Like A Hole In The Head

     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