The Seersucker Whipsaw (37 page)

“You asked her?”

“Sort of. Man of my age gets mighty cautious.”

“You're old, all right.”

“Reckon I'm just purely in love.”

“An old shit like you. She say yes?”

“Kind of.”

“Lot of woman for an old man.”

“Now, I ain't that old, boy.”

I took another sip of brandy and watched the two girls swim.

“How about you and Miss Anne?”

“I'm just purely in love,” I said.

“Gonna marry her?”

“Might.”

“Might?”

“Will.”

“None of my business, but Miss Anne sure seems like the right one.”

Shartelle was wearing trunks, but he retained his hat. He tipped it over his eyes, took a final sip of his brandy, and leaned back against the tree trunk. “Never been more content, Pete. Just sitting here watching two pretty, half-naked women cavorting in the water, drinking fine brandy, and knowing that you've just helped win another one. I do feel good.”

“No trouble?”

“When I left, it looked better'n ever.”

We drank, ate, swam, told stories and made love the rest of that day, all of Saturday, and part of Sunday. Then we sobered M. Arceneaux up enough to make out our bill. We had a final glass of brandy with him and headed back for Ubondo. I followed the big white LaSalle. Anne sat close to me with her head on my shoulder.

“It was so wonderful, Pete,” she said sleepily.

“It was perfect.”

“And we can really live in the house by the sea?”

“For the rest of our lives,” I said.

Chapter

26

The guards at the gate of Chief Akomolo's high-walled compound recognized the white LaSalle and waved us through on Monday night as Shartelle, Anne and I called to pay our respects to the man who looked to be the next Premier of the Federation of Albertia. Jenaro had been in touch with us throughout the day, as had Dr. Diokadu. The bellwether districts had come in early, and they pointed towards a bare majority for Akomolo's party on the federal level, a sweep for Chief Dekko on the regional level.

We had given William and the rest of the staff the day off to vote and to round up all friends who could drop a ballot into boxes marked with the party's crossed rake and hoe, a convenient symbol for those who couldn't read. The other parties had symbols equally convenient. After our protocol visit with Chief Akomolo, we planned to have dinner at Claude's and then we were all due at Jimmy Jenaro's to wait for the final results.

Akomolo's courtyard was filled with cars, people, and noise. Most of the crowd were market women dressed up in their best blue finery. They stood or squatted in the packed courtyard, giggled, gossiped, and sent up shrill cries of ap proval whenever a prominent Albertian entered the compound to pay his respects to Akomolo. They even cheered for us. Shartelle gave them the benediction of his cigar. The notables, as well as a raft of hangers-on, were gathered in a large downstairs room, gulping the Chief's liquor and telling each other that they had known all along that he was destined to win. Whenever they could get Akomolo's ear, they told him the same thing. The almost-Premier-elect was standing on the left side of the room as we entered. He was surrounded by a knot of well-wishers who all talked at once. He seemed to be half-listening, politely nodding his head from time to time. He looked tired and the tribal markings on his face appeared more deeply etched than ever.

The Chief smiled when he caught sight of Shartelle. It seemed to be his first smile of the evening and it was one of relief and delight. He moved towards us, both hands extended in greeting. “I'm so very pleased that you could come,” he said. “The reports are most encouraging.”

“It looks good, Chief,” Shartelle said. “Real good. I see you've got the usual bunch of courthouse grifters.”

Akomolo lowered his voice. “Jackals.”

“I bet they all knew from the beginning that you couldn't possibly lose.”

Akomolo nodded. “To a man. But the market women in the courtyard are the best indication. They somehow sense the winner and flock to his house It is traditional. I am not at all sorry that they are here.”

By then the party had well-lubricated its collective vocal cords with Akomolo's endless supply of liquor and was beginning to babble at a new and higher pitch. “Let's go up to my study,” the Chief said. “We can't possibly chat here.”

He turned to one of his aides to tell him that he would be available upstairs. We followed him up the one flight and arranged ourselves on the low couches. Chief Akomolo sat behind the desk, his hands already busy shuffling the pa pers that covered it. The ceiling fan still turned uselessly. I started to sweat.

“I wanted to take this occasion to thank you, Mr. Shartelle and Mr. Upshaw, for what you have done. I am not so naïve that I do not realize that you employed some—strategems, shall we say—that I might not have approved of had my approval been sought.”

Shartelle grinned his wicked grin. “Well, now, Chief, me and Pete just didn't want to bother you with all the little details of the campaign. You had enough on your mind the way it was.”

Akomolo made a wry face. “I thought I knew something about the way politics works, Mr. Shartelle. But this campaign has broadened my education immensely. Some day I plan to do a paper on it—perhaps for your
Foreign Affairs
quarterly. Do you think they would be interested?”

“You'll have to ask Pete about that, Chief.”

“They would jump at the chance to publish it,” I said.

“Well, I suppose it will have to wait a few months, but I think if it were well-done it might stand as a classic portrayal of the use of semi-sophisticated American political techniques in a newly-independent African nation. Perhaps Dr. Diokadu could help me with the research.”

“The only thing missing was television and radio,” Shartelle said.

The Chief smiled broadly. “Next time, friend Shartelle, I think I will have a bit more to say about the proper use of those two media.”

He quit smiling when they came in. There were seven of them, a Corporal in the Albertian Army and six Privates. They filled the small room. The Privates carried rifles—old Enfields. The Corporal held a sidearm—a .45 caliber Colt automatic. He aimed it at Akomolo.

“You are under arrest,” the Corporal said. His voice held little conviction. He was a gaunt man with hollow cheeks and a forehead that sloped sharply backward and he seemed old for a corporal. His steel-rimmed glasses threatened to mist over in the heat.

