The Search for the Dice Man (19 page)

Agent Nathaniel Putt arrived in Lukedom at 21.07 hours Tuesday evening, accompanied by Agent Robert Hayes. Two additional bureau men, Agents Rogers and Massiori, were due to arrive at 10.15
A.M
. the following day. Putt had picked up his bureau car at the Wickstown airport at 18.36 hours and driven straight through to the guard gate with no more trouble than a broken right rear spring and dented right fender.

The gate guard, a middle-aged woman that evening, told him and Hayes that they had not known the password and, ten minutes later, that they both had badly failed the test. However, after making a phone call, she announced that since Putt was ‘cute’ she was waving them on in, nonchalantly recommending the Hazard Inn. She let Putt use her phone, and he called Macavoy and ordered him to meet them at the Hazard. Macavoy tried to protest, but Putt, exhausted from his flight and drive, curtly ordered him to be there.

Putt followed her directions and arrived at the Hazard at precisely the same moment that Macavoy came trotting up, gasping for breath. Putt had carefully prepared his identity: he was a Hollywood producer looking for shooting locations and agent Hayes was his go-fer, a role he had been practising for years. Putt parked their car on the empty street and handed his bag to Macavoy.

‘Nathan Tupper,’ he said to Macavoy. ‘Bob here is Rob Siffel. Who are you?’

‘Mac Voy,’ said Macavoy. ‘I’m looking for real-estate deals.’

‘Find any?’ asked Putt as they began to climb the stairs
of the hotel. He looked doubtfully at the array of signs and then continued ahead of Macavoy up the stairs to the door.

The lobby wasn’t crowded, but the guests looked a little strange. Several seemed to be wearing costumes and the rest looked as if they were wearing someone else’s clothes.

Putt led his two men across the lobby and up to the desk. A distinguished man dressed in a tuxedo greeted him.

‘Uh, yes,’ said Putt. ‘We’d like two separate rooms, one preferably a suite.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the man. ‘We can’t give you a room until we know who you are.’

‘I’m Nathan Tupper,’ said Putt smoothly. ‘I’m a producer at Paramount out here looking for locations and –’

‘Oh, no, sir, I mean who the dice tell you to be today.’

‘Ahh,’ said Putt, pulling his arm away from Macavoy who was trying to pull him aside. ‘We’re only here as observers. Producers looking for locations.’

‘Certainly, Mr Tupper,’ said the distinguished man. ‘You’ll find your clothes over there in the outfitting room.’

‘No. no, no,’ said Putt. ‘Just some rooms.’

‘I’m afraid you have to report first to the outfitting room,’ said the man. ‘Regulations, you know.’

‘I warned you, sir,’ said Macavoy, lugging again at Putt’s sleeve as they moved off towards the outfitting room. ‘Everyone who comes to this hotel has to pretend to play the game.’

‘But for God’s sake –’

‘It has its advantages.’ said Macavoy insistently. ‘Even if you tried to tell people you’re an agent, no one will believe you – unless the dice tell them to pretend to.’

‘I’m not sure coming here for the night was such a good idea,’ mumbled Putt.

Twenty minutes later, after Putt and Hayes had changed into costumes and been assigned rooms, and the dice had
ordered Hayes to pay $6.32 for his and Putt $128.88 for his, Macavoy led them away, carrying their bags. As they moved down the long wide hallway Putt stared uneasily at the signs over each of the innumerable doors: Love Room, Money Room, even a Master-Slave Room. Macavoy, speaking over his shoulder, soberly explained.

‘Along here are the playrooms – Therapy Room, Hate Room and so on. This Death Room, for example, is where people can go if they get killed or feel like having a funeral.’

Hayes hesitated next to the door marked ‘Love Room’ but then hurried on.

‘Or,’ continued Macavoy, ‘you can go into there and give a eulogy or be a mourner.’

‘For someone you don’t know?’ protested Putt.

‘That seems to be beside the point,’ Macavoy answered.

‘I’m not sure we should be staying here,’ said Putt again.

‘This is a good place for us, Nat,’ said Agent Hayes. ‘No matter how weird we are we’ll blend right in.’

Putt paused to glare back at him. Putt himself was now wearing light-fitting jeans, an open-necked silk shirt, and several gold chains and medallions down his bare chest. He looked like an elderly down-and-out pimp and wasn’t sure he liked Hayes’s comment.

