The Search for the Dice Man

‘Our theories are irrelevant,’ he said. ‘Our bank is interested in creating a futures fund, possibly through your firm, a fund that would begin with approximately a hundred million dollars and expand from there. It is possible we would be interested in having you as one of the traders, possibly the chief trader. All this is possible, but not before we know all there is to know about your knack.’

A hundred million dollars!! My God, with that amount of money you could affect markets, work them up and down like yoyos!! And the chief trader! I’d be watched by everyone on the Street to see my every yawn, my every burp!! ‘Rhinehart’s just bought soybean oil!’ someone would report and the price of November bean oil would go through the roof!

I leaned back deeper into my chair, sipped my brandy and tried to keep my hands from shaking the tumbler. I attempted an exaggerated yawn.

‘That’s interesting.’ I said. ‘A big futures fund managed by my … knack’ I sipped at my brandy. The only trouble was if I started to try to tell Akito what I thought my knack consisted of – namely disciplined following of the technical indicators I’d developed – Akito would think me a fool or a liar – a fool if I thought my system would continue to work, or a liar because I was actually beating the markets with some kind of inside information. I wished desperately that I’d accepted Mr Battle’s cigar so I could hide behind some smoke the way Namamuri was.

‘It might make a quite profitable marriage,’ Akito said, a soft smile crossing his face for the first time. ‘Our capital and your … knack.’

Swallowing the last of my drink I stood up and strode forward and brazenly patted the huge Akito on the shoulder.

‘It might, it might,’ I said, grinning. ‘But of course, as Mr Battle said, others have also expressed an interest in my knack. I’m afraid you’ll have to give me a bit of time to think it over.’

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Akito, smiling politely. ‘We totally understand. But you do see that we must have confidence in your technical indicators before we could entrust such a large sum to your excellent guidance?’

‘Oh, yeah. No sense in tossing away a hundred million on gambling.’ I grinned again. A hundred million! Just to begin with! If only I had a saleable knack!

‘Exactly,’ said Akito, and he gave me a return smack on the back that sent me staggering several steps across the room like a drunk.

Namamuri’s slitted eyes followed my staggering surge like those of a snake following a wounded mouse.

9

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.’

10

What a weekend! Here I was being offered by the Japs a chance at wealth beyond my wildest daydreams while at the same time my engagement and job were under threat from my father’s suddenly crawling back into the daylight.

And the threat was real. Mr Battle had tolerated my lack of wealth because I was showing some potential for rectifying the oversight, but there would be no way to rectify the Luke of the World Star and Lukedom. I didn’t want to return to the struggles and humiliations of my college years, to have to start again at the bottom somewhere, especially in the middle of a recession. Frankly I liked getting Rolexes from Honoria on my birthday, and huge Christmas bonuses, and becoming a vice president when only twenty-six. It was all a fine revenge on my father, and I was determined not to let him come back and steal it all away. What would Akito and Namamuri think of making market decisions by casting dice – they even thought trying to follow technical indicators was gambling!

I had to figure out what I could say that would convince them that I had a more reliable knack than simply following technical indicators. Like every trader I daydreamed of having an insider at some government agency who could tip me off about key economic data that would send markets reeling in one direction or another. Unfortunately, the only government official I knew worked for the City Welfare Department, and the only inside info he ever dropped on me was the number of unwed mothers getting food stamps.

And as if the weekend weren’t complicated enough, I also had to deal with Kim. On Sunday I’d tried to escape from everyone by taking a sail on the river on my thirty-five-foot cutter, but Kim and Akito had showed up in the Battle speedboat. When Akito motored off to look at the ancient Hudson lighthouse I had a tantalizing conversation with Kim that strongly hinted that chaos was closing in.

‘Nice-looking boat,’ said Kim, bouncing into the small aft cockpit and looking bright-eyed around. She was dressed again in jeans and a red T-shirt with the same beaten-up sneakers she’d worn at tennis. ‘How often do you use it – five or six times a year?’

