid doctor friend of yours. Listen, if it hurts, don't blame me. Blame him. Next time you see him, punch
him
in the balls, tell him he owes you.’
Michael spat his cigarette onto the carpet. The mad-looking man ground it out with his brown leather motorcycle boot.
'You must have something,’ the man said. 'Mr Waverley Graceworthy wants you real bad. What are you, a slant or only half a slant? Mr Waverley Graceworthy wants you alive, alive-o, and undamaged. So why don't you slip into some strides and we can go meet him face-to-face. Believe me, Charlie Chan, you'll enjoy it.’
Slowly, reluctantly, Michael began to dress. Reece pushed the curtains aside and stared down at the swimming pool. Michael had the feeling that he was considering how easy it would be to pick off the swimmers, one by one, with a high-powered rifle.
Frank Louv nudged Michael with his automatic. 'You ready? There… don't forget your cigarettes. What kind of brand is that, Lion? Some kind of slant cigarette? Mr Graceworthy said to treat you good. Guys like you, I used to waste in the Delta and take some pleasure in doing it. How can you trust anybody who's half American and half slant? I used to think, should I shoot the American half of them for being traitors or the slant half of them for being slants?’
He seemed to think this was hugely amusing because he let out a high whoop of glee and danced an abrupt little fandango.
Reece came away from the window and waved his hand to indicate that they should leave.
Michael said, 'I have friends, you know that? You people are going to run into a hard time when my friends find out what has happened to me. This isn't Bali.’
'You're too right this isn't Bali,’ grinned the mad-looking Louv. 'This is Memphis, Tennessee, and in Memphis, Tennessee, Mr Waverley Graceworthy is the undisputed king of the mountain, so believe me, we ain't going to be running into no hard time, especially not from wimps like Mr Randolph Clare.’
Reece made a signal to Louv to shut up. Then they walked Indian file out the door and along the corridor until they reached the elevators. Louv said, 'My piece is in my pocket, Mr Half-Slant Hunter, and believe me, I ain't concerned about using it.’
Michael said something in Sanskrit. The mad-looking man snarled, 'What did you say? When you talk around me, friend, don't you go using none of that Chink lingo.’
The elevator door opened and Michael obediently stepped inside. 'I was saying a prayer,’ he told the man. 'I was praying that when you die, the great god of gods, Sanghyang Widi, should force-feed you for all eternity on cockroach shit.’
As Michael was being taken to Waverley Graceworthy, Randolph was slowly and painfully getting dressed, against Dr Ambara's instructions. He was already bored with sitting on the patio and lying with his feet up on the sofa, and there were two things he intended to do. One was to visit the processing plant out at Raleigh to see how Tim Shelby was managing; the other was to lay some flowers on the graves of his family.
He called Herbert and Charles and between them they helped him out to his limousine. Charles settled him in the back seat and gave him a throw for his knees.
'I'm not an invalid,’ Randolph protested.
Charles said, 'You still have to take care of yourself. You're the only one we have left. Mrs Wallace made some of those cookies you like, special. They're in a jar in the cocktail cabinet.’
'Tell Mrs Wallace she's an angel.’
'I'm not telling Mrs Wallace nothing like that,’ Charles muttered.