A woman dressed skimpily in a tight low blouse, hot pants and high heels, and wearing an extravagant blonde wig and garish make-up, now came up to Putt.

‘Hi, big boy,’ she said. ‘Looking for some action?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Putt, growing a little red in the face.

‘Like to watch, huh?’ said the woman. ‘Well, it’ll cost a little extra, but –’

‘Macavoy!!’ shouted Putt.

Macavoy hurried back to his boss.

‘Uh, it’s Mr Voy, sir,’ said Macavoy. ‘Or Mac to my friends.’

‘Tell this woman I’m not here.’

‘Uh, look, baby, cool it,’ said Macavoy. ‘This is the famous Hollywood producer Nathan Tupper. You want a part in a picture then don’t hassle him.’

The woman widened her eyes and then licked her lips.

‘You do any X-rated?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Putt, pushing on by her.

‘Let me take your phone number, Miss,’ said Hayes quickly, ‘Might have a part for you.’

As the woman smiled and Hayes took her number, Putt and Macavoy continued down the hall. Putt glared at the walls, which now contained various proverbs inscribed in religious-looking script: ‘The Die is my shepherd, I shall not want’, ‘The Die giveth, the Die taketh away’, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord Chance’

Putt scowled.

After they had passed the Creativity Room, the Life Choices Room, the Mother-Son Room, and the Room Room, they passed a big tough-looking cop outside the Jail Room.

‘Good to see they have a jail and policemen around, anyway,’ said Putt.

Macavoy frowned.

‘Of course, in here those acting as cops aren’t really cops,’ he said.

‘They’re not!?’ said Putt.

‘Any real cops around here are probably dressed as jocks or pimps.’

When Macavoy became aware that he was staring at Putt’s outrageous get-up he flushed and moved on.

Although I didn’t remember agreeing to use the dice, after we’d finished eating I’d followed Kim up the inn stairs, and now she was sitting in the stuffed chair of my bedroom rubbing two dice together in her palms and beaming away like a ringmaster about to start the circus. Should I object? My basic self told me I mustn’t permit my father’s poison any further into my life, but the rest of me was shouting, ‘Who gives a fuck?’ There she was, bathed, beaming and beautiful, and only a fool would stick to technicalities. The trouble with arguing with a woman you loved – or rather, lusted after – was that you couldn’t win. You either won the argument and lost the prize, or had to lose the argument to have any hope at the prize. It was the one important area of life where a man of reason learned to abandon his principles and forgo reason, justice and logical debate to opt for agreement and a sure fuck. I could inform her afterwards that I hadn’t conceded any of her points.

‘OK,’ said Kim, ‘I feel like being an animal. I’ll let the die determine what animal I’ll be.’

This wasn’t exactly what I had expected or hoped for, and as I sat on the edge of the bed I wanted to protest.

‘Will you join me?’ asked Kim.

‘As an animal?’

‘Whatever,’ she said, grinning impishly. ‘Will you play dice games with me?’

I wanted to make love to her and felt I should order her out of my room. I hated using the dice even for whether I should brush my teeth or not, yet here was this sexy minx asking me to play dice games with her. I wanted to explain
to her why it was sick, and yet thought it might be delightful. But mainly I wanted to make love to her.

‘Sure,’ I finally answered. ‘As long as we don’t get too serious.’

That’s the spirit,’ she said. ‘Supposedly the whole purpose of the dice is to kill seriousness.’

‘Supposedly.’ I said.

Kim abruptly looked away for a few concentrated moments and then flipped a die on to the badly worn rug at her feet. It was a ‘three’, whatever that meant.

‘I’m a puppy,’ she announced gaily and tossed the die to me. Then she plopped down on all fours and, after sniffing the air, crawled rapidly over to one corner of the room and poked her head in the straw waste-paper basket.

In her tight-fitting dress, which came to just above her knees, Kim’s puppy looked more silly and sexy than puppyish. I looked from Kim’s always fascinating behind to the die in my hand. If it fell an odd number I’d be a puppy too, an even I wouldn’t.

The die fell five.

I slid off the bed on to the floor almost as rapidly as Kim had, crouching on all fours and wiggling my shoulders, then my butt, trying to become aware of my dog body. I stuck my tongue out and brought it back two or three times, my main memory of puppies being their tongues always being in evidence. Suddenly Kim’s face was in mine, her nose poking at my nose and cheek. Before I could respond she moved along my side, rubbing me and wiggling her behind like an excited puppy.

