Gavin Lyall - Shooting Script

Luiz smiled with infinite Spanish sadness. 'Politics, you1 know, my friend.'

The inspector suddenly knew. He held the wordpolitics on his tongue a moment, despising the taste of it. Then, reluctantly, he swallowed.

'None of you will be leaving Jamaica, of course,' he said officially.

'We got a picture to finish,' J.B. pointed out.

'Ha. Very well – you can go.' He swung around and marched off towards the terminal. The sergeant gave me a final sad look, and ambled after.

Luiz watched them go, then said: 'We've got a companycar outside. Can we drop you?'

The jeep was back in the cargo shed, being crawled over by experts. I nodded, and we walked slowly back across the bright loading bay.

J.B. said suddenly: 'We got a public relations angle of our own to figure out. I don't want anybody trying to tie the Boss Man in with a revolution.'

'Just don't let him write Diego's murder into the script, then,' I suggested.

Luiz made a wincing noise.

Halfway round the sandspit road into Kingston, J.B. said: 'Tell the driver where you want to be dropped.'

But away from the police, I'd hadurneto catch up on my thinking. About time, too.

I said: 'I think I'll come all the way with you. I'd like a word with Whitmore.'

'He'll be asleep by the time we get in.'

'No -1 don't think so. And if he is – well, you'll just have to wake him.'

She said, shocked: 'We can't dothat.'

'Just tell him I've finally woken up myself.'

After a time, she leant forward and told the driver to go straight through for the north coast.

It was one in the morning by the time we got to Oranariz, but there was a glow of light from the back of the bungalow. J.B. led the way round and up on to the patio.

Whitmore was sitting, stretched in his usual chair beside the refrigerator, and wrapped in a weird mixture of beach clothes and Bolivar Smith clothes, topped with an oily old beaded-and-fringed Red Indian jacket. He had a bottle of rye whisky at one side, a heap of account books, scripts, and western novels at the other.

He saw me, squinted in surprise, then said evenly: 'Hi, fella. Beer or whisky?'

'Both.'

'Bad as that, huh?'

I just shrugged. Luiz walked across and opened the refrigerator door, Whitmore did his bottle-opening act, and tossed over a Red Stripe. Luiz found glasses and poured shots of rye for J.B. and my other hand.

She had flopped into a chair, suddenly white and drained. She took a gulp at the whisky, then said rapidly: 'Well, it's true, all right. He must've got killed soon after Luiz left him last night. Seems he got shot with a "snake pistol" – Carr figured that out. Apparently it's some sort of-'

'I know snake guns,' Whitmore said. He glanced at me, then back at J.B. 'So what did the cops say?'

'They took statements. They tried to walk over Carr a bit, but all they got was sore feet. That's about all. Except one piece of news: it seems Diego was really-'

'Hold on, ' I said, Til tell this part.'

Everybody looked at me: Whitmore and Luiz with calm professional faces, J.B. widi a series of expressions that were probably just her exercising her face. Then she nodded and took another gulp of whisky.

I said: 'Diego was Jiminez's son. And you knew it all along.'

I hadn't expected a vast reaction, not from these three. What I got was exactly nothing. The two actors went on looking like studio pictures of themselves, J.B. went on nuzzling her glass.

Then Whitmore said calmly: 'Why d'you think that, fella?'

Suddenly what I was going to say seemed ridiculous out here on a quiet patio overlooking the dark sea, with no sound but the gurgling of the refrigerator, the hums and bumps of insects beating themselves on the lights along the patio roof.

I drank quickly from both hands and said: 'That trip we did to Santo Bartolemeo-'

'You suggested that yourself,' Luiz said.

'Oh, I remember. You know, I was rather disappointed, thatfirst day on location; I thought I hadn't seen any real acting. I was wrong; I saw some great acting. That question was a pure frame. You asked me for the nearest Spanish-style locations: you knew Ihad to say the República. And you asked me for somebody who spoke perfect Spanish. Another frame: you already knew I knew Diego; that was just a way of getting him up here without surprising me.'

'Why the hell should we care about you?' J.B. asked politely.

'I'll come to that. My point is Diego gotme into your job, not the other way around. You already knew him – and who he was.'

'You're guessing pretty wild, fella.'

'You forget I've seen her at work. ' I nodded at J.B. 'The day she hired me, she had a complete breakdown on my costs, she knew all my flying history, she probably has a set of my grandmother's fingerprints. Don't tell me she'd let Diego get mixed up with you without even knowing hisname. I just don't believe she'd fall down on the job that far.'

There was another silence. Then Whitmore said, still calm: 'Okay – so we knew. So what? He was a good kid. And he still spoke Spanish.'

'You asked me another question that day,' I said. 'You asked me about a camera plane: something with twin engines where you could put a camera in the nose. That was a frame, too: the answerhad to be a bomber, like the Mitchell. And then Diego's agent found one for you – and you gave Diego the okay to fly in it with me. Just what the hell were you and him planning with that bomber?'

After a while, Luiz sighed and said: 'We've been called, Walt. Time to turn up our cards.'

Whitmore frowned, grunted, and lifted his huge shoulders in a slow shrug. 'Okay, so you guessed it. Well, I guess after we'd finished with the plane and the kid knew how to fly it, we were going to let him use it.'

'For what?'

He shrugged again. 'He had an idea he could get hold of some bombs, then if all the jets were lined up, the way we sawthem, he could have' – he snapped his fingers – 'like that. Knock 'em all out in one pass. Change the whole balance in the República.'

'You were going to back abombing raid?' I asked incredulously.

'Hell – you saw what bastards were running the place, when we were down there.'

I stared around: at J.B., who was hunched in her chair, staring resolutely into her whisky; at Luiz, leaning on the refrigerator, thoughtfully opening and closing the door.

'You all knew this?' I asked.

J.B. took a fast jolt of rye. 'I knew. Hell, I advised it, in a way.'

I said: 'This isn't just a cow-town with a crook sheriff and a drunken mayor; this is somebody's country. Somebodyelse's country.'

Luiz flipped the door shut with a thud. 'It was my country -once. Long ago, and under a different name, of course. But I went to school with Jiminez. He is a good man. So – perhaps you could say it is all my fault.' He frowned suddenly and very sadly. 'Perhaps, anyway.'

Whitmore said: 'Hell, no. I'd've backed the kid anyhow.'

'I see.' I nodded. 'I see. Well, at least that means it doesn't matter so much that he got killed, does it?'

Luiz stared sharply; Whitmore frowned. 'How d'you figure outthat?'

'Because the poor bastard would've killed himself anyway, trying to handle that Mitchell. And if he didn't he'd certainly have got himself killed in the attack. He only had to miss one jet – one – and he'd've had Ned Rafter sitting on his tail inside three minutes.'

'He was a good kid,' Whitmore said.

'He was a sports-car driver. That Mitchell's a professional aeroplane – and an air war's a professional business, too. It isn't as easy as it looks in the movies. Why the hell d'you think the Republica's paying Ned a thousand dollars a week or whatever?'

He'd looked a little pained at the crack about the movies. But then he sighed heavily. 'Well – yeah, maybe you're right.