‘A little more than that,’ I said, checking the sails as we ghosted slowly downwind in the light breeze. ‘Actually I own only half of it.’

‘I hope it’s the half above water,’ said Kim, smiling. She moved to peer down the companionway into the salon.

I looked at her rounded rear and grimaced. How I hated a behind like that, a cute behind that pretended it didn’t know it was cute – one of the prime sources of chaos loose in the universe.

Kim turned back to me, shaking her head.

‘I like canoes,’ she said, sitting down again, this time on the settee opposite me.

‘Me too.’

‘Then why’d you buy this monster?’ she asked.

‘I thought you said it was nice,’ I said, meeting her gaze evenly. What a little bitch.

‘Well?’

‘Because I can afford it,’ I said.

‘You can afford to help the poor too, or the arts. Done much of that lately?’

‘Not much,’ I said, wondering why she had it in for me – unless she was attracted to me as I was to her, and it was annoying her the way it was me.

She turned away and let her eyes follow Akito, slowly receding towards the lighthouse in the runabout.

‘Me neither,’ she said unexpectedly.

‘Are you always this critical of people you meet?’

‘No. Only a few. I can never understand why rich people spend money the way they do. Jerks can never give me an interesting answer. I thought you might.’

Akito had reached the lighthouse and seemed to be slowly circling it.

‘I think we spend most of it in order to make sure we’ll be able to have more to spend,’ I answered quietly. ‘And to make sure that other people know we have it.’

She nodded and looked away.

‘What a waste,’ she said.

‘Why do you spend your money?’ I asked.

She laughed.

‘To eat,’ she said. ‘To keep the rain out. Say,’ she added, turning suddenly serious, ‘I think you ought to know that Honoria’s a lot nicer than she seems.’

‘Well, I would hope so,’ I said, laughing.

‘No, I mean it,’ said Kim with unaccustomed sincerity. ‘She comes across as cool and controlled, but I want to assure you, underneath all that is a heart of steel.’

This time we both laughed.

‘She’s the only rich relative that I ever have any real fun with – except some of the men, of course, who figure that since I’m usually penniless I must be easy. Nori’s a little spoiled, but too bright to be a snob like the rest of them.’

‘Thanks for the data,’ I said, still grinning, ‘although I’m not sure I’ll quote you to her. By the way, where do you plan to work now that you’re back east again?’

Akito was now on his way back.

‘Beats me,’ she said. ‘I’m good at a lot of things, but most of them aren’t marketable. I can chart an astrological sign, maybe get in touch with some spirit from some other dimension, but the esoteric is unfortunately not very interested in money.’

‘Do the spirits ever tell you anything about the future?’ I asked, smiling at myself for even now looking for an insider angle.

‘Not really,’ said Kim, as she stood and shaded her eyes to stare at the approaching Akito. ‘She – the spirit – tells me to get off my butt and get a job, to stop living hand to mouth, stop mooching off rich Uncle William.’ She turned to me with a smile, her damn eyes glowing as if she were approaching orgasm. ‘No matter how many times I ask, it still tells me to work and settle down. A million spirits on the astral plane and I get a Republican free-enterpriser.’ She shook her head.

I couldn’t help smiling back.

‘I might be able to find something for you – not necessarily at BB&P.’

‘That’d be more mooching,’ she said. ‘Besides,’ she added over her shoulder as she stood to greet the returning Akito, ‘you’ve got your quest to worry about.’

‘Oh, yes, that,’ I said, although my gaze and thoughts were again on a cute behind.

11

But that evening, back alone in my East Village apartment, I did begin to worry about my quest. My father’s fresh intrusion into my life wasn’t as distressing as his ancient departure, but it was bad enough. The decision to find my father was exhilarating, much more a challenge than a burden, even though part of the thrill was the danger involved. If I ignored the FBI and the tabloid article then I’d have no control over what might explode next on to the public scene, not to mention what Mr Battle might do about it. On the other hand, if I actually found Luke, could I really hope to get him to cool it until I was safely married and had stashed away my first few million? It seemed doubtful.