“What is the meaning of this?” Akomolo said. He continued to shuffle the papers on his desk.

“You are under arrest; the military has taken over the government.”

“You are a fool.”

“You are under arrest!” This time the Corporal screamed it.

Akomolo picked up a pile of papers, opened the top right- hand drawer of his desk, and put them in carefully as if he wanted to remember exactly where they would be next Thursday morning.

They shot Chief Sunday Akomolo six times while he was going for his gun.

Akomolo had the revolver halfway out of the drawer when the bullets rammed him back into his chair and the chair, with him in it, was slammed against the wall and stopped there only because it couldn't go any farther. The Corporal had fired his automatic three times. Three of the Privates had fired once. The other three held their Enfields on us.

Akomolo's eyes were open and there was wonder in them, but he was already dead. The body slumped forward, rested briefly on the desk where it bled over some of the papers that it never got the chance to shuffle and tuck away, and then it fell to the floor. Anne gasped a little. It was the only sound the white folks made.

The Corporal jerked a thumb at one of the Privates who had fired a shot. The Private took a machete from his belt, went behind the desk, and leaned his rifle against the wall. He knelt down behind the desk and the machete flashed up and down several times. I didn't count how many. It made a wet, smacking sound. He got up with a big grin on his face. His eyes were shining brightly, too brightly. He held Chief Akomolo's head up and turned it this way and that so we could see it plainly. The Chief's gold-rimmed glasses were still in place. Outside, we could hear the market women shouting and screaming because of the shots.

The Corporal gestured. “Outside,” he said. “All of you.”

We stood at the ledge of the balcony that ran around three sides of the courtyard. The market women shrieked at each other, pushed and shoved. A few fights broke out. The Corporal took Akomolo's head from the Private and held it up high, moving it from side to side. Some blood dripped on his uniform. One drop smeared an eye-glass. He didn't seem to notice.

“The tyrant is dead!” he screamed. The women didn't hear him. They were too busy screaming themselves. So he yelled it again. Two of the Privates flanked him and grinned down at the crowd. Their grins looked a little mad. I put my arm around Anne and felt her shudder.

Some of the hangers-on from the cocktail party gathered on the fringe of the crowd of women. These were the insatiably curious. The circumspect had fled at the sound of the shots. I could hear engines being started and tires squeal as Chief Akomolo's supporters remembered previous appointments.

The crowd grew quieter. “The tyrant is dead!” The Corporal bellowed again and moved the head around some more. This time they heard him and they went with the winner. They cheered. The Corporal lobbed the head down into the crowd. One woman caught it, lost it, and caught it again. It started to move from hand to hand, the gold-rimmed glasses askew on the face. Somewhere they fell off. Then the head disappeared and the women kicked it around some like a soccer ball. The Corporal rested his hands on the ledge and beamed down at the game.

The market women had a good time kicking the head around for five or six minutes, but they tired of that and surged towards the balcony where the Corporal struck his pose. They wanted something else to happen. The Corporal said a few words to the Privates who flanked him. They grinned, moved quickly to Anne, grabbed her by the arms, and jerked her over to the Corporal. I lunged after them, but two of the soldiers fastened onto my arms and pinned me against the wall. One of them put the muzzle of his rifle under my chin. I struggled some more and got rapped across the ear with its barrel. Shartelle smacked one of the other soldiers with a roundhouse left that sent the man sprawling, his rifle clattering to the floor. Shartelle was almost to Anne when the other soldiers caught him, threw him to the floor, and pounded their rifle butts into his back.

Anne fought all the way. She bit and she kicked and she cursed. The market women watched in silence as the two soldiers attempted to lift her up over the ledge. “Akomolo's white witch!” the Corporal yelled and pointed at her. Anne screamed. The women shouted and laughed and held up their arms for her. Their faces formed a dark sea of hate and rage and lust.

The jeep, its horn blaring, roared into the courtyard followed by a Land Rover. The tough-looking Sergeant-Major who drove the jeep fired three shots in the air with a revolver. Sitting next to the sergeant was Major Chuku. The Privates let Anne go and she stumbled towards me. The pair of soldiers who held me let go and moved away. Shartelle groaned, got to his knees, and pulled himself up until he could half-sprawl on the ledge that ran around the balcony.

Major Chuku was in field uniform and carried a swagger stick. Soldiers in full field equipment jumped out of the Land Rover and formed a wedge behind the Major, their rifles at the ready. The Major used his swagger stick to beat his way through the crowd of women. The Sergeant used his feet and fists. They cleared a path and ran up the steps to where the Corporal and his soldiers huddled. The weapons that had killed Akomolo were abandoned on the floor. I held Anne as she shook uncontrollably. I leaned against the wall because I had to, and watched Chuku and his Sergeant-Major run up the stairs. It seemed to take them a long time. Shartelle was still half-lying on the ledge, one of his hands pressed against his back where the rifle butts had struck.

Major Chuku barely glanced at the Corporal and his soldiers.

“Is Miss Kidd all right, Mr. Upshaw?”

“We're all fine, we're all just great.”

“Has Mr. Shartelle been injured?”

“I don't think he has any kidneys left.”

“Where is Akomolo?”

“In his study.”

The Major darted into the small office and came out just as quickly. He shook his head and pounded the swagger stick theatrically into his left palm. It must have meant that he was upset.

“I will offer a formal apology later, Mr. Upshaw. Now I must ask a question. Did they do this?” He made a vague swing of the stick at the six Privates and the Corporal who had been put into a stiff brace by the Sergeant-Major.

“They did it.”