are based 90 per cent on lies; about the other 10 per cent we don’t yet know enough to be sure.
Illusion and inconsistency are the two great enemies of Truth and Honesty, those twin deities of Western man which have caged him in the house of boredom. Both are basic to man’s fulfilment and happiness.
In living life freely any insight held more than the moment appropriate to it becomes an illusion and a snare. For every name, idea, insight applied over any period of time deadens that part of the universe it touches. To name is to experience. To name a part of the flow always the same way is to experience it always the same way and thus to die to life. To live freshly entails continually re-creating experience, continually unlearning, continually destroying the old names, the old truths, and creating a new world and fresh experience by giving to the flow new names.
It had taken Miss Claybell more than a half dozen calls to locate Agent Nathaniel Putt. He worked in the Washington bureau. When Larry got back from his less than successful trip to Mr Lyman he phoned Putt and told him who he was and what he wanted. Putt said it might be helpful if they could meet. Larry derided this was too important to delegate to Miss Claybell, and Honoria was tied up, so he flew alone to Washington.
Putt turned out to be quite different from the image conjured up by Detective Cooper’s stories. He was a large florid man in his fifties with a face that looked as if it had seen every crime ever committed and was therefore a bit sceptical about the human race. But he seemed subdued and only marginally interested in Luke Rhinehart.
‘You’re his son, are you?’ Putt asked, after seeming to browse through some of the file he had brought out on Rhinehart.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Larry. ‘I’d like to locate him.’
‘Well, I can’t see how we can help you,’ said Putt. ‘The bureau was on the case for a few years but didn’t come up with anything. Then Carter got into office and discouraged us from chasing kooks and suggested we consider crooks instead. The file’s been inactive for fifteen years – not closed but inactive.’
‘But I thought –’ Larry began.
‘Actually, old Luke here is still wanted on about a half dozen federal charges. But he’s probably long dead and buried. We got two or three reports of his death No corpse unfortunately.’
‘But I thought – two weeks ago two agents who questioned me said he was wanted for what he was doing now!’
Putt peered at Larry over his thick horn-rimmed glasses. ‘What agents?’ he asked.
‘FBI agents,’ Larry countered. ‘Two tall skinny guys. One of them left me his card. Here …’ He took out his wallet. ‘See. A man named Hayes.’
Putt leaned forward to accept the card from Larry, sniffed at it, turned it over, and then shook his head.
‘Oh, them,’ he said. ‘Just routine. The bureau has to follow up on every open case at least once every three years. They were just going through the motions.’
‘It didn’t seem that way to me,’ Larry said.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Putt, slipping the card into the file. ‘I’m afraid we can’t help you locate Rhinehart.’
‘What about his followers?’ asked Larry. ‘Didn’t they form communities around the country – little dicedoms or something like that?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Putt, looking down at his file and then slipping back into his chair. ‘According to the file here we sent agents into two or three of them.’ As Putt perused the file the furrows on his brow grew and his flushed face flushed further. ‘Seems that two of the agents left the agency without ever filing a report. The one agent who did file one claimed that nothing anyone ever said at this place was reliable so he had no new idea where Rhinehart might be.’ A nervous tic rubberbanded twice across Putt’s cheek and then subsided.
‘But do you have the addresses of some of these places?’
Putt looked a long time at Larry and then excused himself for a few minutes. He was away half an hour.
When he returned he again stared a long moment at Larry.
‘You’re determined to find your father, are you?’
‘I am,’ said Larry.
‘OK then,’ said Pull. ‘Maybe we can be of help. We’re pretty sure that there’s one of these dice centres still in existence. It’s, ah, it’s a place called Lukedom – but it’s not on any map. We’re not actually sure where it is – someplace in West Virginia or Tennessee we think, but since the case is inactive we haven’t pursued it. You interested?’
‘Of course,’ said Larry. ‘But that’s not much to go on.’
‘There’s a lady,’ said Putt. ‘An Arlene Ecstein. She might know. She was Rhinehart’s mistress or something back when everyone was crazy. Her husband was a big deal in the movement. We even think the husband, Jake Ecstein, might be behind some of these dice communes. Anyway, if I were trying to find Rhinehart I’d question her.’
‘I remember Mrs Ecstein,’ said Larry, frowning. ‘My God, she became the flakiest of them all.’
‘Yeah,’ said Putt. ‘I think you’re right. She’s probably not too reliable.’
‘You know where she is?’
‘Got an address,’ Putt replied, looking down at his file. ‘It’s five or six years old. Might help.’
After Agent Putt had escorted Larry to his door, walking with a big slow lumbering waddle, he closed the door slowly behind him. Then he slammed one fist into another and his eyes blazed. He almost leapt to his desk and punched out a number.
‘Get me Macavoy!!’ he barked. ‘Get him in here!’
While he waited, he phoned to reserve a car for Macavoy and then began pacing back and forth. For fifteen years – ever since he’d been denied a promotion because of his failures on the case – he’d been after this guy Rhinehart and come up blank every time. He’d watched as the man’s influence had waxed and waned, but always spreading pornography, promiscuity, Aids, herpes, dope, violence, unwed mothers and welfare cheats. Now his kid, who must be as nutty as his father but seemed to hide it better, had finally decided to try to find his old man. It could well be the break Putt had been looking for all these years.
When Macavoy entered he stood at polite attention until Putt turned to him. Macavoy was a deadly serious young man, an agent for only two years and convinced that two-thirds of being a successful agent lay in being steadily sombre and serious.
‘Rhinehart’s son has decided to try to find his father,’ Putt announced gruffly, his bloodshot eyes blazing.
‘How is this going to help us?’ Macavoy asked.
‘These dicequeers won’t talk to cops or reporters or us,’ Putt answered. ‘But they may be willing to talk to someone whose last name is Rhinehart and happens to be the bastard’s son. Putt stopped pacing and made a facial expression which may have been a smile.
‘I want you to put a loose tail on this kid,’ he went on. ‘Stick with him for as long as he’s going after Rhinehart senior. Stick with him until he leads us to the old madman himself.’
‘You mean Rhinehart senior?’
‘That’s right. Rhinehart. The worst threat to American society since Karl Marx.’ Macavoy nodded soberly.
Arlene Ecsiein’s phone number was in the Queens phone book, and it