And what if my father were innocent of Lukedom and of whatever the FBI was after him for, perhaps even leading a dull, conventional life that would satisfy Mr Battle that he was as good as dead? Maybe Luke was a harmless eccentric, being used by others for nefarious purposes. That was it! My father was a dupe, a fallguy! But I was a little depressed at this image of my father; I preferred the darker, more compelling image of some hidden malevolent power manipulating strings behind the scenes. Still, innocent dupe or harmless corpse were both solutions to the threat hanging over me.

As I paced back and forth across my large loft living room, from the wall of bookcases with scruffy paperbacks to my trading corner with computers and fax and reference books, I realized that I felt more engaged by this decision to find my father than I had by anything in years. It almost seemed as if I’d been treading water most of my life but now at last was starting to swim out at full power. Confronting my father and all he had done to poison my life – and was now doing again! – seemed right, seemed to energize my being in a way my trading and getting and spending wasn’t. At last I was to meet the enemy. The great personal quest of my life had begun.

Larry’s highly personal quest naturally included using his secretary, and Miss Claybell proved to be as efficient a demon digging into Luke Rhinehart’s past as she was at digging into the dirt behind corporate reports. From the New York Library she brought Larry back copies of an amazing array of old newspaper and magazine articles about Luke and his dice followers, most from the early seventies; after that Luke dropped from sight. Occasionally they stumbled upon some reference to him in more recent articles or books about the counterculture of the sixties and early seventies, most references referring to him in the past tense – as if he were already dead.

In fact, Miss Claybell discovered two or three pulp magazines that did in fact report his death. One story had Luke tragically dying while wrestling with an alligator – a one chance in thirty-six option supposedly chosen by the dice. Since the alligator had ended up with the upper third of Luke’s body, identification was a bit tenuous, but The Investigator was certain of the facts.

Another story had Luke dying of a heart attack while enjoying an orgy at one of his still existing dice centre communes. In this case, reported The Nation’s Reporter, Luke’s body had been cremated in an elaborate religious ceremony attended by all eighty of the commune members. One former ‘bride’ allegedly tried to throw herself on the funeral pyre, but was restrained by less fanatic hands.

There were also references to Dr Jake Ecstein, Luke’s old friend and colleague, and to the numerous articles and books Jake had written in the seventies about chance and personality. But references to Jake too tailed off to nothing. The library seemed to be a dead end.

And in other ways too that week was an unproductive one for Larry. He was trading exactly as he had for most of the last four years, but remained in his trading slump. And knowing that the Nagasaki Somu Bank had invested fifteen million dollars in the BB&P Futures Fund didn’t help Larry’s peace of mind. Fifteen million had seemed like small potatoes when Mr Battle had given him the news on Monday, and it was also discouraging that the Japanese insisted that Larry provide a complete accounting of every trade to good old Akito, who was staying on in New York as manager of their New York branch. Knowing that Akito and a many-billion-dollar bank were watching over his shoulder made each tiny reversal that week twice as painful as usual. Now. just when it would be most helpful for a few of his indicators to work like clockwork, they were working like Mexican jumping beans, only with even less reliable predictability.

Jeff Cannister came into Larry’s office on Thursday of that week looking as hunched-over and pale as Larry had ever seen him.

‘The sky is falling,’ said Jeff blankly and, without another word, left as quickly as he’d entered.

Larry stared after him for a long moment and then had the uneasy feeling that Jeff had finally flipped: that the losses, which were unnerving the usually cool-headed Larry, had crushed the last remnant of sanity of the excitable Jeff. With reluctance and dread he shuffled out of his office to find Jeff and see just how serious it was.

Jeff was standing in the middle of the large open office area and staring blankly at a monitor in an unoccupied cubicle. Larry eased up to him cautiously.