The Search for the Dice Man. Luke Rhinehart

again turned to look at the older man, who from behind his cigar apparently released some smoke signals that Akito was able to interpret, although nothing I could catch.

      ‘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