The Search for the Dice Man. Luke Rhinehart

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      ‘Exactly. Now tell me all about it. I believe in confronting unpleasantness immediately and wrestling it to the ground.’

      ‘There, uh, was no, is no unpleasantness. The FBI was making an inquiry about someone I haven’t seen in more than fifteen years. I couldn’t help them and they left.’

      ‘Really!?’ exclaimed Mr Battle, scrutinizing me as if wondering if I’d really thought he’d swallow that one. ‘Fifteen years It must have been a pretty horrendous crime. Who was it, some serial killer?’

      ‘They didn’t say why they were seeking the man,’ I said. ‘They were vague and ambiguous. But I can assure you the whole thing has nothing to do with me or my work here at BB&P.’

      Mr Battle continued to gaze at me as if wondering why I was telling all these lies.

      ‘And who is this man the FBI is so curious about that they seek out people who haven’t seen him in fifteen years?’

      Oh, Jesus. Here it comes. Everything I’d been trying to hide.

      ‘Uh, a relative, sir. A man who disappeared a long ti – fifteen years ago.’

      ‘A relative!’ said Mr Battle. ‘That could be distressing. Not a close relative, I hope.’

      Oh, Jesus.

      ‘I … uh … was never close to him.’

      ‘Who is it, an uncle?’

      I stared back at Mr Battle numbly.

      ‘My father,’ I said.

      Mr Battle looked not surprised but confused.

      ‘But your father is dead.’

      ‘Uh, not necessarily.’

      ‘Not necessarily! I distinctly remember when reviewing your personnel file a few months ago that both your parents were deceased!’

      ‘Uh, yes, sir. My mother was killed in an auto accident and my father hasn’t been seen or heard from in – more than a decade. I, uh, assumed that he was dead.’

      ‘And now you discover he is a serial killer!?’

      ‘No, no, I’m sure he’s not – the FBI didn’t say why they wanted to contact him.’

      ‘Contact him!’ Mr Battle exclaimed, now sitting ramrod-straight in his chair and glaring at me. ‘Arrest him, you mean! My God, man, you must have some idea why they’re looking for him!?’

      ‘I really don’t!’ I answered, feeling myself squirming. ‘Years ago – almost twenty years ago – he got in some trouble with the FCC for disrupting a television programme and the unauthorized release of mental patients, and, uh, a few other matters. But the FBI indicated they wished to see him now about something else.’

      Mr Battle, still eyeing me, rose from his chair and moved slowly forward with the soft tread of a predator about to pounce on its prey before the hypnotic spell was broken.

      ‘This is a serious business, my boy,’ he said.

      ‘Yes – I mean no. I’m sure my father hasn’t done anything serious. I think they just wanted to talk to him about something.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Battle, coming to a halt three feet away and gazing at me again with that sceptical-physician stare that implied he was still seeking the exact nature of my fatal illness. ‘The FBI doesn’t send two men to question a son who hasn’t seen his father in fifteen years because they only want to talk to the man.’

      Mr Battle stared on another moment and then turned away with a sigh.

      ‘This won’t do, Larry, won’t do,’ he said as he slowly returned around the pingpong table to his seat behind it. ‘I can’t have my daughter marrying the son of someone on the FBI’s “most wanted” list.’ With another sigh he sat down and swung around to face me.

      ‘I want her to marry the son of a man who is respectably deceased. I think you may tell people that this FBI visit was to ask you about a former employee. Do you understand?’

      ‘I think I do.’

      ‘It’s safe to say it’s in your interest to see that your father stays boringly buried.’

      ‘I agree, but suppose –’

      ‘Your personnel file states that your father is no longer alive,’ Mr Battle said, beginning to shuffle some papers on his desk. ‘Let us be content with the official truth.’

      He then rang for his secretary and turned to gaze at the monitor on his desk – the interview was over. Until I could prove otherwise, my father would probably remain, in Mr Battle’s mind, a corpse and a mass murderer.

5

      Larry’s session later that day with Dr Bickers began with Larry’s claiming that when he began to lose money in his trading it made him feel as if his whole life was getting out of control, and he wanted to be able to control this anxiety with something other than tranquillizers.

      Dr Bickers, ignoring Larry’s usual complaint, asked why he was so upset this afternoon. Only then did Larry briefly mention the FBI visit to his office that morning.

      Dr Bickers, scrunched in his chair like a shrivelled potato, rarely made more than two or three explicit comments during an entire hour and was content now to revert to his traditional commentary.

      ‘Mmmmm,’ he said.

      ‘No, no,’ Larry said irritably. ‘After these months now with you I don’t think my problems have anything to do with my father.’

      As Dr Bickers reverted to his usual silence, Larry leaned back against the back of the deep leather chair he was sitting in, and with the memory of the damned FBI visit, felt his irritation rise.

      ‘Not that it’s been easy,’ he said, trying to give his voice a soft confidence he wasn’t exactly feeling.

      ‘After all, he deserted me when I was barely twelve, disappeared to go off and lead his own mad life with no thoughts for me or my mother or sister. As you know, for a while I let that act poison me just a bit, made me resent traits he had, mentions of him, every aspect of him that I noticed in myself …. But thanks to these sessions together, I really don’t think that he’s my problem any more. It’s the trading losses.’

      Larry straightened himself in his sitting position and glanced at Dr Bickers, who was peering up at him expressionlessly, a wrinkled turtle peering at a passer-by.

      ‘Hey, it’s not easy. I have to endure constant reminders of his life and what it stood for – not only the physical garbage of the book he wrote and articles about him, but human garbage too – people showing up and telling me how much they adored him or hated him …. Me throwing them out after the first faint words of praise.’

      Larry sighed.

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