When I began crawling after her, we began circling each other rapidly on all fours, each of us sniffing and trying to get our noses to the other’s rear end. I was grinning but pursuing Kim’s bouncing buttocks with a lot more than puppyish fervour until she finally stopped so abruptly my head banged into her right buttock, bringing me too to a happy halt.

After shaking my head as if I had long ears I wanted to clear away from my head, as she remained stationary I
poked my nose into her dress at the cleft in her behind. When she pulled away, I swung away from her and at full speed race-crawled across the room, turned, and then raced back directly at her.

Kim crouched down with her hands flat in front of her and her behind in the air facing my approaching dash and, as I neared, scooted to the left to avoid me, knocking over the ancient floor lamp, which plopped down on its lampshade with enough force to kill the lightbulb.

‘Yipe-yipe-yipe,’ went Kim, and I swung around to chase after her.

Kim dashed-scrambled into one corner of the now dimly-lit room and crouched down behind the straw waste-paper basket with a mad gleam in her eye that looked for all the world like that of a mischievous puppy. I race-crawled straight at her, but just as I arrived she leapt up and came down on my back, sending the waste-paper basket tumbling.

I shook myself to unseat my puppy-friend straddling my back in reverse, and when that failed, collapsed and rolled over, sending Kim rolling off on to her back. I leapt up on to all fours and, seeing her lying on her back with her knees and arms raised – a puppy’s surrender position – I leapt to her exposed neck, opening my mouth wide and letting her feel my teeth on her soft warm skin.

There was a moment of unreality as my puppy role and man role became confused, the white smoothness of her neck stirring me even as I shook my head as if trying to break the neck of some prey.

Kim began to whine in a doggy way and then abruptly rolled away on to all fours and dashed away, with me scrambling after her. She leapt up on to the stuffed chair and over the arm back on to the rug and I followed, the chair toppling over. Kim was zipping around the bed, her shoes long lost, her dress hiked high up on her thighs and her pantyhose much abused, me following, my tongue hanging out like a mutt or man in heat.

When Kim tried to scramble up on to the bed, I pounced on her stationary stockinged foot, grabbing a mouthful of toes that brought a long series of feminine ‘Yipes’ as she thrust with her other foot and made it up on to the bed. With a mighty male spring I followed, landing on the bed and with a second leap landing on Kim’s back.

With another puppy ‘Yipe’ and then a series of whines she tried to roll her way out from under me, but with my face buried in the thick hair at her neck, I used my weight to hold her down, my hips thrusting rhythmically against her buttocks in an instinctive if not totally puppyish frenzy. I pawed the hair away from her neck and sunk my mouth to her skin, opening it wide to hold her helpless neck at my mercy.

With my teeth hard and my mouth wet against her neck she ceased her struggles, her puppyish whines slowly metamorphosing into womanly moans even as my threatened bite turned slowly into a deep kiss and sensual licking of her neck.

After a few delicious moments of this I stopped moving and lay panting on top of her, holding my head just away from her exposed neck. I could feel the rise and fall of her breathing beneath me.

‘Puppies, even males, don’t hump other puppies,’ Kim announced in a voice muffled by her face being pressed down into the blankets of the bed.

I let out a low threatening growl, as if resentful of her unpuppyish behaviour.

‘And puppies don’t kiss the necks of their victims.’ she added, voice still muffled.

I growled louder and again enclosed her helpless neck in my open jaw, my teeth pressing harder into her flesh.

‘That’s … (moan) more … (moan) like it …’ from Kim.

After another long moment, I finally raised my mouth away from her neck.

‘Puppies don’t speak English,’ I announced.

Kim stirred beneath me.

‘Not to each other maybe,’ she said dearly, ‘but to puppies who begin acting like humans they might.’

Smiling, I rolled off her and sat up on the bed.

‘Puppies may not actually hump other puppies,’ I explained, ‘but they sometimes like to pretend to hump.’

Kim rolled over and smiled over at me, her hair a mess and her face glistening with perspiration.

‘Your puppy wasn’t exactly pretending,’ she commented with an attempt at a leer.

I laughed.

‘That was great,’ I said.

‘You were terrific,’ Kim said, bringing herself up into a sitting position and pulling down her skirt. The knees of her pantyhose were torn, revealing abrasions and a bandage – the results of our struggle up the mountain scree. Then she leaned back on her elbows.

‘Now,’ she added, ‘we’ll have to let the dice decide whether and how we make love tonight.’

Smiling and relaxed, on first hearing her words I felt a warm surge of desire. Then I reacted to the word ‘dice’.

‘No!’ I said, straightening. ‘That’s one thing the dice won’t decide.’

‘But you should be able to show your father you can play his games if you wanted to.’

‘If I want to make love tonight,’ Larry said, ‘we’ll make love. If not, not.’

Kim raised an eyebrow.

‘No matter what I want, is that it?’ she said.

‘I’m not going to cast a die about anything serious.’

‘The first option,’ Kim said, ignoring me, ‘could be that tonight I’ll be your total sexual slave.’

Somehow that caught my attention. However, using the willpower that had made me a number-one trader, I continued to look stern.

‘Of course, we also have to give the devil his due,’ she went on easily. ‘So if the dice comes up a “two” or “three”
we sleep in our own separate rooms and are as celibate as nuns and priests.’

I couldn’t stop an instinctive scowl.

‘How come celibacy gets twice the chances of sexual slave?’ I found myself asking.

‘Risk-taking,’ she answered. ‘No pain, no gain.’

My mind, egged on by my loins, searched desperately for a good argument against giving any chance to the prospect of our not making love, but flailed and failed.

‘If the dice rolls a “four”,’ continued Kim, ‘we’ll make natural instinctive love the way we would without any dice business.’

‘Hear, hear,’ I said.

‘Why don’t you create the last two options?’ Kim suggested. ‘It’s only fair.’

‘I create the last two options?’

‘Right. What else shall we offer up to the dice?’

‘It’s “die",’ I said with unaccountable irritation. ‘If you’re only going to toss one then it’s called a “die”.’

‘Well?’ Kim persisted.

‘If it’s a “five”,’ I finally said. ‘I’m going to leave here and give up my search for my father.’

‘That’s a good one,’ she said seriously. ‘One more.’

I threw my feet off the bed and stared down at the rug. Now that I’d surrendered, the game was oppressing me. I felt like a man taking his first step down the slippery slide to hell. At that moment I didn’t even feel much like making love. Was my father now in the process of making me impotent?

‘You make up the last one.’ I said dully.

‘Let’s see,’ said Kim from behind me. ‘I suppose we could let you be my sexual slave for the night.’

Was that good? Would a real stud permit such an option? Should I protest? While my mind bounced around these questions my prick stiffened, giving its assent and effectively overruling my mind.

‘No …’ she said and looked around the room as if there
were hints there that might help her. ‘No, not that one. If it’s a “six” we can make love, but no matter how much we want it you can never enter me – any part of me. We’ll be virgin lovers.”

Shaking my head, I swung around to face her again on the bed. She was sitting up against the headboard gazing at me.

‘No matter what the dice say,’ she said with sudden seriousness, ‘I think I love you.’

That little piece of lightning exploded through me but was energetically repelled, a healthy male fear of commitment being my instinctive response to the word ‘love.’

‘You plan to follow the die no matter what it falls?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘No risk, no reward. But let’s say that if a lovemaking option is chosen it lasts for only two hours.’

Only two hours. Jesus. What son of a woman was this?

‘And we must obey,’ she continued. ‘To show your father your strength.’

‘Shit,’ I said.

‘Good.’ She began shaking the dice in the palms of her hand as if she’d been doing it for years.

I watched.

She shook the dice hard in the cup of her hands and dropped one on to the bedding between us. It was a ‘one’.

The significance of the ‘one’ didn’t register – the various options not being tightly linked in my mind with any number on the die – until Kim uncoiled from her sitting position and slowly crawled across the bedding towards me, finally falling forward on to her chest in front of me, burying her head near my feet and lap and clasping my ankles. Her golden-globed buttocks arched into the air in front of me.

‘How may I serve you. Master?’ asked Kim.

I decided to give the dicelife a try.

FROM LUKE’S JOURNAL

Chance contains an element of order. Like a game of tennis, chance depends on the net and lines of order to play. Chance is the playful side of order. With two perfect tennis players – two totally consistent, rational, perfect players, there would be no game – no variety, no winners and losers. It is imperfection, randomness, chance that makes the game possible, makes life possible, makes happiness possible.

Humans perversely pursue order when in fact our health and happiness depend on both order and chance. Could we learn to introduce chance into our lives as intelligently as we try to introduce order, ah … then …